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Astounding
SCIENCE FICTION
VOLUME LV • NUMBER 3
Novelettes
Millennium
Risk
Short Stories
Allamagoosa
Watch Your Step ....
Serial
The Long Way Home .
(Part Two of Four Parts)
Articles
Conquest of Space . . .
How to Learn Martian .
^Readers' Departments
The Editor’s Page ....
In Times to Come ....
The Reference Library . .
Brass Tacks
May 1955
Everett B. Cole 6
. Isaac Asimov 60
Eric Frank Russell 48
. . Aigis Budrys 83
Foul Anderson 107
94
Charles F, Hockett 97
. 4
59
P. Schuyler Miller 142
150
Editor; JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR. Assistant Editor: KAY TARRANT
Adverfis/ng Diredor.- ROBERT E. PARK Adver/is/ng A'icnager: WAITER J. McBRiDE
COVER; From Poromounf Pictures' "Conquest of Space."
Illustrations by Freas and van Dongen
The editorial contents liiive not been publislied befoie, are protected by copyriglit and eantiot be reprinted without
publistuTs' permission. -Ml stories in tliis magazine are fiction No actuai persons arc dc^ignated liy name o; chiir-
acter. Any similaiity is coincidental.
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• NEXT ISSUE ON SALE MAY 17, 1955 • 3
EDITORIAL
THE DEMEANED VIEWPOINT
It is terribly hard to convince a
man he’s wrong, under the best of
circumstances. But it’s even harder
to convince him thoroughly that he’s
wrong — when he isn’t. Things like
the old folk-superstition, anciently
held by the peasants of Europe, that,
if you get a bad cut, putting a few
spider webs over it will stop the
bleeding. It’s terribly hard to con-
vince them that that's a silly supersti-
tion.
It just happens that the alien pro-
tein of spider silk is both highly re-
active — that’s part of why it's sticky
' — and highly alien; it causes the
blood platelletes to shatter and cause
clotting almost instantly. The strong
network of spider-silk threads then
form an excellent framework for the
clot to establish itself on. A freshly
made spider web is usually quite
clean, and is more reactive than an
old one. Works much better than
the kind of highly non-stcrile cloths
a peasant is apt to have around.
It is, by the nature of things, the
inevitable fate of any great leader in
thought to have a horrible time get-
ting his ideas over to his fellow man.
He’s a great leader because he has
4
brand-new and important thoughts — >
thoughts that are highly disturbing,
too, since they mean the abandon-
ment of older, less effective ideas,
that have long been cherished. The
inevitable consequence of that situa-
tion is that every great leader blows
his top every so often about the asi-
ninily of Mankind,' the stupidity,
recalcitrance, and general no-good-
ness of thick-witted, non-thinking,
stubborn Man. Galileo’s original
papers arc, I understand, marvels of
vituperative language, much of it
unprintable in any modern book.
Every great leader has had excellent
reason to fulminate about tlie recal-
citrance and stupidity ot Man — on
how Man rejects stubbornly those
things that are wise and good and
sensible, clinging leechlike to his pet
superstitions, his pet emotional re-
sponses, and his beloved — and stu-
pid — superstitions.
In the Eastern tradition, the Great
Thinker simply retires into himself,
thinks his own great thoughts, and
lets those who want to take the trou-
ble to learn come to him. The West-
ern tradition puts the Great Man on
the spot; if you’re so darned smart,
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
let’s see you do something useful
with your ideas ! And the first useful
thing you can do is teach me. If you
can’t do anything useful with your
ideas — why should I supply you with
useful food, clothing and shelter?
Why should I spend my useful-to-
me time listening to you?
This, too, has caused more than
one of the W'est's Great Thinkers
to blow his stack on the subject of
"gross materialism.” I suspect a cer-
tain Lindcrairrcnt of resentment that
the world wouldn’t give him the
gross material to eat that he found
necessary.
Now perhaps it would be worth
while to review this situation, and
see wiicther the indictments of Man-
kind’s stupidity, recalcitrance, et
cetera, are justified. The West’s
brutally ruthless tendency to make
Gerald Genius get in and pitch for
his living — to make his wonderful
ideas useful — has unquestionably
been exceedingly hard on the dispo-
sitions of many great, and potentially
great men. It’s distracted them, and
forced them to spend time earning
a living that they would prefer to
have spent working out their great
ideas. It’s certainly been a handicap
to those men.
But . . . well, maybe it has been
worth while, at that. The East tried
it the other way; it may well be that
they achieved some mighty spiritual
triumph,s — but that’s going to be
hard to determine in another couple
of centuries, since the highly teach-
able Western concepts are rapidly
flooding over and submerging the
THE DEMEANED VIEWPOINT
original Eastern concepts. (The
Western concepts are more teach-
able, because about ninety per cent
of the time of a Western genius had
to be devoted to sweating out some
way of getting his idea across. The
result was that the great talents of
first-order geniuses were channeled
into developing teaching methods. It
was darned hard on the geniuses —
but the Race of Man had found a
way to harness its greatest thinkers
to the benefit of all!)
But I have a feeling that the result
has also had its bad a.spects; the
Teachers have been teaching under
violent protest. They've been teach-
ing, all right, but with the boiling,
colossal anger and resentment of
truly tremendous personalities — and
a lot of that angry resentment leaks
through, too. The essence of its mes-
sage is "Man is a thick-skulled, thick-
witted, fuinble-brained dope, who
will learn nothing unless it is driven
into his stubborn noggin with a
bludgeon ! And if he isn’t bludg-
eoned into learning, he’d remain a
stupid clod forever!”
These are the attitudes of a frus-
trated and angry genius, a Galileo
who was far ahead of his time, a
Copernicus, Newton, or a Plato’s at-
titude. Their ideas were obvious to
ihem — but they were geniuses, men
of abnormal power and stature. Is it
appropriate to condemn Mankind for
not being made up entirely of top-
level geniuses?
Naturally, the genius doesn’t want
to be lonely — he wants understand-
{Continued on page 160)
5
Illustrated by Frees
MILLENNIUM
There are devices a high-
level culture could produce
that simply don’t belong in the
hands of incompetents of lower
cultural evolution. The finest,
and most civilized of tools can
6
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
Liewen Konar smiled wryly as he
put a battered object on the bench.
"Well, here’s another piece recovered.
Not worth much, I'd say, but here it
is. ”
Obviously, it had once been a pre-
cisely fabricated piece of equipment.
But its identity was almost lost. A
hole was torn in the side of the metal
box. Knobs were broken away Irom
their shafts. The engraved legends
were scored and worn to illegibility,
and the meter was merely a black
void in the panel. Whatever had been
mounted at the top had been broken
away, to leave ragged shards. Inside
the gaping hole in the case, tiny,
blackened components hung at odd
angles.
Klion Meinora looked at the wreck-
age and shook his head.
"I know it's supposed to be what’s
left of a medium range communica-
tor,” he said, "but I’d never believe
it. ” He poked a finger inside the hole
in the case, pushing a few compon-
ents aside. Beyond them, a corroded
wheel hung loosely in what had once
been precision bearings.
"Where’s the power unit?”
Konar shook his head. "No trace.
Not much left of the viewsphere,
either.”
"Well.” Meinora shook his head
resignedly. "It’s salvage. But we got
it back.” He stood back to look at
the communicator. "Someone’s been
keeping the outside clean, I see.”
Konar nodded. "It was a religious
relic,” he said. "Tound it in an ab-
bey.” He reached into the bag he had
placed on the floor.
"And here’s a mental amplifier-
communicator, personnel, heavy duty.
Slightly used and somewhat out of
adjustment, but complete and repair-
able.” He withdrew a golden circlet,
held it up for* a moment, and care-
fully laid it on the bench beside the
wrecked communicator. Its metal was
dented, but untarnished.
"Don’t want to get rough with it,”
he explained. "Something might be
loose inside.”
He reached again into the bag.
"And a body shield, protector type,
model GS/NO-IOC. Again, some-
what used, but repairable. Even has
its nomenclature label.”
"Good enough.” Meinora held a
hand out and accepted the heavy belt.
He turned it about in his hands, ex-
amining the workmanship. Finally,
he looked closely at the long, narrow
case mounted on the leather.
"See they counted this unit fairly
well. Must have been using it.”
"Yes, sir. It’s operative. The Earl
wore it all the time. Guess he kept
up his reputation as a fighter that
way. Be pretty hard to nick anyone
with a sword if he had one of these
running. And almost any clumsy
leatherhead could slash the other guy
up if he didn’t have to worry about
self -protect ion.”
"I know.” Meinora nodded quick-
ly. "Seen it done. Anything more
turned up?”
"One more thing. This hand weap-
on came from the same abbey I got
the communicator from. I’d sa)' it
was pretty hopeless, too.” Konar
picked a flame-scarred frame from
T
MILLENNIUM
■his bag, then reached in again, to
scoop up a few odd bits of metal.
"It was in pieces when we picked
-it up,” he explained. "They kept it
clean, but they couldn’t get the flame
pits out and reassembly was a little
beyond them.”
"Beyond us too, by now.” Meinora
looked curiously at the object. "Looks
as though a couple of the boys shot
it out.”
"Guess they did, sir. Not once, but
several times.” Konar shrugged.
"Malendes tells me he picked up sev-
eral like this.” He cocked his head to
one side.
"Say, chief, how many of these
things were kicking around on this
unlucky planet?”
Meinora grimaced. "As far as we
can determine, there were nine y-two
operative sets originally issued. Each
of the original native operatives was
equipped with a mentacom and a body
shield. Each of the eight operating
teams had a communicacor and three
hand weapons, and the headquarters
group had a flier, three communica-
tors, a field detector set, and six hand
weapons. Makes quite an equipment
list.”
"Any tools or maintenance equip-
ment?”
Meinora shook his head. "Just
operator manuals. And those will
have deteriorated long ago. An in-
spection team was supposed to visit
once a cycle for about fifty cycles, then
once each five cycles after that. They
would have taken care of mainten-
ance. This operation was set up quite
a while ago, you know. Operatives get
8
a lot more training now — and we
don’t use so many of them.”
"So, something went wrong.” Ko-
nar looked at the equipment on the
bench. "How?” he asked. "How
could it have happened?”
"Oh, we’ve got the sequence of
events pretty well figured out by
now.” Meinora got to his feet. Of
course, it’s a virtually impossible sit-
uation — something no one would be-
lieve could happen. But it did.” He
looked thoughtfully at the ruined
communicator.
"You know the history of the orig-
inal operation on this planet?”
"Yes, sir. I looked it over. Planet
was checked out by Exploration. They
found a couple of civilizations in
stasis and another that was about to
go that way. Left alone, the natives’d
have reverted to a primitive hunter
stage — if they didn’t go clear back
to the caves. And when they did come
up again, they’d have been savage
terrors.”
"Right. So a corps of native oper-
atives was set up by Philosophical,
to upset the stasis and hold a core
of knowledge till the barbaric period
following the collapse of one of the
old empires was over. One civilization
on one continent was chosen, because
it was felt that its impact on the rest
of the planet would be adequate to
insure progress, and that any more
extensive operation would tend to
mold the planetary culture.”
Konar nodded. "The old, standard
procedure. It usually worked better
than this, though. What happened
this time?”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
"The Merokian Confederation hap-
pened.”
"But their penetration was no-
where near here.”
"No, it wasn’t. But they did attack
Sector Nine. And they did destroy
the headquarters. You remember
that.^”
"Yes, sir. I read about it in school.
We lost a lot of people on that one.”
Konar frowned. "Long before my
time in the Corps, of course, but I
studied up on it. They used some sort
of screen that scrambled the detectors,
didn’t they?”
"Something like that. Might have
been coupled with someone’s inatten-
tion, too. But that’s unimportant now.
The important thing is that the sec-
tor records were destroyed during the
attack.”
"Sure. But how about the perma-
nent files that were forwarded to
Aldebaran depository?”
Meinora smiled grimly. "Some-
thing else that couldn’t happen.
We’re still looking for traces of
that courier ship. I suppose they ran
afoul of a Merokian task force, but
there’s nothing to go on. They just
disappeared.” He picked up the men-
tal communicator, examining the
signs of aging.
"One by one,” he continued, "the
case files and property records of
Sector Nine are being reconstructed.
Every guardsman even remotely as-
sociated with the Sector before the
attack is being interviewed, and a lot
of them are working on the recon-
struction. It’s been a long job, but
we’re nearly done now. This is one
of the last planets to be located and
rechecked, and it’s been over a period
since the last visit they’ve had from
any of our teams. On this planet,
that’s some fifty-odd generations. Evi-
dently the original operatives didn’t
demolish their equipment, and fifty
some generations of descendants have
messed things up pretty thoroughly.”
Konar looked at the bench. Besides
the equipment he had just brought
in, there were other items, all in vary-
ing stages of disrepair and ruin.
"Yes, sir,” he agreed. "If this is
a sample, and if the social conditions
I’ve seen since I joined the team are
typical, they have. Now what?”
"We’ve been picking up equip-
ment. Piece by piece, we’ve been ac-
counting for every one of those items
issued. Some of ’em were lost. Some
of ’em probably wore out and were
discarded, or were burned — like this,
only more so.” Meinora pointed at
the wrecked communicator.
"Local legends tell us about violent
explosions, so we know a few actually
discharged. And we’ve tracked down
the place where the flier cracked up
and bit out a hole the size of a
barony. Those items are gone without
trace.” He sighed.
"That introduces an uncertainty
factor, of course, but the equipment
in the hands of natives, and the stuff
just lying around in deserted areas
has to be tracked down. This planet
will develop a technology some day,
and we don’t want anything about to
raise questions and doubts when it
does. The folklore running around
now is bad enough. When we get
9
MILLENNIUM
the equipment back, we’ve got to
clean up the social mess left by the
descendants of those original oper-
atives.”
"Nice job.”
"Very nice. We’ll be busy for a
long time.” Meinora picked up a
small tape reel. "Just got this,” he
explained. "That’s why I was waiting
for you here. It’s an account of a
mentacom and shield that got away.
Probably stolen about twenty years
ago, planetary. We’re assigned to
track it down and pick it up.”
He turned to speak to a technician,
who was working at another bench.
"You can have this stuff now.
Bring in some more pretty soon.”
Flor, the beater, was bone weary.
The shadows were lengthening, hid-
ing the details in the thickets, and
all the hot day, he had been thrusting
his way through thicket after thicket,
in obedience to the instructions of the
foresters. He had struck trees with
his short club and had grunted and
squealed, to startle the khada into
flight. A few of the ugly beasts had
come out, charging into the open, to
be run down and speared by the
nobles.
And Flor had tired of this hunt,
as he had tired of many other hunts
in the past. Hunting the savage
khada, he thought resentfully, might
be an amusing sport for the nobles.
But to a serf, it was hard, lung-
bursting work at best. At worst, it
meant agonizing death beneath tram-
pling hoofs and rending teeth.
To be sure, there would be meat
at the hunting lodge tonight, in
plenty, and after the hunt dinner, he
and the other serfs might take bits
of the flesh home to their families.
But that would be after the chores
in the scullery were over. It would
be many hours before Flor would be
able to stumble homeward.
He relaxed, to enjoy the short
respite he had gained by evading the
forester. Sitting with his back to a
small tree, he closed his eyes and
folded his thick arms over his head.
Of course, he would soon be found,
and he would have to go back to the
hunt. But this forester was a dull, soft
fellow. He could be made to believe
Flor’s excuse that he had become lost
for a time, and had been searching
the woods for the other beaters.
The underbrush rustled and Flor
heard the sound of disturbed leaves
and heavy footfalls. A hunting
charger was approaching, bearing one
of the hunters. Quickly, Flor rose to
his feet, sidling farther back into the
thicket. Possibly, he might remain un-
seen. He peered out through the
leaves.
The mounted man was old and
evidently tired from the long day’s
hunt. He swayed a little in his saddle,
then recovered and looked about him,
fumbling at his side for his horn. His
mount raised its head and beat a
forefoot against the ground. The
heavy foot made a deep, thumping
noise and leaves rustled and rose in
a small cloud.
Flor sighed and started forward
reluctantly. It was the Earl, himself.
It might be possible to hide from
10
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
another, but Flor knew better than
to try to conceal his presence from
the old nobleman. The Earl could
detect any person in his vicinity,
merely by their thoughts, as Flor well
knew from past experience. He also
knew how severe the punishment
would be if he failed to present him-
self immediately. He pushed a branch
aside with a loud rustle.
Startled by the noise, a husa, which
had been hiding beneath a nearby
bush, raced into the open. The small
animal dashed madly toward the Earl,
slid wildly almost under the charger’s
feet, and put on a fresh burst of
speed, to disappear into the under-
brush. The huge beast flinched away,
then reared wildly, dashing his rider’s
head against a tree limb.
The elderly man slipped in his
saddle, reached shakily for his belt,
missed, and lost his seat, to crash
heavily to the ground.
Flor rushed from his thicket. With
the shock of the fall, the Earl’s cor-
onet had become dislodged from his
head and lay a short distance from
the inert form. Flor picked it up,
turning it in his hands and looking at
it.
Curiously, he examined the golden
circlet, noting the tiny bosses inset
in the band. Many times, he had
watched from a dark corner at the
hunting lodge, neglecting his scullery
duties, while the Earl showed the
powers of this coronet to his elder
son. Sometimes, he had been caught
by the very powers the circlet gave
to the old nobleman, and he winced
as he remembered the strong arm of
the kitchen master, and the skill with
which he wielded a strap. But on
other occasions, the Earl had been so
engrossed in explaining the device as
to neglect the presence of the eaves-
dropper.
He had told of the ability given
him to read the thoughts of others,
and even to strongly influence their
actions. And Flor had gone back to
his labors, to dream of what he would
do if he, rather than the Earl, were
the possessor of the powerful talis-
man.
And now, he had it in his hands.
A daring idea occurred to him, and
he looked around furtively. He was
alone with the Earl. The old man was
breathing stertorously, his mouth
wide open. His face was darkening,
and the heavy jowls were becoming
purple. Obviously, he was capable of
little violence.
In sudden decision, Flor knelt be-
side the body. His hand, holding the
short club above the Earl’s throat,
trembled uncontrollably. He wanted
to act — had to act now — but his fear
made him nauseated and weak. For a
moment, his head seemed to expand
and to lighten as he realized the
enormity of his intent. This was one
of the great nobles of the land, not
some mere animal.
The heavily lidded eyes beneath
him fluttered, started to open.
With a sob of effort, Flor dashed
his club downward, as though striking
a husd. The Earl shivered convulsive-
ly, choked raspingly, and was sudden-
ly limp and still. The labored breath-
11
MILLENNIUM
ing stopped and his eyes opened re-
luctantly, to fix Flor with a blank
stare.
The serf leaped back, then hovered
over the body, club poised to strike
again. But the old man was really
dead. Flor shook his head. Men, he
thought in sudden contempt, died
easily. It was not so with the hnsa,
or the khada, who struggled madly
for life, often attacking their killer
and wounding him during their last
efforts.
Flor consigned this bit of philos-
ophy to his memory for future use
and set to work removing the heavy
belt worn by the Earl. This, he knew,
was another potent talisman, which
could guard its wearer from physical
harm when its bosses were pushed.
The murderer smiled sardonically.
It was well for him that the old
nobleman had failed to press those
bosses, otherwise this opportunity
probably would never have been pre-
sented. He stood up, holding the
belt in his hand. Such a thing as this,
he told himself, could make him a
great man.
He examined the belt, noting the
long metal case, with its engraving
and its bosses. At last, he grunted and
fastened it about his own waist. He
pressed the bosses, then threw him-
self against a tree.
Something slowed his fall, and he
seemed to be falling on a soft mat.
He caught his balance and rested
against the tree, nodding in satisfac-
tion. Later, he could experiment fur-
ther, but now he had other things to
do.
12
He examined the coronet again, re-
membering that there was something
about its bosses, too. He looked close-
ly at them, then pressed. One boss
slid a little under his finger and he
felt a faint, unfamiliar sense of
awareness.
He put the coronet on his head
and .shuddered a little as the aware-
ness increased to an almost painful
intensity. The forest was somehow
more clear to him than it had ever
been. He sce.med to understand many
things which he had heard or ex-
perienced, but which had been vague
before. And memory crowded upon
him. He stood still, looking around.
At the edge of his mind was
vague, uneasy wonder, obviously not
his own thought. There was a dim
caricature of himself standing over
the body of the Earl. And there was
a feeling of the need to do something
without understanding of what was to
be done, or why.
He could remember clearly now,
the Earl’s explanations of the action
of the coronet. One incident stood
out — a time when the old man, hav-
ing overindulged in the local wine,
had demonstrated his ability to divine
the thoughts of others. Flor twitched
a little in painful recollection. The
kitchen master had been e.specially en-
thusiastic in his use of the strap that
night.
The Earl’s mount was eying Flor,
who realized without knowing just
how, that the vague images and rudi-
mentary thoughts were a reflection of
the beast’s mind. He looked over at
the thicket into which the little ani-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
mal which had started the charger,
was hiding. It was still there, and he
could feel a sense of fearful wonder,
a desire to be gone, coupled with a
fear of being discovered.
Again, he looked about the woods.
In a way, the busa and he were akin.
It would be bad if he were caught
here, too. To be sure, he would be
hard to capture, with his new protec-
tion, but many men would hunt him.
And some of them would be other
Earls, or possibly some of the great
abbots, who had their own coronets
and belts, and possibly other things
of great power. These, he knew,
might be too much for him. He slunk
into the thicket, looked down the
hill, and decided on a course which
would avoid the paths of the for-
esters.
As he walked, he plotted methods
of using his new-found powers. He
considered idea after idea — then dis-
carded them and sought further.
With his new awareness, he could
see flaws in plans which w'ould have
seemed perfect to him only a few
short hours before.
First, he realized he would have to
learn to control his new powers. He
would have to learn the ways of the
nobility, their manners and their cus-
toms. And he would have to find a
disguise which would allow him to
move about the land. Serfs were too
likely to be questioned by the first
passer-by who noticed them. Serfs
belonged on the land — part of it!
He hid in the bushes at the side of
a path as a group of free swordsmen
went by. As he watched them, a plan
MILLENNIUM
came to him. He examined it care-
fully, finally deciding it would do.
The man-at-arms sauntered through
the forest, swaying a little as he
walked. He sang in a gravelly voice,
pausing now and then to remember
a new verse.
Flor watched him as he ap-
proached, allowing the man’s
thoughts to enter his own conscious-
ness. They were none too compli-
cated. The man was a free swords-
man, his sword unemployed at the
moment. He still had sufficient money
to enjoy the forest houses for a time,
then he would seek service with the
Earl of Konewar, who was rumored
to be planning a campaign.
The man swayed closer, finally no-
ticing Flor. He paused in mid stride,
eying the escaped serf up and down.
"Now, here’s something strange in-
deed," he mused. He looked closely
at Flor’s face.
"Tell me, my fellow, tell me this:
How is it you wear the belt and
coronet of a great noble, and yet have
no other garment than the shift of
a serf?”
As Flor looked at him insolently,
he drew his sword.
"Come," he demanded impatiently,
"I must have answer, else I take you
to a provost. Possibly his way of
finding your secret would be to your
liking, eh?”
Flor drew a deep breath and wait-
ed. Here was the final test of his
new device. He had experimented,
finding that even the charge of a
khada was harmless to him. Now, he
13
would find if a sword could be ren-
dered harmless. At the approach of
the man, he had pressed the boss on
his belt. The man seemed suddenly a
little uncertain, so Flor spoke.
"Why, who are you," he demanded
haughtily, "to question the doings of
your betters? Away with you, before
I spit you with your own sword.”
The man shook his head, smiling
sarcastically. "Hah!” he said, ap-
proaching Flor. "I know that accent.
It stinks of the scullery. Tell me.
Serf, where did you steal that — ”
He broke off, climaxing his ques-
tion with an abrupt swing of the
sword. Then, he fell back in surprise.
Flor had thrust a hand out to ward
off the blow, and the sword had been
thrown back violently. The rebound
tore it from its amazed owner’s hand,
and it thudded to the ground. The
man-at-arms looked at it stupidly.
Flor sprang aside, scooping up the
weapon before the man could re-
cover.
"Now,” he cried, "stand quite still.
I shall have business with you.”
The expression on the man’s face
told of something more than mere
surprise which held him quiet. Here
was proof of the powers of the cor-
onet. Flor looked savagely at his
captive.
"Take off your cap.”
Reluctantly, the man’s hand came
up. He removed his steel cap, holding
it in his hand as he faced his captor.
"That is fine.” Flor pressed his
advantage. "Now, your garments. Off
with them!"
The swordsman was nearly his size.
14
Both of them had the heavy build
of their mountain stock, and the gar-
ments of the free swordsman would
do for Flor’s purpose, even though
they might not fit him perfectly. 'Who
expected one of these roving soldiers
of fortune to be dressed in the height
of style? They were fighters, not
models to show off the tailor’s art.
Flor watched as his prisoner started
to disrobe, then pulled off his own
single garment, carefully guiding it
through the belt at his waist, so as
not to disturb the talisman’s powers.
He threw the long shirt at the man
before him.
"Here,” he ordered. "Put this on.”
He sensed a feeling of deep resent-
ment — of hopeless rebellion. He re-
peated his demand, more emphati-
cally.
"Put it on, I say!”
As the man stood before him,
dressed in the rough shift of a serf,
Flor smiled grimly.
"And now,” he said, "none will
worry too much about a mere serf,
or look too closely into his fate.
Here.”
He slashed out with the sword,
awkwardly, but effectively.
"I shall have to find a new name,”
he told himself as he dressed in the
garments of his victim. "No free
swordsman would have a name like
Flor. They all have two names.”
He thought of the names he had
heard used by the guards of the Earl.
Flor, he thought, could be part of a
name. But one of the swordsmen
would make it Floran, or possibly
Florel. They would be hunters, or
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
slayers of elk — not simply elk. He
looked at the steel cap in his hands.
An iron hat — deri kuna.
"So,” he told himself, "I shall be
Florel Derikuna.”
He inspected his new garments, be-
ing sure they hid the belt, and yet
left the bosses available to easy reach.
At last, he put on the iron cap. It
covered the coronet, effectively hiding
it.
Taking up the sword, he replaced
it in its scabbard and swaggered
through the forest, imitating the man-
at-arms' song.
At one stroke,he had improved his
status infinitely. Now, he could roam
the land unquestioned, so long as he
had money. He smiled to himself.
There was money in his scrip, and
there would be but slight problems
involved in getting more. Tonight, he
would sleep in a forest house, in-
stead of huddling in a thicket.
As the days passed, to grow into
weeks and then, months, Florel wan-
dered over the land. Sometimes, he
took service with a captain, who
would engage in a campaign. Some-
times, he took service with one of the
lesser nobility. A few times, he ran
with the bands of the forest and
road, to rob travelers. But he was
cautious to avoid the great Earls, re-
alizing the danger of detection.
Always, he kept his direction to
the east, knowing that he would have
to reach the sea and cross to the
eastern land before he could feel
completely safe. His store of money
and of goods grew, and he hoarded it
against the time when he would use
it.
Sometimes, he posed as a merchant,
traveling the land with the caravans.
But always, he followed his path east-
ward.
Florel Derikuna looked back at the
line of pack animals. It had been a
long trip, and a hard one. He smiled
grimly to himself as he remembered
the last robber attack. For a time, he
had thought the caravan guard was
going to be overwhelmed. He might
have had to join with the robbers, as
he had done before. And that would
have delayed his plans. He looked
ahead again, toward the hill, crowned
with its great, stone castle.
This, then, was the land of the
east — the farthest march of the land
of the east. It had taken him a long,
16
cautious time to get here. And he had
spent his days in fear of a searching
party from Budorn, even when he had
reached the seacoast itself. But here,
he would be safe. None from this
land had ever been even to the moun-
tainous backbone of his own land, he
was sure. And certainly, there would
be no travelers who had guided their
steps from here to faraway Budorn
and back.
None here knew Budorn, excepting
him. Flor, the serf — now Florel Deri-
kuna, swordsman at large — was in a
new land. And he would take a new,
more useful identity. He looked at
the stone buildings of the town and
its castle.
They were not unlike the castles
and towns of his native land, he
thought. There were differences, of
course, but only in the small things.
And he had gotten used to those by
now. He had even managed to learn
the peculiar language of the country.
He smiled again. That coronet he al-
ways wore beneath his steel cap had
served him well. It had more powers
than he had dreamed of when he had
first held it in his hands in those dis-
tant woods.
Here in Dweros, he thought, he
could complete his change. Here, he
could take service with the Duke as
a young man of noble blood, once
afflicted with a restless urge for travel,
but now ready to establish himself.
By now, he had learned to act. It
had .not been for nothing that he had
carefully studied the ways of the
nobility.
The caravan clattered through the
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
gate beneath the castle, twisted
through the streets just beyond the
wall, and stopped in the market place.
Derikuna urged his mount ahead and
confronted the merchant.
"Here is my destination,” he said.
"So, we’ll settle up, and I’ll be on
my way.”
The merchant looked at him with a
certain amount of relief. The man,
he knew, was a tough lighter. His ef-
forts had been largely the cause of
the failure of bandits to capture the
caravan only a few days before. But
there was something about him that
repelled. He was a man to be feared,
not liked. Somehow, the merchant
felt he was well rid of this guard,
despite his demonstrated ability. He
reached into his clothing and pro-
duced two bags.
'"We hate to lose you, Derikuna,”
he dissembled. "Here is your normal
wage.” He held out one bag. "And
this second purse is a present, in
memory of your gallant defense of the
caravan,”
Derikuna smiled sardonically.
"Thank you,” he said, "and good
trading.” He reined away.
He had caught the semi-fearful
thoughts. 'Well, that was nothing un-
usual. Everybody became fearful of
the iron hat sooner or later. Here,
they would learn to respect him, too.
Though their respect would be for a
different name. Nor would they be
able to deny him aught. They might
not like him. That, he had no in-
terest in. They'd do his will. And
they’d never forget him.
He rode to an 'inn, where hs
ordered food and lodging. His meal
over, he saw to his beasts, then had
a servant take his baggage to his
room.
Shortly after daybreak, he awoke.
He blinked at the light, stirred rest-
lessly, and got out of bed. Rubbing
his eyes, he walked to the other side
of the room.
For a few minutes, he looked at
the trough m the floor and the water
bucket standing near it. At last, he
shrugged and started splashing water
over himself. This morning, he spent
more time than usual, being sure that
no vestige of beard was left on
his face, and that he was perfectly
clean. He completed his bath by dash-
ing perfumed water over his entire
body.
He opened his traveling chest,
picking out clothing he had worn but
few times, and those in private. At
last, he examined his reflection in a
mirror, and nodded in satisfaction:
"Truly,” he told himself, "a fine
example of western nobility.”
He picked out a few expensive
ornaments from his chest, then locked
it again and left the inn.
He guided his mount through the
narrow streets to the castle gate,
where he confronted a sleepy,
heavily-armed sentry.
"Send word to the castle steward,”
he ordered, throwing his riding cloak
back, "that Florel, younger son of
the Earl of Konewar, would pay his
respects to your master, the Duke of
Dwerostel.”
Tl'.e man eyed him for a moment,
17
MILLENNIUM
then straightened and grounded his
pike with a crash.
"It shall be done, sir.” He turned
and struck a gong.
A guard officer came through the
tunnel under the wall. For a moment,
he looked doubtful, then he spoke
respectfully and ushered Derikuna
through the inner court to a small
aparrment, where he turned him over
to a steward.
"You wish audience with His
Excellency?’’
"I do, My Man. I wish to pay him
my respects, and those of my father,
the Earl of Konewar.” Derikuna
loo'ced haughtily at the man.
Like the guard officer, the steward
seemed doubtful. For a few seconds,
he seemed about to demur. Then, he
bowed respectfully.
"'Very well, sir.’’ 'With a final,
curious glance at the coronet winch
shone in Florel’s hair, the steward
clapped his hands. A page hurried
into the room and bowed.
"Your orders, sir?’’
"We have a noble guest. Bring re-
freshment, at once.” The steward
waved to a table. "If Your Honor will
wait here?’’
Florel inclined his head, strode to
a chair, and sat down. He looked
amusedly after the disappearing stew-
ard. The coronet of the old Earl,
he thought, was a truly potent talis-
man. Even the disdainful stewards
of castles bowed to its force. And,
thought the impostor, so would his
master — when the time came.
The page reappeared with a flagon
of wine and some cakes. Florel was
sampling them when the steward re-
turned. The man bowed respectfully,
waited for Florel to finish his wine,
and led the way through a corridor
to a heavy pair of doors, which he
swung open.
"Florel, Son of Konewar,’’ he an-
nounced ceremoniously.
The Duke flipped a bone to one of
his dogs, shoved his plate aside, and
looked up. Florel walked forward a
few paces, stopped, and bowed low.
"Your Excellency.’’
As he straightened, he realized that
he was the object of an intense
scrutiny. At last, the Duke nodded.
'"VVe had no notice of your com-
ing.’’
Florel smiled. "I have been travel-
ing alone. Excellency, and incognito.
For some years, I have been wander-
ing, to satisfy my desire to see the
world.’’ He glanced down at his
clothing.
"I arrived in your town last eve-
ning, and delayed only to make my-
self presentable before appearing to
pay my respects.”
"Very good. Punctuality in meeting
social obligations is a mark of good
breeding.” The Duke eyed Florel’s
costume.
"Tell me, young man, do all your
nobility affect the insignia you wear?”
Fiord’s hand rose to his coronet.
"Only members of the older families,
Excellency.”
"I see.” The nobleman noddid
thoughtfully. "We have heard rumers
of your fashions in dress, though no
member of any of the great families
18
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
of your realm has ever come so far
before. We are somewhat isolated
here.” He looked sharply at the
younger man.
"Rumor also has it that this is
more than mere insignia you wear. I
have heard it said that your orna-
ments give more than mortal powers
to their wearer. Is this true.^’’
Florel hesitated for an instant, then
recognized the desired response. Of
course this eastern noble would not
welcome the thought that there were
others who had greater powers than
he. And he would certainly resent any
suggestions that a young visitor to his
court had such powers.
"Oh, that,” he said easily. "Leg-
ends, really. The truth is that the
wearing of the coronet and belt is
restricted to members of the older,
more honorable families. And even
these must prove their ability at arms
and statecraft before being invested
with the insignia. Too, knowledge of
long lineage and gentle birth makes
a man more bold — possibly even
more skillful than the average.” He
smiled ingratiatingly.
"You, yourself, recognize your own
superiority in all ways over your re-
tainers, your vassals, and your towns-
people. And so are we above the
common man. This insignia is but the
outward symbol of that superiority.”
The Duke nodded, satisfied. He
waved a hand.
"Sit down, young man. You must
remain at our court for a time. We
are hungry for news of the distant
lands.”
Florel congratulated himself. Well
embellished gossip, he had found,
was a popular form of entertainment
in camp and court alike, and his store
of gossip was large and carefully
gathered. Here at Dweros, far from
the center of the kingdom, his store
of tales would last for a long time —
probably as long as he needed.
During the days and nights that
followed, he exerted himself to gain
the favor of the Duke and his house-
hold. Much of his time, he spent en-
tertaining others with his tales. But
he kept his own ears and eyes open.
He became a constant visitor at the
castle, finally being offered the use of
one of the small apartments, which
he graciously accepted. And, of
course, he was invited to join the
hunts.
Hunting, he discovered, could be
a pleasant pastime — so long as it was
another who was doing the hard
w'ork of beating. And his own ex-
perience as a beater proved valuable.
He was familiar with the ways and
the haunts of animals. What had
once been a matter of survival be-
came a road to acclaim. He was
known before long as a skillful, dar-
ing hunter.
At length, he decided the time was
right to talk to the Duke of more
serious things. The duchy was at the
very border of the kingdom. To the
north lay territory occupied only by
barbaric tribes, who frequently de-
scended on the northern baronies,, to
rob travelers of their goods, or to
loot villages. Having secured their
loot, the tribesmen retreated to their
MILLENNIUM
19
mountains before a fighting force
could come up with them.
Florel came upon the Duke while
he was considering the news of one
of these raids.
"Your Excellency, these border
raids could be halted. A strong hand
is all that is needed, at the right
place. A determined knight, estab-
lished on the Mcnstal, could com-
mand the river crossing and the pass,
thus preventing either entry or exit.’’
"To be sure.” The Duke sighed
wearily. "But the mountains of Men-
stal are inhospitable. Knights have
occupied the heights, protecting the
border for a time, to be sure, but the
land has always escheated to the
duchy. A small watchtower is kept
manned even now, but it’s a hungry
land, and one which would drain
even a baron’s funds. I have no
knight who wants it.”
Florel smiled. He had plans con-
cerning the Menstal, and the great
river, the Nalen, which raced between
high cliffs.
"The merchants, who use the
Nalen for their shipments, would
welcome protection from the robber
bands, I think, as would the travelers
of the roads.”
"And?” The Duke looked at him
thoughtfully. ,
"Possibly a small tax?” Florel
smiled deprecatingly. "Sufficient to
maintain a garrison?”
"And who would collect the tak?”
"That, Excellency, I could arrange.
I have'funds, adequate to garrison the
tower of the Menstal, and even to
make it livable for a considerable
20
force of men. And I believe I could
maintain and increase a garrison there
that would serve to hold the barbari-
ans at bay.”
"Let me think this over.” The
Duke sat back, toying with his cup.
"It is true,” he mused, "that Menstal
is the key to the border. And the
small garrison there has proved ex-
pensive and ineffective.” He tapped
the cup on the table, then set it down
and looked about the apartment.
Finally, he looked up at Florel.
"You have our permission to try
your scheme,” he decided. "We will
invest you with the barony of Men-
stal.”
Konar paused at the castle gate. It
had been pure chance, he knew, that
they had noticed this bit of equip-
ment. The east coast earldom was
known, of course, but somehow,
searchers had failed to discover that
the Earl held any equipment. Konar
shrugged. He probably hadn’t inher-
ited it, but had gotten it by chance,
and his possession of the mentacom
and shield weren’t commonly known.
"Well,” he told himself, "we know
about it now. I’ll make a routine pick-
up, and he won’t have it any more.”
A pair of weary sentries stood just
inside the heavy doors. One shifted
his weight, to lean partially on his
pike, partially against the stonework.
Idly, he looked out at the road which
led through the village, staring direct-
ly through the place where Konar
stood.
Konar smiled to himself. "Good
thing I’ve got my body shield modu-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
lated for full refraction,” he told him-
self. "He'd be a little startled if he
should see me.”
The sentry yawned and relaxed
still more, sliding down a little, till
he sat on a slightly protruding stone.
His companion looked over at him.
"Old Marnio sees you like that,”
he muttered warningly, "makes
lashes.”
The other yawned again. "No mat-
ter. He'll be drowsing inside, where
it’s warm. Be a long time before he
comes out to relieve.”
Konar nodded amusedly. The castle
guard, he gathered, was a little less
than perfectly alert. This would be
simple. He touched the controls of
his body shield to raise himself a few
inches abo\c the cobblestones, and
floated between the two sentries, go-
ing slowly to avoid making a breeze.
Once inside, he decided to waste no
more time. Of course, he would have
to wait inside the Earl’s sleeping room
till the man slept, but there was no
point in waiting out here. He passed
rapidly through the outer ward, ig-
noring the serfs and retainers who
walked between the dwellings nestled
against the wall.
The inner gate had been closed
for the night, so he lifted and went
over the wall.
He looked around, deciding that
the Earl's living quarters would be in
the wooden building at the head of
the inner courtyard. As he ap-
proached, he frowned. The windows
were tightly closed against the night
air. He would have to enter through
the doors, and a young squire blocked
that way. The lad was talking to' a
girl.
There was nothing to do but wait,
so Konar poised himself a few feet
from them. They'd go inside even-
tually, and he would float in after
them. Then, he could wait until the
Earl was asleep.
After that, it would be a simple,
practiced routine. The small hand
weapon he carried would render the
obsolete body shield ineffective, if
necessary, and a light charge would
assure that the man wouldn’t awaken.
It would be the work of a few min-*
utes to remove the equipment the
man had, to substitute the purely
ornamental insignia, and to sweep
out of the room, closing the window
after him. Konar hoped it would ■
stay closed. The Earl might be an-
noyed if it flew open, to expose him
to the dreaded night air.
In the morning, the Earl would
waken, innocent of any knowledge
of his visitor. He would assume his
talismans had simply lost their powers
due to some occult reason, as many
others had during recent times.
Idly, Konar listened to the con-
versation of the two before him.
The squire was telling the girl of
his prowess in the hunt. Tomorrow,
he announced, he would accompany
die Earl’s honored guest from the
eastern land.
"And I’m the one that can show
him the best coverts,” he boasted.
"His Grace did well to assign me to
the Duke.”
The girl lifted her chin disdain-
21
MILLENNIUM
fully. "Since you’re such a great
hunter,’’ she told him, "perchance
you could find my brooch, which I
lost in yonder garden." She turned
to point at the flower-bordered patch
of berry bushes at the other end of
the court. In so doing, she faced
directly toward Konar.
She was a pretty girl, he thought.
His respect for the young squire’s
judgment grew. Any man would ad-
mire the slender, well featured face
which was framed within a soft cloud
of dark, well combed hair. She looked
quite different from the usual girls
one saw in this country. Possibly, she
was of eastern descent, Konar
thought.
The girl’s eyes widened and her
mouth flew open, making her face
grotesquely gaunt. Abruptly, she was
most unprctty. For a few heartbeats,
she stood rigidly, staring at Konar.
Then she put her hands to her face,
her fingers making a rumpled mess of
her hair. Her eyes, fixed and with
staring pupils, peered between her
fingers. And she screamed.
Konar felt suddenly faint, as
though the girl’s horror was somehow
communicated to him. The scream
reverberated through his brain, rising
in an intolerable crescendo, blotting
out other sensory perception. He
fought to regain control of his fading
senses, but the castle court blurred
and he felt himself slipping into un-
consciousness. He started sliding
down an endless, dark chute, ending
in impenetrable blackness.
Suddenly, the black dissolved into
a flash of unbearably brilliant light,
and Konar’s eyes closed tightly.
He was alertly conscious again, but
his head ached, and he felt reluctant,
even unable, to open his eyes. Even
closed, they ached from the brilliant
spots which snapped into being be-
fore them. He shuddered, bringing
his head down to his breast, gripping
it with shaking hands, and breathing
with uneven effort.
This was like nothing he had ever
met before. He would have to get
back to the others — find out what
had happened to him — get help.
He concentrated on his eyelids,
forcing them open. A crowd was
gathering, to look accusingly at the
squire, who supported the fainting
girl in his arms. Her eyes fluttered
weakly, and she struggled to regain
her feet.
"That awful thing! It’s right over
there!” She pointed at Konar.
Again, the unbearable ululation
swept through his mind. Convulsive-
ly, he swept his hand to his shield
controls, fighting to remain conscious
just long enough to set his course up
and away.
Before he was able to mo\e and
think with anything approaching nor-
mality, he was far above the earth.
He looked at the tiny castle far below,
noticing that from his altitude, it
looked like some child’s toy, set on a
sand hill, with bits of rnoss strewed
about to make a realistic picture. He
shivered. His head still ached dully,
and he could still hear echoes of the
horrified screaming.
"I don’t know what it was,’’ he
22
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
told himself, "but I hope I never run
into anything like that again.’’
He located the hill which concealed
the flier, and dropped rapidly toward
it.
As he entered, the pilot noticed
him.
"Well, that was a quick mission,’’
he commented. "How’d you — ’’ He
looked at Konar’s pain-lined face.
"Hey, what’s the matter, youngster?
You look like the last end of a
bad week.’’
Konar tried to smile, but it didn’t
work very well.
"I ran into something, Barskor,’’
he said. "Didn’t complete my mission.
I don’t know what happened, but I
hope it never happens again.’’
Barskor looked at him curiously,
then turned. "Chief,” he called,
"something’s gone wrong. Konar’s
been hurt.”
Meinora listened to Konar’s story,
then shook his head unhappily.
"You ran into a transvisor. I'm
afraid. We didn’t think there were
any on this planet.” He paused.
"There were definitely none discov-
ered to the west, and we looked for
them. But now, we’re close to the
east coast, and you said that girl
looked eastern. The eastern continent
may be loaded with ’em.”
Konar looked curious. "A trans-
visor? I never heard of them.”
"They’re rather rare. You only find
them under special conditions, and
those conditions, we thought, are ab-
sent here. But when you find one, you
can be sure there are more. It runs in
MILLENNIUM
families. You see, they’re beings with
a completely wild talent. They can be
any age, any species, or of any in-
telligence, but they’re nearly always
female. Visibility refraction just
doesn’t work right for their senses,
and they can cause trouble.” He
looked closely at Konar.
"You were lucky to get away. A
really terrified transvisor could kill
you, just as surely as a heavy caliber
blaster.”
Konar shivered. "I believe it. But
why are they called 'transvisors’?”
"The name’s somewhat descriptive,
even if it is incomplete. As I said,
visibility refraction doesnl work right
in their case. Somehow, they pick up
visual sensation right through a
screen, regardless of its adjustment.
But things seen through a screen are
distorted, and look abnormal to them.
Unless they’re used to it, they get
frightened when they see a person
with a refracted body shield. That’s
when the trouble starts.”
Konar nodded in understanding.
"You mean, they transmit their
fear?”
"They do. And they’ll shock ex-
cite a mentacom, completely distorting
its wave pattern. If they remain con-
scious and scared, their fear is deadly
to its object.” Meinora drew a deep
breath.
"As I said, you were lucky. The
girl fainted and let you get away.” He
shrugged and turned to Barskor.
"We’ll have to change our mode of
operation,” he added. "We’ll pick up
the Earl’s mentacom and belt at the
hunt tomorrow. Find him alone,
23
knock him out with a paralyzer, and
give him parahypnosis afterward. It’s
not so good, but it’s effective. But be
sure you are alone, and don’t try to
use visual refraction under any . cir-
cumstance. Be better to be seen, if it
comes to that. There might be another
transvisor around.” He kicked gently
at the seat beside him.
"This was just a secondary job,
done in passing,” he said, "but it’s a
good thing we found this out when
we did. It’ll change our whole pri-
mary plan. Now, we’ll have to slog it
out the hard way. On no account can
anyone refract. It might be suicide.
We’ll have to talk to travelers. We
want to know what abnormal or un-
usual developments have taken place
in what country in the last twenty
years. Then, we’ll have to check them
out. We've got a lot of work to do.”
He looked around. "Ciernar.”
"Yes, sir.^” The communications
operator looked up.
"Send in a report on this to Group.
Make it 'operational.' ”
Konar tilted his head a little. "Say,
chief, you said the transvisor’s fear
was amplified by my mentacom. What
if I wasn’t wearing one?”
"You wouldn’t feel a thing,”
Meinora smiled. "But don’t get any
ideas. Without amplification, you
couldn’t control your shield properly.
You’d have protection, but your re-
fraction control’s entirely mental, and
levitation direction depends on men-
tal, not physical control, remember?”
"But how about you? You don’t
use amplification. Neither do seceral
of the other team chiefs.”
Meinora shrugged. "No,” he ad-
mitted, "we don’t need it, except in
abnormal circumstances. But we don’t
go around scaring transvisors. They
can’t kill us, but they can make us
pretty sick. You sec we’re a little
sensitive in some ways.” He shook his
head. "No, the only advantage I’ve
got is that I can spot a transvisor by
her mental pattern — if I get close
enough. There’s a little side radiation
that can be detected, though it won’t
pass an amplifier. When you’ve felt
it once, you’ll never forget it. Makes
you uncomfortable.” He smiled wryly.
"And you can believe me,” he
added, "when I do get close to a
transvisor. I’m very, very careful not
to frighten her.”
Winter passed, and spring, and
summer came. Nal Gerda, Officer of
the Guard, stood on the small wharf
below the old watchtower. He looked
across the narrows, examined the cliff
opposite him, then looked upward at
the luminous sky. There were a few
small clouds, whose fleecy whiteness
accentuated the clear blue about them.
Brilliant sunshine bathed the wharf
and tower, driving away the night
mists.
It would not be long before the
new guard came down the cliff. Gerda
stretched and drew a deep breath,
savoring the summer morning air.
Now, it was pleasant, a happy con-
trast to the sullen skies and biting
winter winds he had faced a few
short months ago.
For a time, he looked at the green
atop the cliffs, then he transferred
his attention upriver, toward the
bend where the Nalen came out of
the pass to blow between the iron
cliffs of Menstal. The water flowed
swiftly in the narrows, throwing off
white glints as its ripples caught the
sunlight, then deepening to a dark
blue where it came into the shadow
of the cliffs.
A sudden call sounded from the
lookout far above, and the officer
wheeled about, looking to the great
chain which stretched from tower to
cliff, to block river traffic. It was in
proper position, and Gerda looked
back at the bend.
As he watched, a long, low barge
drifted into sight, picking up speed
as it came >into the rapid current.
Polemen* -balanced themselves alertly
in the bow, their long sticks poised
to deflect -their course from any
threatening rocks.
Gerda threw off the almost poeti-
cal admiration of beauty that had
possessed him a moment before and
faced the guard house, from whence
came a scuffle of feet and the dank
MILLENNIUM
25
of arms, to tell of the guard’s readi-
ness.
"Turn out the Guard,” Gerda drew
himself up into a commanding pose.
A group of mcn-at-anns marched
stifdy out, followed by a pair of
serfs. The leader saluted Gerda with
upraised hand.
"The Guard is ready, My Cap-
tain,” he prodaimed. "May the tax
be rich.”
Gerda returned the salute. "It will
be,” he stated positively. "These
merchants have learned by now that
to insult Portal Menstal with poor
offerings is unwise in the extreme.
And, mark me, they'll not forget!”
The barge approached and swung
in toward the wharf in obedience to
Gerda’ s imperious gesture. One of
the polemen jumped ashore, securing
a line to a bollard.
The steersman climbed to the
dock, to halt a pace in front of
Gerda. He folded his hands and
bowed his head submissively.
"Does Your Honor desire to in-
spect the cargo
"Of course,” Gerda’s haughty
glance appraised the man from toe to
crown. "Quickly now. I’ve little time
to waste.” He glanced back at his
clerk, who had a tablet ready,
"Your name. Merchant.^”
"Teron, of Krongert, may it please
you, sir. I have been to—”
Gerda waved an impatient hand.
“Save me your speech. Higgler,” he
said curtly. "What’s your cargo
value?”
“Six thousand teloa. Your Honor.
■We have — ”
26
“Unload it. I’ll look at it.” Gerda
waved the man to silence.
As the bales of goods were placed
on the wharf, Gerda examined them
critically. A fev/, he ordered set aside-
after a cpiick check and a few ques-
tions. Others, he ordered opened and
spread out. At last, satisfied with his
estimate of the cargo’s valuation, he
turned.
“Your choice. Merchant?”
"I would pay. Your Honor,” said
the man, "to the tenth part of my
cargo.” He extended a leather bag,
"Don’t haggle with me,” snapped
Gerda. "The tax is a fifth of your
cargo, as you should well know.”
H is hand sought his sword hilt.
The merchant’s face fell a little,
and he produced a second bag, which
he held out to the officer. “I must
apologize,” he said. "I am new ^to
this land.”
"See that you learn its customs
quickly, then.” Gerda handed the
bags to his clerk.
“Check these. Lor,” he ordered.
“I make it a thousand, six hundred
teloa.”
An expression of dismay crossed
the merchant’s face.
"Your Honor,” he wailed, “my
cargo is of but six thousand valua-
tion. I swear it,”
Gerda stepped forward swiftly.
H IS hand raised, to swing in a vio-
lent, back-handed arc, his heavy rings
furrowing the merchant’s face. The
man staggered back, involuntarily
raising a hand to his injured cheek.
As a couple of the men-at-arms
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
raised their pikes to the ready, the
merchant righted himself, folded his
hands again, and bowed in obeisance.
Blood trickled down his chin, a drop
spattering on his clothing. He ig-
nored it.
"You would dispute my judg-
ment?” Gcrda drew his hand up for
a second blow. "Here is no market
place for your sharp bargaining, for
your insolence, another five hundied
teloa will be e.xacted. Make speed !”
The merchant shook his head
dazedly, but offered no word of pro-
test. Silently, he dug into his posses-
sions, to produce a third bag. For a
m.ornent, he weighed it in his hand,
then reached into it, to remove a lew
loose coins. Without raising his head,
he extended the bag to the olficer of
the guard.
Gerda turned. Lor had gone into
the guard house, to count the other
two bags. The officer raised his voice.
"Lor, get back out here. I’ve more
for you to count.”
He tossed the bag to the clerk,
then stood, glaring at the unfortu-
nate trader. At last, he kicked the
nearest bale.
"Well,” he growled, "get this stu.'T
off the wharf. What are you waiting
for ?”
He watched the 'barge cre-w load,
then turned. Lor came from the
guard house.
"All is in order. My Captain.”
"Very well.” Gerda looked at him
approvingly. Then, he swung to the
merchant, fixing him with a stern
glare.
"We shall make note of your
name, Merchant. See thou that yotl;
make honest and accurate valuation
in the future. Another time, we shall
not be so lenient. The dungeon of
Menstal is no pleasant place.”
He watched till the last of the
bargeload was stowed, then nodded
curtly.
"You may shove off,’’ he said. He
turned his head toward the tower.
"Down cliain,” he ordered loudly.
The windlass creaked protestingly
and the heavy chain dropped slowly
into the river. The barge steered to
the center of the channel, gathering
speed as it passed over the lowered
chain.
When the barge had cleared, serfs
inside the tow'er strained at the wind-
lass in obedience to the commands
of their overseer, and the chain rose
jerkily, to regain its former positioa
across the stream.
Gerda watched for a moment, then
strode toward the guard house. He
went inside, to look at the bags of
coin on the counting table.
"Cattle,” he growled, "to think
they could cheat the Baron Bel Men-
stal of his just tax,”
He stepped back out for a mo-
ment, to watch the merchant barge
enter the rapids beyond the chain.
Then, he s'wung about and re-entered
the tower.
Inside, he sat dow'n at his count-
ing table. He opened the bags, spill-
ing their contents out on the boards,
and checked their count.
There were forty-eight over.
He turned to his clerk.
MILLENNIUM
27
"What was your count, Lor?”
"Two thousand, one hundred, sir,
and forty-eight.”
"Very good.” Gerda smiled a
little. "For once in his thieving life,
the merchant was anxious to give full
weight.”
Lor spread his hands. "He’ll get
it back, and more, at Orieano, sir.”
"Oh, to be sure.” Gerda shrugged
indifferently as he scooped the coins
back into the bags. He chose three
small scraps of wood, scrawled tally
marks on them, and went over to a
heavy chest.
Taking a key from his belt, he
. unlocked the chest and raised its lid.
He looked at the bags lying within,
then tossed the new ones on top of
them. As he locked the chest again,
he saw Lor go to his account board,
to enter the new collection.
The Officer of the Guard straight-
ened, stretched for a moment, then
glanced critically in at the windlass
room. The serfs had secured the
windlass and racked their poles.
Now, they were sitting, hunched
against the wall, staring vacantly, in
the manner of serfs. The guardroom,
its commander noted, was properly
clean. He shrugged and walked out
again to the wharf. Once more, he
looked at the iron cliffs opposite him,
then glanced downriver. The mer-
chant barge had disappeared.
Beyond Menstal, the cliffs closed
in still farther, to become more
rugged and to form a narrow gorge.
Between them, the Nalen took a tor-
tuous course, turbulently fighting its
28
way over the rocks. Eventually, it
would drop into the lowlands, to be-
come a broad, placid river, lowing
quietly under the sunshine to water
the fields of Orolies. But during its
passage through the mountains, it
would remain a dark, brawling tor-
rent.
The merchant barge swept
through the rapids just beyond Men-
stal, her polemen deftly preventing
disaster against the rocks. At last, as
the gorge became a little wider, the
steersman guided his course toward
a small beach beneath the cl.ffs.
With his free hand, he thoughtfully
rubbed his injured cheek.
As the boat’s keel grated against
gravel, he shook his head and step-
ped forward. For a moment, he
fumbled under a thwart, then he
brought out a small case.
"Konar,” he called, "fix this thing
up for me, will you?” He opened
the case and laid it on the thwart.
One of the polemen laid his stick
down and came aft.
"Pretty nasty clip, wasn’t it, sir?”
Meinora grinned. "Guy’s got a
heavy hand, all right,” he admitted.
"Made me dizzy for a second. Al-
most got mad at him.”
Konar raised an eyebrow. "I felt
it,” he said. "Good thing Ciernar and
I backed you up a little. Wouldn't
help us much to knock out the
baron’s river detachment right now,
would it?” He reached into the case.
"Looks as though the merchants
weren’t exaggerating, if you ask me,”
he added. He approached Meinora,
a small swab in his hand.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
"Hold still, sir,” he instructed.
"This’ll sting for a few seconds.”
He dabbed at the cut cheek, then
reached back into the case for an in-
strument.
"Ouch!” Mcinora winced. "Did
you have to use that stuff full
strength.^ After all, I can wait a
couple of hours for it to heal.” He
shook his head as his companion
turned back toward him, then dash-
ed involuntary tears from his eyes
and blinked a few times to clear his
vision.
"No,” he added, "the merchants
aren’t exaggerating a bit on this one.
Bel Menstal’s a pretty rough cus-
tomer, and he keeps rough boys.
Now, we’ll see whether he’s the guy
we’ve been looking for, the guy with
our equipment.”
Konar focused the small instru-
ment on his superior’s face, passing
it along the line of the jagged cut.
"You didn’t explain that part.”
"Simple enough.” Meinora grin-
ned wolfishly. "Those coins were a
Vadris-Kendar alloy. Now that
they’re out of their force field, they’ll
start to sublimate. In a couple of
hours or so, they’ll be gone, and
someone will be asking a lot of ques-
tions. Set up the detectors. If the
baron is the boy we think he is, we
should be getting a fairly strong
reading shortly after that guard's re-
lieved.”
From somewhere atop the cliff, a
bell tolled. The hoarse voice of the
lookout drifted down to the wharf.
"Relieve the guard.”
Nal Gerda looked up. A line of
men were coming down the steep
path, stepping , cautiously as they
wound about the sharp turns. Gerda
nodded and walked back into the
guard room.
"Draw up your guard,” he or-
dered.
He beckoned to two of the serfs.
"Take the chest,” he directed, "and
stay close in front of me.”
Herding the bearers before him,
he went out to the wharf. His guard
was drawn up in their proper station,
facing upstream, so that they could
view both the steps from the cliff
and the river. No traffic was in sight
in the long gorge.
The new guard came slowly down
the trail, formed at the foot of the
steps, and marched to the tower por-
tal. Their commander dressed their
ranks, motioned to his clerk, and
came forward, saluting as he ap-
proached Gerda.
"Anything unusual.^”
"Nothing,” Gerda told him.
"Seven barges, this watch. Traders
are gathering for the fair at Orie-
ano.”
"I know,” ■ the other agreed.
"We’ll have rich collections for the
rest of the summer, what with fairs
all down the valley. You’ll be going
to the Orieano Fair?”
"Got my permission yesterday. I’m
to ride with the Baron. Have to give
the merchants back part of their
money, you know.”
"Yes, I suppose so.” The other
grinned, then sobered. "I’ll relieve
you, sir.”
MILLENNIUM
29
"Very good.” 'Gerda saluted, then
turned.
"March off the old guard,” he or-
dered.
The men started up the steps.
Gerda followed the serfs with the
money chest, bringing up to the rear.
Slowly, they toiled their way up
the trail, halting at the halfway point
for a brief rest. At last, they were at
the top of the cliff. Before them, the
castle gate opened. Within the
tunnellike passage through the wall,
two sentries grounded their pikes.
Gerda nodded to his clerk, ac-
cepted the account tablet, and fol-
lovyed his serfs, who still bore the
money chest, into the castle.
. Inside the main counting room,
hi.s bearers set the chest on a large
table. The castle steward came to-
ward them.
."And how were collections.^”
"Reasonably good, sir. Seven
barges came through daring the
night, with good cargoes.” Gerda
held out the tablet.
The steward looked at it, checking
off the entries. "Meron, of Vandor —
Yes, he would have about that. And
Borowa? A thousand?” He nodded
thoughtfully. "That seems about
right for him.” He tapped the tablet
a .few times, squinting at the last
name on the list. "But who is this
Teron? I never heard of him. Must
have had a rich cargo, too.”
Gerda laughed shortly. "He’s a
new one to me. He tried to get away
with a tenth, then protested the valu-
ation. I fined him an extra five hun-
dred.”
SO
"Oho!” The steward smiled thin-
ly. "What then?”
Gerda shook his head. "Oh, he was
suddenly so anxious to pay the right
amount, he gave me forty-eight teloa
overweight. I'll know him next time
I see him. I’m sure. I marked him
well for receipt.”
He inspected his knuckles reflec-
tively, then took the key from his
belt and opened the chest.
"You'll want to verify my count,
of course?”
"Oh, yes. Yes, to be sure. Have to
be certain, you know. And there’s
your share of the fine and overpay-
ment to be taken care of.” The stew-
ard reached into the chest, removing
bags which clinked as they were
dropped to the table. He stopped, to
look into the chest with a puzzled
expression on his face.
"And what are these?” He reach-
ed in, to withdraw three obviously
empty bags. He looked curiously at
the thongs which tied their mouths,
then shook them and looked ques-
tioningly at Gerda.
"Why, I ... I don’t know.”
Gerda looked incredulously at the
bags. "Certainly, I had no extra
money bags.”
"I should think not.” The stew-
ard frowned, then beckoned behind
him. Two heavily armed guards ap-
proached.
"We’ll have to examine into
this.”
As the guards came close to
Gerda, the steward looked closely at
the bags on the table, then picked
one up, opening it.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
"Borowa,” he muttered after look-
ing inside and comparing the tally
chip with the count tablet. He
weighed the bag in his hand. "Yes,
it seems to be about right. Certainly
not overweight.” He picked up an-
other, then still another. At last, he
looked up.
"Of course, I shall have to count
all of these carefully,” he remarked
grimly, "but I see no coin from this
Teron you have listed.” He stared
coldly at Gerda. "And the tower
lookout confirms that you had seven
barges. That was a considerable
amount. What did you do with that
money
"Why, I counted it. It was all
there.” Gerda shook his head un-
believingly. "My count agreed with
that of my clerk, and I dropped
tallies in and closed the bags again.”
He looked uneasily at the two guards
who flanked him. "Surely, you don’t
think I’d be so foolish as to tamper
with the Baron’s taxes ? Think, man !
I know the Baron’s ways!”
"I’m not sure just what I think —
yet.” The steward shook his head.
He picked up one of the empty bags,
opened it, and gave it a shake. The
small tally chip fell out and he pick-
ed it up, comparing it with the list
on the tablet. Frowning thought-
fully, he opened the other two bags.
More small blocks of wood fell out.
He looked at the bags, then tossed
them aside and looked coldly at the
guard officer.
"It’s witchcraft,” cried Gerda. "I
had nothing — ”
"We’ll see.” The steward mo-
tioned at the two guards. "Search
this man.”
Dazedly, Gerda stood still, sub-
mitting as one of the guards went
through his clothing while the other
stood ready to deal with any resis-
tance. The searcher made a thorough
examination of Gerda’s clothing,
muttered to himself, and went over
his search again. A pile of personal
objects lay on the table when he had
finished. At last, he looked at the
prisoner, then faced his chief.
"He has nothing on him, sir, not
even a teloa.”
"So I see.” The steward frowned,
then looked at Gerda.
"You may reclaim your possessions
now, captain. Is there any chance
that your clerk might have openeid
the money chest
Gerda shook his head. "I don’t see
how he could, sir, unless he had a
duplicate key, and that’s hardly pos-
sible. I kept the chest locked at all
times, and the' key never left my
person.”
"And there is no chance that any
of your men could have hidden any-
thing on the way here?”
Again, Gerda shook his head.
"None,” he said positively. "I wis
behind them all the way, and would
have seen if any had made any un-
usual motion.”
"’Very well.” The steward clapped
his hands sharply.
There was a clatter of arms, fol-
lowed by the scuffle of feet. Across'
the room, a door opened and a de-
tachment of the castle guard filed id.
MILLENNIUM
31
Their leader stepped forward, salut-
ing the steward.
"There is a river watch outside,”
he was told. "Disarm them, take
them to a cell, and search them
thoroughly. A considerable amount
of coin has been stolen. Report to
me when you have finished.”
"Yes, sir.” The group filed out.
The steward turned to Gerda
again.
"This matter must be examined
carefully,” he declared. "You may
have been the victim of witchcraft,
of course, though I doubt it, never
having witnessed such a thing. Or
one of your men may have worked
out a cunning method of theft, an
occurrence which I have witnessed
many times. Or, there’s the other
possibility.” He stroked his chin.
"After all, you were the rearmost
man, and the one none other would
observe.”
Gerda looked at him fearfully.
"This may become a matter for the
Baron’s personal attention,” con-
tinued the steward. He looked sharp-
ly at Gerda. "How long have you
been in the Baron’s service?”
"Why, you know that, sir. Ten
years, ever since I — ”
"Yes, yes, I remember. And you
‘know how hopeless it is to try to
deceive the Baron?’’
"Yes, sir.” Gerda swallowed pain-
fully.
"But you still insist you had noth-
ing to do with the disappearance of
this money?”
Gerda spread his hands. "I can’t
understand it, sir. But I had nothing
32
to do with it myself. As I told you,
we collected it, listed it, counted it,
and I put it in the chest and locked
it up.” He shook his head again.
"It's witchcraft, sir.”
The steward leaned back, a slight
smile playing about his lips.
"Witchcraft is good enough for
serfs,” he said smoothly, "but you
and I are intelligent men. We have
had collection money disappear be-
fore, many times. Almost always,
there has been the cry, 'It’s witch-
craft!’ And always there has been a
more simple, worldly explanation.”
He snapped his fingers and a page
hurried forward.
"A cup of wine,” ordered the
steward. "This questioning is thirsty
work.” He faced back to Gerda.
"Always,” he repeated, "some ex-
planation has been forthcoming.
Usually, I have discovered the
errant one — with the help of my
guards, of course. And the criminal
has been duly punished. But there
have been some few occasions when
the malefactor was so clever as to
force the Baron’s intervention.” He
paused, leaning forward a little.
"And do you know what hap-
pened then?”
Gerda’s throat was becoming dry.
His mouth opened, but he closed it
again.
The page returned, bearing a
large cup and a flagon of wine. Care-
fully, he filled the cup, then set it
before the steward, who lifted it to
his lips, drank, and set it down with
a satisfied sigh.
"Thank you, boy. Here is one
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
thing we can produce well in these clapped his hands sharply once more,
mountains.” He wiped his lips and and waited.
turned his gaze to Gerda again. He The page dashed to a door and
shook his head slowly. disappeared within. At last, he came
"The Baron can detect guilt or back, holding the door for the leader
innocence in a moment. For a short of the castle guard detachment, who
time, he questioned the persons came forward to salute his superior,
brought before him. He soon deter- "Have you found anything yet?”
mined the guilty ones,- and wrung "Nothing, sir. We have stripped
confessions from their wretched lips. them, but they have no unusual
We then took them away, and things about them. And we have
turned them over to the torturers.” questioned them. None will admit
He raised the cup again. to seeing or doing anything other
"You know,” he added, "I’m told than normal duties.”
that some of them lasted as long as The steward sighed. "Very well,
ten full days.” He shook his head. Secure them, then. I’ll call for them
"I could never understand how the later.” He stood,
executioners can put up with such "Come, Nal Gerda,” he ordered,
MILLENNIUM
33
"unless you have something further
to tell me of this, we must have an
audience with the Baron.”
Florel, Baron Bel Menstal, sat at
his ease. Before him was a dish of
good cakes, beside him, a cup and
flagon of good wine. He looked con-
tentedly around the apartment.
For fourteen years now, he had
been lord of this castle. And for
fourteen years, he had busied him-
self building his forces and increas-
ing his power and influence in the
duchy. He had made himself feared
and respected.
During the past several years, his
word had been of great weight in
the Duke’s councils. He was now one
of the great barons of the realm. He
smiled to himself.
As he had risen in importance,
Orieano, the soft holder of the rich
fields to the west, had fallen. The
man was getting old — even older
than the Duke himself, and he was
tired. And his daughter was the sole
heir to that barony.
Again, Menstal smiled to himself
as he thought of the daughter of
Orieano. Next month, at the fair, he
would press suit for the hand of the
heiress, and a few months after that
he would have control of the rich
farm lands and the trading city.
The girl would probably protest,
but that would do her little good. He
knew what fear could do. And he
could rouse such fear as to render
even strong men but helpless masses
of flesh. The beauteous damsel of
Orieano would be a simple task.
84
None other would dare dispute his
claim, and the Duke would come to
support him.
And the Duke himself.^ Ah, well,
perhaps it would be as well to allow
him to finish his life in peaceful pos-
session of his broad fields. But cer-
tainly, the son of Dwerostel would
have no word in the control of the
duchy. An accident could be easily
arranged, and Flor, one-time woods
beater and scullery boy of Budorn,
would become the great Duke he had
long planned to be. No, it wouldn’t
take too many more years.
He filled himself a cup, and look-
ed complacently into its clear depths.
The tap on the door broke his
reverie, and he looked up, annoyed.
He stared impatiently at his castle
steward as the man entered and made
obeisance.
'”What now, ’Weron.^” He set the
cup down. "Must I be bothered with
all your petty problems?”
"This, Excellency, is an unusual
problem. A sizable tribute payment
has disappeared without trace. The
empty bags were left, and the .culprit
has — ”
"Enough!” The Baron waved a
hand impatiently, then adjusted his
golden coronet to a more comfort-
able angle. For an instant, his fingers
played with the ornamental bosses.
"Yes, yes, I see,” he snapped.
"You can spare me your mumbled
details. This man is the officer of
the guard?”
"Yes, Excellency.” The steward
motioned Gerda forward.
Bel Menstal looked sternly at his
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
officer. "Where did you hide your
loot.^’’ he demanded.
Gerda looked incredulously at his
master. He had stolen nothing. As
far as he knew, he had done nothing
wrong. But he seemed to be con-
demned in advance. Something was
insistently pressing on his brain, de-
manding a confession. He had noth-
ing to confess, but the demanding
pressure remained. He struggled
against it, and it grew.
Admit it. How did you do it?
Where is the money?
The pressure became a tearing
force. Gerda swayed weakly.
'T don’t know what happened,’’
he insisted. "I told — ’’
The words stopped as the force
became almost unbearably intense. A
sudden, sharp pain tore at Gerda’s
throat, and blinding light seemed to
strike back of his eyes. Through the
glare, he dimly saw the Baron raise
a hand threateningly.
"You claim to have no idea at all
how the money was taken, or which
of your men may have been the
thief? This is not a sensible atti-
tude.’’
Yon know something. You must
know something. Tell itl
Gerda shook his head miserably,
entirely unable to speak. Somehow,
nothing was clear. He remembered
that something had gone wrong.
Somehow, he had failed his duty.
But how? The room was hazy.
Snatches of his last tour of duty rose
to his consciousness, then were
abruptly blotted out — gone. The
faces of his clerk and of the men-at-
arms came out of the haze for an
instant. Then, they, too, were gone.
The room seemed to spin and an
irresistible force bore him to the
floor. As he slowly was pressed
downward, he wondered who he was
— why he was here — what had hap-
pened. Then, the floor came at him
with blinding speed and he ceased
to wonder. The haze about him scin-
tillated and became impenetrable
darkness.
The Baron looked down at the
crumpled form.
"Take this man away, Weron,”
he ordered. "He knew nothing." He
stroked his hair. "When he recov-
ers, assign him to some unimportant
duty in the castle. Something, of
course, that will demand little
thought or spirit.”
"And the others. Excellency?"
"Oh, bring them in, one at a time.
One of them managed to make a
complete fool of his officer, of course.
But I’ll find him.”
Bel Menstal waved his hand in
dismissal, then leaned back in his
chair, watching as his steward direct-
ed a pair of men-at-arms. They car-
ried the limp form from the room.
"There. That’ll pick up any
power radiation from the castle.”
Konar straightened, looking at the
small panel.
"Good enough." Meinora leaned
over, checking the dials. "See you’ve
set it for average power."
"Yes, sir. It’ll give a flicker indi-
cation for low levels and it’ll fail to
trip for unaided thought. Not too
MILLENNIUM
35
much chance of an overload, either.”
"That’s right. You’re learning.”
Meinora nodded casually. "Well,
let’s keep watch on it.” He sat down.
"Audio alarm on?”
Konar glanced at the panel again.
"I remembered it this time.” He
grinned, then looked curiously at his
superior’s cut cheek. The wound was
healing nicely. In an hour or so,
there would be no visible trace of
the injury.
"Say, Chief,” he asked, "how’d
you happen to get slapped?”
"I asked for it.” Meinora smiled
thoughtfully.
"Yes, sir. I know that. But what
was the purpose?”
"This continent has never been
thoroughly checked, so we’re sam-
pling the culture. We know a lot
about them now, but there’s a lot we
still have to know. For example,
how do they react to various stimuli ?
And how much stimulus is necessary
to produce a given action ? Of course,
we can’t check every individual, but
we can pick up a sample from each
community we contact and extrapo-
late from them.” Meinora spread his
hands.
' "So, I presented a minor irritation
to that officer, and he reacted — fast.
He didn’t just slap me for effect. He
was infuriated at the insult to his
authority. Not only that, but his men
expected him to react in just that
manner. I noted that, too. He’d have
lost face if he’d acted in any other-
way. And the men-at-arms were dis-
appointed when we gave them no
further excuse for violence. We real-
ly lost face with them. There, we
have an indication that violence is
the expected thing in this particular
castle, which is a community of the
duchy. Right?”
"Yes.” Konar nodded thought-
fully. "They’re not only violent
themselves, but they expect \ loicncc
from others. I see what you mean.
You’ll sample the other baronies?”
"Certainly. As many as we con-
tact. They can tell us quite a bit.
We—”
A buzzer interrupted him. Meinora
snapped a switch and sat forward
alertly.
A needle quivered, rose from its
rest, and swung abruptly across the
meter scale. With an audible ping,
it slapped against the stop beyond
the maximum reading.
Meinora looked sharply at the de-
tector set, then turned a selector
switch. The needle moved reluctant-
ly away from the pin, but remained
above the red line at center scale.
Meinora grimaced, twisted the selec-
tor again, and adjusted another
knob, till the needle came to rest at
center.
He examined the dial readings,
frowned incredulously, then turned.
"Look at it,” he invited. "It’s a
wonder he hasn’t burned that ampli-
fier out. It’s a heavy duty job, I
know. But — ”
Konar leaned over his chief’s
shoulder.
"What an overload! We’ve found
it, all right. But what’s going on?”
"Let’s find out.” Meinora flipped
a switch. The two men tensed
36
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
against the resultant shock and were
silent for a time. At last, Konar
reached out to snap the switch off.
"Just raw, crushing force,” he
said wonderingly. "A ferocious de-
mand, with no regard for facts, no
consideration of mental characteris-
tics, no thought of consequence.” He
shook his head slowly. "Never expe-
rienced anything just like that be-
fore.”
"With the power he’s using,” Mei-
nora remarked, "it’s a wonder he
doesn’t upset every mind in his
castle.” He snapped the detector off.
"Including his own.” Konar nod-
ded and looked at the dial settings.
"One thing’s sure. This boy never
had any instruction.” He stepped
back. "Well, we know he has it.
What’s the procedure?”
Meinora was frowning thought-
fully. He stroked his injured cheek,
then shook his head.
"We certainly let that guard offi-
cer in for something,” he mused.
"Have to pick him up and give him
therapy, 1 think.” He looked at Ko-
nar. "Oh, procedure?”
"Yes, sir. Do we catch him alone
and proceed as we did with the last
one? That worked with no trouble.”
"No, I don’t think it’d work out
so well in this case. If I caught it
right, this one’s almost never by
himself outside his apartment. Likes
to impress his personality on peo-
ple.” Meinora looked at the detector
set, then around at the younger man
beside him.
"You know, I got some interest-
ing side thoughts just now. Maybe
MILLENNIUM
we can do two jobs in one this time.
It’ll take a little longer, but it might
save time in the long run.”
The communications operator
came over. "Not another of those?”
he asked with a grin.
Meinora nodded. "Tm just dream-
ing up a nice, dirty trick,” he ad-
mitted. "Tried something like it once
before, on a smaller scale. It work-
ed.” He stood up, stretching.
"The fair’s going to be on at Orie-
ano in a little while, right?”
"Yes. Be a pretty big affair, too,
I think. Why?”
"And the Duke’ll be there, of
course, along with most of his court
and a good share of his fighting
men?”
"Why, yes, sir. They tell me he’s
always been there. Don’t suppose
he’ll skip it this time.”
"So, it’s perfect. We’ll get this set
of equipment in public, and with
apparent legitimacy. And in the
process, we’ll set up social strains
that’ll result in this area reorienting
itself.” Meinora looked around with
a grin.
"Look, ■ call Barskor. Tell him to
pick us up with the flier. We’ll go
down to the hills south of Orieano.
Tell you about it on the way.”
The last of the river guards was
carried out, head dangling limply
from the arms of one of the bearers.
Bel Menstal sat back in his chair,
frowning. Abruptly, he turned on his
steward.
"None of them knew a thing,” he
snarled. "None of them. There’s
37
something funny going on here.”
The steward’s face was drawn.
Dizzying forces had assailed him,
and he had almost collapsed several
times during the questioning. He
tried to gather his hazy thoughts.
Too many kept coming too fast.
"Yes, Excellency,” he agreed.
"Maybe it is witchcraft.”
Bel Menstal’s face darkened.
"Nonsense,” he growled, rising part
way out of his chair. "Witchcraft be
damned ! There’s some explanation
to this, and I’m going to find out
what it is.”
"Yes, Excellency,”
The Baron looked up, then stared
contemptuously at his man.
"Yes, Excellency,” he mimicked
in a singsong voice. "Always 'Yes,
Excellency.’ Haven’t you an idea of
your own.^”
"Yes, Excellency, I — ”
"Inept fool! There’s an explana-
tion to this, I tell you. And peasant
superstition has no part in it. You
should have found it. But no! You
came, dragging a whole detachment
of guards in for me to question. Me,
the Baron ! I have to do all the work
—all the thinking. I tell you, I want
men ^bout me who can think and
act.”
He got out of his chair and circled
the table, striding close to the stew-
ard.
"I’ll give you one more chance,
■Weron. Go out and find what hap-
pened to that money. I don’t care
hov/ you do it, and I’m not going
to be bothered with your petty de-
tails. But find out where that money
38
has gone. Is that simple enough for
you to understand.^”
"Yes, Excellency.” Weron backed
toward the door. "I’ll — ”
Reckless fury shook Florel. Sud-
denly, he felt an irresistible craving
for direct, violent action. He picked
a dagger from his belt.
"You’re not only a fool,” he shout-
ed, "but a spineless one, as well. I
think I’ll have to get another stew-
ard. A good one.” He raised the
dagger, then paused.
"Here, weakling. You’d like to use
this, wouldn’t you? But you lack the
will. That’s why you’re a mere
lackey.’” Abruptly, he threw the
weapon at Weron.
"Try it, fool. Try it, and see how
a real man protects himself.”
He stalked toward the steward.
The man cringed away, then,
pressed by his master, suddenly sob-
bed with rage. He raised the dagger.
Bel Menstal, protected by his body
shield, brushed the stroke aside.
"Ha!” He snatched the weapon.
"You would try it?”
Weron threw his arms before him,
trying to ward off the blows, then
slumped as the blade sank into his
flesh.
Bel Menstal struck the sagging
body a few more times with the
dagger, then threw the weapon on
top of the inert form.
"Ho, Guards,” he shouted, fling-
ing the door open.
He went back to his chair and
watched as the guards came in. In
obedience to his gesture, they car-
ried the one-time steward from the
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
room. The door closed, and Bel
Menstal was alone. Slowly, the
stimulation of the encounter faded,
and he shook his head.
It had been pleasant for a few
minutes, he thought, but he had
solved nothing.
Could it be that searchers from
his native land had at last found
him? He frowned. No, they would-
n’t use some devious method, even
supposing they could find some way
of corrupting his household. They
would simply expose him and accuse
him before the Duke. They'd storm
his castle if necessary, to take him by
force. This was something else. He
would have to think. He put his el-
bows on the table, cupping his face
in his hands.
The great market square at Orie-
ano was crowded. Colorful tents hid
most of the cobblestones, and the
rest of the pavement was obscured
from view by the droves of people.
Merchants and their assistants hov-
ered about, each endeavoring to out-
do the rest in enticing the swarming
crowd into his tent. Jugglers and
mountebanks competed for attention,
outdoing even themselves in their
efforts to gain the ears, the eyes, and
the coins of the mob of bargain hunt-
ers.
At one side of the square, the
cattle mart was drawing many, who
listened to the noise of the beasts
and the shouts of the vendors. Some
paused to bargain. Others simply
strode about, still looking for the
things they had come to seek out.
Here and there, a cutpurse slunk
through the crowd, seeking his own
type of bargain — an unwary victim.
The Duke of Dwerostcl rode into
the market, conscious of a buzz which
rose to a loud hum. The bellowing
of beasts, the cries of vendors, the
scuffling of many feet, all blended
into one great sound — the voice of
the fair.
The Duke listened contentedly.
Here, he thought, was activity. Here,
his chamberlain would find the
things he had been ordered to get
that the comfort of the castle might
be furthered. And here was a cer-
tainty of tolls and taxes, which
would enrich the duchy.
He continued at the head of his
retinue, through the center of the
square. Time enough to take close
note of the market later. Now, he
wished to get to the castle of Orie-
ano, where he would take refresh-
ment after his trip.
He looked up at the heights above
the town. Pennants were flying from
the stone battlements. And he could
see the tiny figures of tire guard. His
presence in the town had certainly
been noted. He rode to the other side
of the square, and led his company
up the steep, winding road to the
castle’s town gate.
The sentries grounded their
pikes and stood rigidly as the ducal
escort rode through the gate, the
pennons on their lances flying with
the breeze of their passage. The du-
cal party swept through the outer
ward, through the inner wall, and
came to a halt before the keep.
MILLENNIUM
39
The Baron of Orieano waited be-
fore his keep. He came forward,
bowing low before his liege, then
steadied a stirrup as the Duke dis-
mounted. He waved toward the din-
ning hall.
"Your Exceliency v/i!l grace us
■with his presence at meat?”
The Duke gestured to a page, who
took the charger’s reins to guide the
beast away.
"It woiild be pleasing to us,” he
said.
He nodded graciously and fol-
lowed his vassal into the hall. He
nodded in approval at the long
tables, waited until the clanging of
the welcoming salu e subsided, and
went to the elevated table set for his
use and that of his Baron.
He sat down, looking over the
company. A glint of gold caught his
eye, and he looked curiously at two
men who sat a little way down the
table.
These two w^ere elegantly turned
out, their long cloaks thrown back
to expose richly embroidered cloth.
The Duke examined them closely.
Obviously, here w'as one of the great
‘western nobles, with an almost
equally noble companion. The golden
circlet proclaimed the identity of one,
and the proud bearing and rich dress
of both confirmed their station.
Somehow, the Duke thought, these
two presented a far more imposing
appearance than his vassal, the
Baron Bel Menstal, despite that
Baron’s overwhelming personality.
He thought of his hard fighting
border protector. Of course, he had
40
far to come, and the way through
the mountains could be difficult. But
it was a little strange he was not yet
here.
The Duke remembered some of
the resentful gazes he had noted dur-
ing his passage through the fair. He
must have words, he decided, with
Bel Menstal. Possibly the man w'as
a little too eager to collect his road
and river taxes. Possibly this hard
man of his w'as too hard, too grasp-
ing. Of course, he held a valuable
bastion against the tribes of the
Ajencal, but —
He shrugged away his thoughts
and devoted his attention to the
dishes before him.
As the Duke took up his food, the
waiting company commenced reach-
ing for dishes. Konar turned toward
Meinora v/ith a slight smile.
"Got ’em well trained, haen’ I be?"
"That he has. Another note for
our cultural information.”
"When do you want me to talk to
him?”
"After he’s finished his main
courses a7id got a few cups of ivine
in ITnn. Our boy’ll be delayed for a
while, you know’. W e’ve plenty of
time to let Orieano fll the Duke in
before Bel Menstal arrives.”
Klion Meinora turned his atten-
tion to the trencher before him for
a moment, then looked toward his
companion again.
"Notice the girl sitting by the
Baron?”
"You mean Orieano’ s daughter?”
"Precisely. Don’t give her any
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
cause for fear. Don't ei'en make a
sudden move it! her presence.”
''You me.iu —
"I do. She could Isecome Lady
Death, if she got frightened.”
Koiiar looked toward the elevated
table. The girl looked harmle.ss
enough. She was slender, attractive,
even delicate looking. But he re-
membered a horror-distorted face, a
mind-shattering scream, and a blind-
ing Hash of light. He shuddered a
little and turned his attention to his
food.
Florcl Bel Menstal strode into the
hall, looking toward the table head.
The Duke, he noted, was still at
table, though he had finished his
meal. Now, he was engaged in earn-
est conversation with Orieano.
This, Bel Menstal thought, must
be checked. Haughtily ignoring the
rest of the company, he paced to the
head of the table, where he made
perfunctory obeisance.
"Your Excellency,” he greeted. He
straightened. 'T offer my apologies
for my late appearance. My men had
to clear a slide from the way.” He
turned toward Orieano.
"You would do well to instruct
your serfs in the art of road build-
ing. Their work seems slack."
He faced the Duke again. The
ocerlord set his cup down.
"Bel Menstal,” he said gravely,
"two nobles of your former land
have come to me to present serious
accusations.” He rose. "You will ac-
company me to the chambers.”
Bel Menstal hesitated. His men
were outside the castle, of course. It
was against etiquette to bring them
MILLENNIUM
41
inside, especially when the Duke was
present. But there were plenty of
them. Possibly he should fight his
way out of here now. Once in his
hilltop castle, he would be impreg-
nable. And his raiding parties could
keep the barony in supplies. Or pos-
sibly it would be better to —
He forced his panic down. After
all, what could these two do? There
could be little evidence they could
offer. Well over twenty years had
passed. He had adopted the ways of
the land. Now, he was one of the
Duke’s powerful arms. And what
could they give to offset that?
Here was no cause for fear. He
. could bluff his way out of this accu-
sation, discredit the searchers, and
make his position permanently se-
cure. Possibly it was even better this
way. He looked scornfully at the two
men who moved toward him.
They were dressed in the ornate
court dress of the Western Empire,
he saw. Unquestionably, these were
genuine men of the west. But he was
now of the east. And here, he had
established himself, and would soon
establish himself more firmly, while
they were mere foreigners. When it
came to it, the Duke would hardly
dare be too critical of him. Confi-
dently, he pushed his way past the
nearer of the two westerners, to fol-
low the Duke to the audience cham-
ber.
As the Duke faced about, one of
the newcomers stepped forward.
"There is the man. Excellency,”
he said positively. "Here is no man
of noble birth. This man is a serf —
a mere scullery boy — who murdered
his noble master to steal his insignia.
We have searched for many years,
for his crime was so monstrous that
no effort could be too great to bring
him to justice.” He faced Bel Men-
stal.
"Flor, serf of Budorn,” he said
sternly, "your time of reckoning has
come. Hand over the stolen insignia.”
The Duke intervened.
"Aren’t we going a little fast?”
he asked mildly. "He claims to be a
younger son of the Earl of Kone-
war. Let him speak in his defense.”
The stranger nodded. "That we
learned. Excellency,” he admitted.
"And that is what led us to him,
for it is one of the great holes in his
story. We know of Konewar. True,
he had two sons, but the younger
was killed several years ago.” He
paused.
"There is a further bit of evidence
I might offer,” he added. "And I
feel sure that some study by your
chamberlain will bear me out.” He
pointed at the coronet worn by
Florel.
"That insignia of rank which this
man profanes is never given to other
than the rightful heir to a great
estate. And then, not until he suc-
ceeds to his title. No younger mem-
ber of any of our noble families has
ever been allowed the coronet or the
belt. Even many large landholders,
such as I, do not have them. Those
are reserved for the heads of the
great houses, and there are few of
them in existence. Certainly, no
western Earl would desert his hold-
42
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
ings to journey to far lands and to
take service with another, not even
one so highly placed as yourself.”
The Duke looked sharply at him,
then turned his gaze on his vassal.
"These words have the ring of
truth,” he said. "Can you answer
them? Have you perchance traded
upon our unfamiliarity with your
home country to misrepresent your
station?”
Flor looked around the room. Pos-
sibly there was still time to — Or
possibly he could still face these men
down. Only one of them wore a
coronet. He drew himself up arro-
gantly.
"These are cunning deceivers,” he
stated positively. "When I left Kone-
war, my father himself — ”
Meinora raised a hand threaten-
ingly. "Your father was never in
Konewar, Serf,” he said sternly.
"Your father still tends his master’s
fields in the hills of Budoris.”
Flor snatched his sword from its
sheath. This was the unprotected
one. He could be struck with the
sword, and perhaps in the confusion,
an escape would be possible.
"That is the last insult,” he
snarled. "I challenge you to combat,
to test whether you can support your
lies.”
"Nobles,” was the reply, "do not
fight with serfs. You should know
that. The great ones, like him,” Mei-
nora pointed at Konar, who stood
close to the Duke, "have no contact
with such as you. But I am here. And
when a serf becomes insolent, we
have ways of punishing him.”
Konar smiled a little, pointing a
small object as Meinora slipped his
own sword out.
Flor lunged furiously, and Meinora
stepped aside. The man had deter-
mination and fierce courage. But he
had never bothered to really learn
the use of his weapon. No need, of
course. He had never been compelled
to put up a defense. Not till now.
The hand weapon held by Konar
would destroy his invulnerability.
Meinora struck suddenly at Flor’s
hand with the flat of his blade, then
engaged the man’s sword with his
own, and twisted. The weapon clat-
tered to the floor and Flor stooped
to recover it.
The team chief laughed shortly,
bringing the flat of his blade down
in a resounding smack and Flor
straightened, involuntarily bringing
a hand to his outraged rear. Again,
the blade descended, bringing a spurt
of dust from his clothing. Flor twist-
ed, trying to escape, but his assailant
followed, swinging blow after full
armed blow with the flat of his sword.
He worked with cool skill.
It seemed to Flor that the punish-
ing steel came from all directions, to
strike him at will. Blows fell on his
back, his legs, even his face, and he
cringed away, trying desperately to
escape the stinging pain. Under the
smarting blows, he remembered pre-
vious whippings, administered by a
strong-armed kitchen master, and he
seemed to smell the stench of the
scullery once more. Suddenly, he
sank to his knees in surrender.
"Please, Master. No more, please.”
MILLENNIUM
43
He raised his hands, palms together,
and looked up pleadingly.
The Duke looked down in horri-
fied disgust.
"And this, I accepted. This, I
made a Baron of my realm.’’ He
transferred his gaze to Konar. Sud-
denly, he looked feeble and humbly
supplicant.
Flor sniffled audibly.
"I know you have come a long
way,” the Duke said, "but I would
ask of you a favor. I would deal with
this miscreant. Your injury is old. It
has been partially healed by time, and
it does not involve honor so deeply
as does my own.” He shook his head.
"I have abandoned the dignity of
my station, and the injury is fresh
and must continue unless I act to re-
pair it.”
Konar nodded graciously. "Your
Excellency’s request is just,” he said.
"We but came' to reclaim the lost
insignia of Budorn.” He stepped
forward, taking the circlet from
Flor’s head. Two guards seized the
prisoner, and Konar tore the belt
from the man’s waist.
"This insigne must be remount-
ed,” he said. "The belt has been dis-
honored for too long.” He broke the
fastenings holding the body shield*
to the leather, and threw the heavy
strap back at Flor.
"We are deeply indebted to you.
Excellency,” he added, turning to the
Duke. "If it is your will, we shall
remain only for the execution, then
rtUirn to our own land.”
The Duke sighed. "It is well.” He
nodded at the guards. "Remove him,”
he ordered. "An execution will be
held at daybreak.”
"Fery good, Konar. You handled
that beautifully.”
"T. hanks, Chief. What’s next?”
”Just keep the Duke busy with
bright conversation. Buck up his
spirits a bit. The old boy's had a
nasty shock, and unfortunately, he’s
due for another one. Too bad, but
It’s for the best. I’ll take it from
here.”
Diners looked up curiously as the
two guards led Flor through the hall
to the outer door. A few rose and
followed as the three men went past
the sentries at the. portal, and came
out into the sunshine of the inner
ward. Across the cobblestones was
the narrow entrance to the dungeon.
Flor looked around despairingly.
His charger stood, waiting for the
rider, who would never again — Or
would he.^
He remembered that he was still
carrying the heavy belt that had been
so contemptuously flung at him.
When the strap had been thrown, he
had flung a hand up to protect his
already aching face. He had caught
and held the belt, and no one had
thought to take it from him.
He suddenly swerved his thick
shoulders, swinging the heavy strap
at the eyes of one of his guards. With
a cry of pain, the man covered his
face, and Flor spun, to swing the
strap at the other guard. Before the
two men could recover, he dashed
to the side of his mount, swung into
44
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
the saddle, and urged the beast into
motion.
The wall was low on this side, but
Flor remembered it towered high
above the dry moat. And across that
moat were the woods, where his men
waited. He urged the beast to full
speed, forcing the animal to the top
of the wall and over.
For an almost endless instant, time
seemed to stop. The barren moat and
green weeds floated beneath him, and
the only reminder of his rapid drop
was the air, which whistled past his
cars. Suddenly, motion was restored
again, and they lit with a jarring
crash, just at the lip of the moat.
With a cry of agony, the charger
pitched forward, pawing at the
stones that had smashed his chest,
and throwing his rider over his head.
Flor managed to land uninjured. He
picked himself up and ran to the
edge of the forest before he stopped
to look back.
Heads were appearing atop the
wall. At the edge of the moat, the
charger struggled vainly, then drop-
ped from sight. Flor waved defiantly
at the growing crowd which stared
from the high wall.
"The Duke hangs nobody,” he
shouted, "unle.ss he can catch and
hold him.” He turned, to make his
way through the trees.
"In fact,” he added to himself, "I
may yet return to hang the Duke.”
He went to the meadow where his
escort was encamped.
"We have been betrayed,” he
shouted. "The Duke plots with the
merchants to destroy Bel Menstal and
MILLENNIUM
hang his men. Break camp ! We must
gather the forces of the barony.”
Baron Bel Orieano looked wor-
ried.
"The Duke has sent couriers,” he
said, "to gather the fighting men of
the duchy. But it will be a long, hard
struggle. The serf has gained the
hills of Menstal. He has raised his
men, and has dared to attack. Some
say he has enlisted those very hill
tribes, from whose depredations he
sw'ore to defend the duchy, and even
has them serving under his banner.”
He looked at Meinora and Konar.
"The roads of the duchy are no
longer safe. Raiding parties appear
at every wooded stretch. Nor can we
even be certain that the couriers have
gotten through to Dweros.” He shook
his head.
"I, of course, am loyal to the Duke.
But my forces are few. My barony
has been a peaceful community, hav-
ing little need for arms.”
Meinora smiled encouragingly.
"Yet there are fighters here,” he
said, "and in plenty.”
The Baron looked at him curious-
ly. "Where? I have no knowledge of
such.”
Konar leaned forward. "If you
can help us get the Duke’s approval,
we can raise an army which ten Bei
Menstals would fail to withstand.”
"The Duke’s approval?”
"Certainly.” Konar waved his
hand. "Look over your walls, Exce.l-
lency. You have burghers. There arc
armorers, merchants, with their
caravan guards, artisans, even peas-
45
ants. Here, today, are gathered more
able-bodied men than Bel Menstal
could raise, were he to search out
and impress all the hill tribes.”
"But, to arm these Commoners?
And would they fight?”
"To be sure. Given reason, they
will fight like madmen.”
Meinora leaned forward, speaking
rapidly. "For long years, they have
suffered from the road and river
taxes of Bel Menstal, as well as from
the insults and blows of his officers.
Many of them have been imprisoned,
and held for ruinous ransom. Others
have been tortured and killed. Under
the serf, they would suffer additional
taxes, until they were driven from
the land, or themselves reduced to
serfdom and even slavery.” He
waved at the town.
"Caravans would be halted and
stripped of both goods and coin. All
this, he has done before, but on no
such scale as he would were restrain-
ing hands removed.” Meinora spread
his hands.
"The Duke has only to promise,
under his solemn oath, to rid the
land of robbers, to allow the mer-
chants and artisans to police the land,
and to form those guilds and associa-
tions which they have long petitioned
for their own protection. For these
things, they will fight.”
The Baron leaned back in his chair.
He had heard some of these argu-
ments before, but had ignored them,
thinking that they were mere special
pleading from interested merchants.
Now, they were being presented by
men of his own station.
46
And the situation was urgent.
Drastic measures were necessary. Un-
der the gaze of the two, he felt a
change of thought. The whole thing
was possible, of course, and it might
be that trade, uninterrupted by rob-
ber depredation, would provide great-
er taxes than before.
Finally, he rose to his feet.
"Come,” he said, "we will seek au-
dience with the Duke and put this
matter before him.”
"Well, that’s part of the job.”
Klion Meinora twisted in his seat
and craned his neck to look at the
green fields spread out beneath the
flier.
"It worked out almost exactly as
you explained it, Chief.” Konar look-
ed 'curiously at his instructor. "But
I missed a couple of steps some-
where.”
"It followed from the culture pat-
tern.” Meinora raised an eyebrow.
"You saw the reaction of the Duke
when he realized that Flor was ac-
tually a serf?”
"Sure. He was so horrified, he was
sick.”
"But did you think of the reaction
of the townsmen and peasants?”
"You mean they’d feel the same
way?”
"Sure. Most of them did. These
people have been ingrained with a
firm belief in their mode of living.
They regard it as right and proper.
And the murder and robbery of a
noble by a serf is just as serious in
the eyes of serfs and freemen as it is
to the nobles. No serf in his right
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
mind would even think of raising a
hand against a noble, not even in
self-defense. Catch?”
Konar leaned back. "Oh, brother,”
he murmured. "I can just see what
happened when Flor’s real status fi-
nally penetrated the minds of his
own men.”
"You’re probably right, too. And
with no body shield to supplement
his rather awkward swordsmanship,
FI or was fresh meat for the first real
fighting man that stood up to him.”
Mcinora shook his head.
"His was a hopelessly twisted men-
tality, and there was no possibility of
salvage.”
"I know. They have a few of his
type in the wards at Aldcbaran.”
Konar shrugged hopelessly. "Thera-
pists just fold their hands when they
sec ’em.”
"They do that. People like Flor
are just pure ferocity. Oh, sometimes,
th.ey're cunning, even talented. But
there's no higher mentality to de-
velop — not a trace of empathy. And
you can’t work with something that’s
completely missing. Good thing they
arc cjuite rare.”
"I should say so,” agreed Konar.
"A very good thing.” He looked out
ocer the liclds. "His influence lasted
for a while, too.”
"It did. He’d conditioned his peo-
ple to a certain extent. Just as I ex-
pected, it took some time to persuade
that gang to stop their depredations,
and it had to be done the hard way.
But the merchants were willing, and
that’s what it took.” Meinora brush-
ed a hand over his hair. He knew
how the rest of this story went — -
"It’ll take ’em some time to get
used to their new charters, but the
roots of the guilds are formed. And
they did some fighting and learned
their powers. It’ll take a lot to make
’em go back to the old routine. The
Duke’ll never try it, and his succes-
sors won’t be able to. Anyone who
tries to conquer that bunch of wild-
cats’ll have a tough job, and he’ll get
really hurt. It’ll spread, too. Mer-
chants and artisans in the next
duchy’ll get the idea. And then the
next, and the next. Freedom’s a con-
tagious thing.”
Klion Mcinora studied the ter-
rain, then turned back.
"It’s going to be a tough planet
for a long time,” he said thought-
fully. "A tough, brawling planet.
They’ll fight for everything they get,
and sometimes for just the love of
fighting. The pcojile who come from
here will be something to deal with.
But they'll knock their own rough
edges off. No, they won’t be sav-
ages.”
THii ItND
MILLENNIUM
47
ALLAMAGOOSA
BY ERIC FRANK RUSBELl
Just what it was, they weren’t
quite sure, but they knew it
had to be there; the Bureau’s
Inventory said so. And the
consequences of its “accident-
al” destruction were most as-
tonishing . . .
Illustrated by Freas
It was a long time since the Bus-
tler had been so silent. She lay in the
Sirian spaceport, her tubes cold, her
shell particle-scarred, her air that of
a long-distance runner exhausted at
the end of a marathon. There was
good reason for this: she had re-
turned from a lengthy trip by no
means devoid of troubles.
Now, in port, well-deserved rest
had been gained if only temporarily.
Peace, sweet peace. No more bothers,
no more crises, no more major up-
sets, no more dire predicaments such
as crop up in free flight at least
twice a day. Just peace.
Hah!
Captain McNaught reposed in his
48
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
cabin, feet up on desk, and enjoyed
the relaxation to the utmost. The
engines were dead, their hellish
pounding absent for the first time in
months. Out there in the big city
four hundred of his crew were mak-
ing whoopee under a brilliant sun.
This evening, when First Officer
Gregory returned to take charge, he
was going to go into the fragrant
twilight and make the rounds of
neon-lit civilization.
That was the beauty of making
landfall at long last. Men could give
way to themselves, blow off surplus
steam, each according to his fashion.
No duties, no worries, no dangers,
no responsibilities in spaceport. A
haven of safety and comfort for tired
rovers.
Again, hah !
Burman, the chief radio officer,
entered the cabin. He was one of
the half-dozen remaining on duty and
bore the expression of a man who
can think of twenty better things
to do.
"Relayed signal just come in, sir.”
Handing the paper across he waited
for the other to look at it and per-
haps dictate a reply.
Taking the sheet, McNaught re-
moved the feet from his desk, sat
erect and read the message aloud.
Terran Headquarters to Bustler.
Remain Siriport pending further or-
ders. Rear Admiral Vane W . Cassidy
due there seventeenth. Feldman.
Navy Op. Command, Sirisec.
He looked up, all happiness gone
from his leathery features, and
groaned.
"Something wrong?” asked Bur-
man, vaguely alarmed.
McNaught pointed at three thin
books on his desk. "The middle one.
Page twenty.”
Leafing through it, Burman found
an item that said: Vane W. Cassidy,
R-Ad. Head Inspector Ships and
Stores.
Burman swallowed hard. "Does
that mean — ?”
"Yes, it does,” said McNaught
without pleasure. "Back to training-
college and all its rigmarole. Paint
and soap, spit and polish.” He put
on an officious expression, adopted
a voice to match it. "Captain, you
have only seven ninety-nine emer-
gency rations. Your allocation is
eight hundred. Nothing in your log-
book accounts for the missing one.
Where is it? What happened to it?
How is it that one of the men’s kit
lacks an officially issued pair of sus-
penders? Did you report his loss?”
"Why does he pick on us?” asked
Burman, appalled. "He’s never chiv-
vied us before.”
"That’s why,” informed Mc-
Naught, scowling at the wall. "It’s
our turn to be stretched across the
barrel.” His gaze found the calen-
dar. "We have three days — and we’ll
need ’em! Tell Second Officer Pike
to come here at once.”
Burman departed gloomily. In
short time Pike entered. His face
reaffirmed the old adage that bad
news travels fast.
"Make out an indent,” ordered
McNaught, "for one hundred gal-
lons of plastic paint. Navy-gray", ap-
ALLAMAGOOSA
49
proved quality. Make out another for
thirty gallons of interior white
enamel. Take them to spaceport
Stores right away. Tell them to de-
liver by six this evening along with
our correct issue of brushes and
sprayers. Grab up any cleaning mate-
rial that’s going for free.”
"The men won’t like this,” re-
marked Pike, feebly.
''They’re going to love it,” Mc-
Naught asserted. "A bright and
shiny ship, all spic and span, is good
for morale. It says so in that book.
Get moving and put those indents
in. When you come back, find the
stores and equipment sheets and
bring them here. We’ve got to check
stocks before Cassidy arrives. Once
he’s here we’ll have no chance to
make up shortages or smuggle out
any extra items we happened to find
in our hands.”
"Very well, sir.” Pike went out
wearing the same expression as Bur-
man’s.
Lying back in his chair McNaught
muttered to himself. There was a
feeling in his bones that something
was sure to cause a last-minute
ruckus. A shortage of any item would
be serious enough unless covered by
a previous report. A surplus would
be bad, very bad. The former im-
plied carelessness or misfortune. The
latter suggested barefaced theft of
government property in circum-
stances condoned by the commander.
For instance, there was that recent
case of Williams of the heavy cruiser
Swift. He’d heard of it over the
50
spacevine when out around Bootes.
Williams had been found in unwit-
ting command of eleven reels of
electric-fence wire when his official
issue was ten. It had taken a court-
martial to decide that the extra reel
— which had formidable barter-value
on a certain planet — had not been
stolen from space-stores or, in sailor
jargon, "teleportated aboard.” But
Williams had been reprimanded.
And that did not help promotion.
He was still rumbling discontent-
edly when Pike returned bearing a
folder of foolscap sheets.
"Going to start right away, sir.^”
"We’ll have to.” He heaved him-
self erect, mentally bidded good-by
to time off and a taste of the bright
lights. "It’ll take long enough to
work right through from bow to tail.
I’ll leave the men’s kit inspection to
the last.”
Marching out of the cabin, he set
forth toward the bow, Pike follow-
ing with broody reluctance.
As they passed the open main lock
Peaslake observed them, bounded
eagerly up the gangway and joined
behind. A pukka member of the
crew, he was a large dog whose an-
cestors had been more enthusiastic
than selective. He wore with pride a
big collar inscribed: Peaslake —
Property of S. S. Bustler. His chief
duties, ably performed, were to keep
alien rodents off the ship and, on
rare occasions, smell out dangers not
visible to human eyes.
The three paraded forward, Mc-
Naught and Pike in the manner of
men grimly sacrificing pleasure for
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
the sake of duty, Peaslake with the
panting willingness of one ready for
any new game no matter what.
Reaching the bow-cabin, Mc-
Naught dumped himself in the pi-
lot’s seat, took the folder from the
other. "You know this stuff better
than me — the chart room is where I
shine. So I’ll read them out while
you look them over.” He opened the
folder, started on the first page.
”Kl. Beam compass, type D, one
of.”
"Check,” said Pike.
"K2. Distance and direction indi-
cator, electronic, type JJ, one of.”
"Check.”
"K3. Port and starboard gravitic
meters, Casini models, one pair.”
"Check.”
Peaslake planted his head in Mc-
Naught’s lap, blinked soulfully and
whined. He was beginning to get
the others’ viewpoint. This tedious
itemizing and checking was a hell of
a game. McNaught consolingly low-
ered a hand and played with Pea-
slake’s ears while he ploughed his
way down the list.
"K187. Foam rubber cushions,
pilot and co-pilot, one pair.”
"Check.”
By the time First Officer Gregory
appeared they had reached the tiny
intercom cubby and poked around
it in semidarkness. Peaslake had
long departed in disgust.
"M24. Spare minispeakers, three
inch, type T2, one set of six.”
"Check.”
Looking in, Gregory popped his
eyes and said, "What’s going on?"
"Major inspection due soon.” Mc-
Naught glanced at his watch. "Go
see if stores has delivered a load and
if not why not. Then you’d better
give me a hand and let Pike take a
few hours off.”
"Does this mean land-leave is can-
celed.^”
"You bet it does — until after Hiz-
onner has been and gone.” He
glanced at Pike. "When you get into
the city search around and send back
any of the crew you can find. No
arguments or excuses. Also no alibis
and/or delays. It’s an order.”
Pike registered unhappiness. Greg-
ory glowered at him, went away,
came back and said, "Stores will
have the stuff here in twenty min-
utes’ time.” With bad grace he
watched Pike depart.
"M47. Intercom cable, woven-wire
protected, three drums.”
"Check,” said Gregory, mentally
kicking himself for returning at the
wrong time.
The task continued until late in
the evening, was resumed early next
morning. By that time three-quarters
of the men were hard at work inside
and outside the vessel, doing their
jobs as though sentenced to them
for crimes contemplated but not yet
committed.
Moving around the ship's corri-
dors and catwalks had to be done
crab- fashion, with a nervous side-
wise edging. Once again it was be-
ing demonstrated that the Terran
life form suffers from ye fear of
wette paynt. The first smearer would
51
ALLAMAGOOSA
have ten years willed off his unfor-
tunate life.
It was in these conditions, in mid-
afternoon of the second day, that
McNaught’s bones proved their
feelings had been prophetic. He re-
cited the ninth page while Jean
Blanchard confirmed the presence
and actual existence of all items
enumerated. Two-thirds of the way
down they hit the rocks, metaphori-
cally speaking, and commenced to
sink fast.
McNaught said boredly, "V1097.
Drinking bowl, enamel, one of.”
"Is zis,” said Blanchard, tapping
it.
"V1098. Offog, one.”
"Quoi?” asked Blanchard, staring.
"V1098. Offog, one,” repeated
McNaught. "Well, why are you
looking thunderstruck.^ This is the
ship’s galley. You’re the head cook.
You know what’s supposed to be in
the galley, don’t you? Where’s this
offog?”
"Never hear of heem,” stated
Blanchard, flatly.
"You must have. It’s on this
equipment-sheet in plain, clear type.
Offog, one, it says. It was here when
we were fitted-out four years ago.
We checked it ourselves and signed
for it.”
"I signed for nossings called
offog,” Blanchard denied. "In the
cuisine zere is no such sing.”
"Look!” McNaught scowled and
showed him the sheet.
Blanchard looked and sniffed dis-
dainfully. "I have here zee electronic
52
oven, one of. I have jacketed boilers,
graduated capacities, one set. I have
bain marie pans, seex of. But no
offog. Never heard of heem. I do
not know of heem.” He spread his
hands and shrugged. "No offog.”
"There’s got to be,” McNaught
insisted. "What’s more, when Cas-
sidy arrives there’ll be hell to pay if
there isn’t.”
"You find heem,” Blanchard sug-
gested.
"You got a certificate from the
International Hotels School of Cook-
ery. You got a certificate from the
Cordon Bleu College of Cuisine.
You got a certificate with three cred-
its from the Space-Navy Feeding
Center,” McNaught pointed out.
"All that — and you don’t know what
an offog is.”
"Nom d’un chien!” ejaculated
Blanchard, waving his arms around.
"I tell you ten t’ousand time zere is
no offog. Zere never was an offog.
Escoffier heemself could not find zee
offog of vich zere is none. Am I a
magician perhaps?”
"It’s part of the culinary equip-
ment,” McNaught maintained. "It
must be because it’s on page nine.
And page nine means its proper
home is in the galley, care of the
head cook.”
"Like hail it does,” Blanchard re-
torted, He pointed at a metal box on
the wall. "Intercom booster. Is zat
mine?”
McNaught thought it over, con-
ceded, "No, it’s Burman’s. His stuff
rambles all over the ship.”
"Zen ask heem for zis bloody
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
offog,” said Blanchard, trium-
phantly.
"I will. If it’s not yours it must
be his. Let’s finish this checking
first. If I’m not systematic and
thorough Cassidy will jerk off my
insignia.” His eyes sought the list.
"VIO99. Inscribed collar, leather,
brass studded, dog, for the use of.
No need to look for that. I saw it
myself five minutes ago.” He ticked
the item, continued, "VllOO. Sleep-
ing basket, woven reed, one of.”
"Is zis,” said Blanchard, kicking
it into a corner.
"VllOl. Cushion, foam rubber, to
fit sleeping basket, one of.”
"Half of,” Blanchard contradict-
ed. "In four years he has chewed
away other half.”
"Maybe Cassidy will let us indent
for a new one. It doesn’t matter.
We’re O. K. so long as we can pro-
duce the half we’ve got.” McNaught
stood up, closed the folder. "That’s
the lot for here. I’ll go see Burman
about this missing item.”
The inventory party moved on.
Burman switched off a UHF re-
ceiver, removed his earplugs and
raised a questioning eyebrow.
"In the galley we’re short
an offog,” explained McNaught.
"Where is it.^”
"Why ask me? The galley is
Blanchard’s bailiwick.”
"Not entirely. A lot of your cables
run through it. You’ve two terminal
boxes- in there, also an automatic
switch and an intercom booster.
Where’s the offog?”
"Never heard of it,” said Burman,
baffled.
McNaught shouted, "Don’t tell
me that! I’m already fed up hearing
Blanchard saying it. Four years back
we had an offog. It says so here.
This is our copy of what we checked
and signed for. It says we signed
for an offog. Therefore we must
have one. It’s got to be found before
Cassidy gets here.”
"Sorry, sir,” sympathized Bur-
man. "I can’t help you.”
"You can think again,” advised
McNaught. "Up in the bow there’s
a direction and distance indicator.
What do you call it?”
"A didin,” said Burman, mysti-
fied.
"And,” McNaught went on, point-
ing at the pulse transmitter, "what
do you call that?”
"The opper-popper.”
"Baby names, see? Didin and op-
per-popper. Now rack your brains
and remember what you called an
offog four years ago.”
"Nothing,” asserted Burman, "has
ever been called an offog to my
knowledge.”
"Then,” demanded McNaught,
"why did we sign for one?”
"I didn’t sign for anything. You
did all the signing.”
"While you and others did the
checking. Four years ago, presum-
ably in the galley, I said, 'Offog.
one,’ and either you or Blanchard
pointed to it and said, 'Check.’ I
took somebody’s word for it. I have
to take other specialists’ words for
it. I am an expert navigator, familiar
ALLAMAGOOSA
53
with all the latest navigational
gadgets but not with other stuff. So
I’m compelled to rely on people who
know what an offog is — or ought
to.”
Burman had a bright thought.
"All kinds of oddments were dump-
ed in the main lock, the corridors
and the galley when we were fitted-
out. We had to sort through a deal
of stuff and stash it where it prop-
erly belonged, remember? This
offog-thing might be any place today.
It isn’t necessarily my responsibility
or Blanchard’s.”
'Til see what the other officers
say,” agreed McNaught, conceding
the point. "Gregory, Worth, Sander-
son or one of the others may be
coddling the item. Wherever it is, it’s
got to be found. Or accounted for in
full if it’s been expended.”
He went out. Burman pulled a
face, inserted his earplugs, resumed
fiddling with his apparatus. An hour
later McNaught came back wearing
a scowl.
"Positively,” he announced with
ire, "there is no such thing on the
ship. Nobody knows of it. Nobody
can so much as guess at it.”
"Cross it off and report it lost,”
Burman suggested.
"What, when we’re hard aground?
You know as well as I do that loss
and damage must be signaled at
time of occurrence. If I tell Cassidy
the offog went west in space, he’ll
want to know when, where, how and
why it wasn’t signaled. There’ll be
a real ruckus if the contraption hap-
pens to be valued at half a million
54
credits. I can’t dismiss it with an
airy wave of the hand.”
"What’s the answer then?” in-
quired Burman, innocently ambling
straight into the trap.
"There’s one and only one,” Mc-
Naught announced. "You will manu-
facture an offog.”
"Who? Me?” said Burman,
twitching his scalp.
"You and no other. I’m fairly
sure the thing is your pigeon, any-
way.”
"Why?”
"Because it’s typical of the baby-
names used for your kind of stuff.
I’ll bet a month’s pay that an offog
is some sort of scientific allamagoosa.
Something to do with fog, perhaps.
Maybe a blind-approach gadget.”
"The blind-approach transceiver is
called 'the fumbly,’ ” Burman in-
formed.
"There you are!” said McNaught
as if that clinched it. "So you will
make an offog. It will be completed
by six tomorrow evening and ready
for my inspection then. It had better
be convincing, in fact pleasing. In
fact its function will be convincing.”
Burman stood up, let his hands
dangle, and said in hoarse tones,
"How can I make an offog when I
don’t even know what it is?”
"Neither does Cassidy know,” Mc-
Naught pointed out, leering at him.
"He's more of a quantity surveyor
than anything else. As such he counts
things, looks at things, certifies that
they exist, accepts advice on whether
they are functionally satisfactory or
worn out. All we need do is concoct
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
an imposing allamagoosa and tell
him it’s the offog.”
"Holy Moses!” said Burman,
fervently.
"Let us not rely on the dubious
assistance of Biblical characters,”
McNaught reproved. "Let us use the
brains that God has given us. Get a
grip on your soldering-iron and make
a topnotch offog by six tomorrow
evening. That’s an order!”
He departed, satisfied with this
solution. Behind him, Burman
gloomed at the wall and licked his
lips once, twice.
Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy
arrived right on time. He was a
short, paunchy character with a
florid complexion and eyes like those
of a long-dead fish. His gait was an
important strut.
"Ah, captain, I trust that you
have everything shipshape.”
"Everything usually is,” assured
McNaught, glibly. "I see to that.”
He spoke with conviction.
"Good!” approved Cassidy. "I
like a commander who takes his re-
sponsibilities seriously. Much as I
regret saying so, there are a few
who do not.” He marched through
the main lock, his cod-eyes taking
note of the fresh white enamel.
"Where do you prefer to start, bow
or tail.^”
"My equipment-sheets run from
bow backward. We may as well deal
with them the way they’re set.”
"Very well.” He trotted officious-
ly toward the nose, paused on the
way to pat Pcaslake and examine his
collar. "Well cared-for, I see. i^as
the animal proved useful?”
"He saved five lives on Mardia
by barking a warning.”
"The details have been entered in
your log, I suppose?”
"Yes, sir. The log is in the chart
room awaiting your inspection.”
"We’ll get to it in due time.”
Reaching the bow-cabin, Cassidy
took a seat, accepted the folder from
McNaught, started off at businesslike
pace. "Kl. Beam compass, type D,
one of.”
"This is it, sir,” said McNaught,
showing him.
"Still working properly?”
"Yes, sir.”
They carried on, reached the in-
tercom-cubby, the computor room, a
succession of other places back to
the galley. Here, Blanchard posed in
freshly laundered white clothes and
eyed the newcomer warily.
"Vl47. Electronic oven, one of.”
"Is 2 is,” said Blanchard, pointing
with disdain.
"Satisfactory?” inquired Cassidy,
giving him the fishy-eye.
"Not beeg enough,” declared
Blanchard. He encompassed the en-
tire galley wTth an expressive ges-
ture. "Nossings beeg enough. Place
too small. Everysings too small. I am
chef de cuisine an’ she is a cuisine
like an attic.”
"This is a warship, not a luxury
liner,” Cassidy snapped. He frowned
at the equipment-sheet. "Vl48. Tim-
ing device, electronic oven, attach-
ment thereto, one of.”
"Is zis,” spat Blanchard, ready to
55
ALLAMAGOOSA
sling it through the nearest port if
Cassidy would first donate the two
pins.
Working his way down the sheet,
Cassidy got nearer and nearer while
nervous tension built up. Then he
reached the critical point and said,
"V1098. Offog, one.”
” Morbleau!” said Blanchard,
shooting sparks from his eyes, ”I
have say before an’ I say again, zere
never was — ”
"The offog is in the radio room,
sir,” McNaught chipped in hur-
riedly.
"Indeed?” Cassidy took another
look at the sheet. "Then why is it
recorded along with galley equip-
ment?”
"It was placed in the galley at
time of fitting-out, sir. It’s one of
those portable instruments left to
us to fix up where most suitable.”
"Hm-m-m! Then it should have
been transferred to the radio room
list. Why didn’t you transfer it?”
"I thought it better to wait for
your authority to do so, sir."
The fish-eyes registered gratifica-
tion. "Yes, that is quite proper of
you, captain. I will transfer it now.”
He crossed the’ item from sheet nine,
initialed it, entered it on sheet six-
teen, initialed that. "'V1099. Inscrib-
ed collar, leather . . oh, yes. I’ve
seen that. The dog was wearing it.”
He ticked it. An hour later he
strutted into the radio room. Burman
stood up, squared his shoulders but
could not keep his feet or hands
from fidgeting. His eyes protruded
slightly and kept straying toward
56
McNaught in silent appeal. He was
like a man wearing a porcupine in
his britches.
"V1098. Offog, one,” said Cas-
sidy in his usual tone of brooking
no nonsense.
Moving with the jerkincss of a
slightly uncoordinated robot, Burman
pawed a small box fronted with dials,
switches and colored lights. It look-
ed like a radio ham’s idea of a fruit
machine. He knocked down a couple
of switches. The lights came on,
played around in intriguing com-
binations.
"This is it, sir,” he informed with
difficulty.
"Ah!” Cassidy left his chair and
moved across for a closer look. "I
don’t recall having seen this item be-
fore. But there are so many different
models of the same things. Is it still
operating efficiently?”
"Yes, sir.”
"It’s one of the most useful things
in the ship,” contributed McNaught,
for good measure.
"What does it do?” inquired Cas-
sidy, inviting Burman to cast a pearl
of wisdom before him.
Burman paled.
Hastily, McNaught said, "A full
explanation would be rather involved
and technical but, to put it as simply
as possible, it enables us to strike a
balance between opposing gravita-
tional fields. Variations in lights in-
dicate the extent and degree of
unbalance at any given time.”
"It’s a clever idea,” added Bur-
man, made suddenly reckless by this
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
news, "based upon Finagle’s Con-
stant.”
"I see,” said Cassidy, not seeing
at all. He lesumed his seat, ticked
the offog and carried 'On. "Z44.
Switchboard, automatic, forty-line
intercom, one of.”
"Here it is, sir.”
Cassidy glanced at it, returned his
gaze to the sheet. The others used
his momentary distraction to mop
perspiration from their foreheads.
Victory had been gained.
All was well.
For the third time, hah!
Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy
departed pleased and complimentary.
Within one hour the crew bolted to
town. McNaught took turns with
Gregory at enjoying the gay lights
For the next five days all was peace
and pleasure.
On the sixth day Burman brought
in a signal, dumped it upon Mc-
Naught’s desk and waited for the re-
action. He had an air of gratification,
the pleasure of one whose virtue is
about to be rewarded.
Teyran Headquarters to Bustler.
Return here immediately for over-
haul and refuting. Improved power
plant to be installed. Feldman. Navy
Op. Command. Sirisec.
"Back to Terra,” commented Mc-
Naught, happily. "And an overhaul
will mean at least one month’s
leave.” He eyed Burman. "Tell all
officers on duty to go to town at
once and order the crew aboard. The
men will come running when they
know why.”
"Yes, sir,” said Burman, grinning.
Everyone was still grinning two
weeks later when the Siriport had
receded far behind and Sol had
grown to a vague speck in the spar-
kling mist of the bow starfield.
Eleven weeks still to go, but it was
worth it. Back to Terra. Hurrah !
In the captain’s cabin the grins
abruptly vanished one evening when
Burman suddenly developed the wil-
lies. He marched in, chewed his
bottom lip while waiting for Mc-
Naught to finish writing in the log.
Finally, McNaught pushed the
book away, glanced up, frowned.
"What’s the matter with you.^ Got a
bellyache or something.^”
' "No, sir. I’ve been thinking.”
"Does it hurt that much.^”
"I’ve been thinking,” persisted
Burman in funereal tones. "We’re
going back for overhaul. You know
what that means We’ll walk off the
ship and a horde of experts will
walk onto it.” He stared tragically
at the other. "Experts, I said.”
"Naturally they’ll be experts,”
McNaught agreed. "Equipment can-
not be tested and brought up to
scratch by a bunch of dopes.”
"It will require more than a mere
expert to bring the offog up to
scratch,” Burman pointed out. "It’ll
need a genius.”
McNaught rocked back, swapped
expressions like changing masks.
"Jumping Judas! I’d forgotten all
about that thing. When we get to
Terra we won’t blind those boys
with science.”
"No, sir, we won’t,” endorsed
57
ALLAMAGOOSA
Burman. He did not add "any more’’
but his face shouted aloud, "You
got me into this. You get me out
of it.’’ He waited a time while Mc-
Naught did some intense thinking,
then prompted, "What do you sug-
gest, sir?’’
Slowly the satisfied smile returned
to McNaught’s features as he an-
swered, "Break up the contraption
and feed it into the disintegrator.’’
"That doesn’t solve the problem,’’
said Burman. "We’ll still be short
an offog.’’
"No we won’t. Because I’m go-
ing to signal its loss owing to the
haz.irds of space-service.’’ He closed
one eye in an emphatic wink. "We’re
in free flight right now.’’ He reached
for a message-pad and scribbled on
it while Burman stood by vastly re-
lieved.
Bustler to Ternw Headquarters.
Ite'n VI 098, Offog one, came apart
under grav'itdl'ional stress u'hile pass-
ing through twin-sun field Hector
Afajor-Ai/nor. Aialerial used as fuel.
AlcNaught, Commander. Bustler.
Burman took it to the radio room
and beamed it Earthward. All was
peace and progress for another two
days. The next time he went to the
captain’s cabin he went running and
worried.
"General call, sir,” he announced
breathlessly and thrust the mess.ige
into the other’s hands.
Terran Headquarters for relay all
sectors. Urgent and Important. All
ships grounded forthivith. Vessels in
fdgbt under ojfcial orders will make
68
for nearest spaceport pending further
instructions. Welling. Alarm and
Rescue Command. Terra.
"Something’s gone bust,” com-
mented McNaught, undisturbed. He
traipsed to the chart room, Burman
following. Consulting the charts, he
dialed the intercom phone, got Pike
in the bow and ordered, "There’s a
panic. All ships grounded. We’ve got
to make for Zaxtedport, about three
days’ run away. Change course at
once. Starboard seventeen degrees,
declination ten.” Then he cut off,
griped, "Bang goes that sweet month
on Terra. I never did like Zaxted,
either. It stinks. The crew will feel
murderous about this and I don’t
blame them.”
"What d’you think has happened,
sir?” asked Burman. He looked both
uneasy and annoyed.
"Heaven alone knows. The last
general call was seven years ago
when the Starider exploded halfway
along the Mars run. They grounded
every ship in existence while they
investigated the cause.” He rubbed
his chin, pondered, went on, "And
the call before that one was when
the entire crew of the Blowgun went
nuts. Whatever it is this time, you
can bet it’s serious.”
"It wouldn’t be the start of a
space war?”
"Against whom?” McNaught
made a gesture of contempt. "No-
body has the ships with which to
oppose us. No, it’s something techni-
cal. We’ll learn of it eventually.
They’ll tell us before we reach Zax-
ted or soon afterward.”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
They did tell him. Within six
hours. Burman rushed in with face
full of horror.
"What’s eating you now?” de-
manded McNaught, staring at him.
"The offog,” stuttered Burman.
He made motions as though brush-
ing off invisible spiders.
"What of it?”
"It’s a typographical error. In
your copy it should read off. dog.”
The commander stared owlishly.
"Off. dog?” echoed McNaught,
making it sound like foul language.
"See for yourself.” Dumping the
signal on the desk, Burman bolted
out, left the door swinging. Mc-
Naught scowled after him, picked
up the message.
TerrM 2 Headquarters to Bustler.
Your report V109S, ship’s official
dog Peaslake. Detail fully circum-
stances and manner in ivinch animal
came apart under gravitational stress.
Cross-examine crew and signal all
coincidental symptoms experienced
by them. Urgent iind Important.
Welling. Alarm and Rescue Com-
mand. Terra.
In the privacy of his cabin Mc-
Naught commenced to eat his nails.
Every now and again he went a little
cross-eyed as he examined them for'
nearness to the flesh.
THE END
tN TIMES TO COME
Next issue, in addition to the third part of "The Long Way Home,” we
have a variety of items of interest. Isaac Asimov has done an article — but
not of his thiotimoline type. This one, called “The Sound of Panting” is
founded on sweat and tears (the blood went into his recent haemoglobin
item) — the problem of the textbook writer trying to write a textbook that
is up to date, at least at the time it reaches the printer. It’s an excellent
discussion of why not to try to be aware of all that’s going on in any field
of modern science !
Kelly Freas has done a cover for Everett B. Cole’s "The Final Weapon,”
depicting rather neatly the developments of weapons from the crudest club
to the most exquisitely refined modern weapon — the dossier. And Cole dis-
cusses the next step beyond that — the device that allows one man to read
another’s mind !
The Editor
ALLAMAGOOSA
69
1. A robot may not injure a hu-
It was guaranteed not to kill
anybody — wouldn’t harm a
hair of your head. Of course,
it did tend to turn you into a
mindless idiot — but it wouldn’t
man being, or, through inaction,
alloto a human being to come to
barm.
2. A robot must obey the orders
given it by human beings except
where such orders would conflict with
the First Law.
hurt you a bit. i- A robot must protect its own
existence as long as such protection
does not conflict with the First, or
BY ISAAC ASIMOV
Second Law.
Flandbook of Robotics
Hyper Base had lived for this day.
Illustrated by Freas Spaced about the gallery of the
viewing room, in order and preced-
ence strictly dictated by protocol,
60 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
was a group of officials, scientists,
technicians and others who could
only be lumped under the general
classification of "personnel.” In ac-
cordance with their separate tempera-
ments, they waited hopefully, un-
easily, breathlessly, eagerly, or fear-
fully for this culmination of their
efforts.
The hollowed interior of the
asteroid known as Hyper Base had
become for this day the center of
a sphere of iron security that extend-
ed out for ten thousand miles. No
ship might enter that sphere and
live. No message might leave with-
out scrutiny.
A hundred miles away, more or
less, a small asteroid moved neatly
in the orbit into which it had been
urged a year before, an orbit that
ringed Hyper Base in as perfect a
circle as could be managed. The
asteroidlet’s identity number was
H937, but no one on Hyper Base
called it anything but It. ("Were
you out on it, today?” "The general’s
on it, blowing his top,” and eventu-
ally the impersonal pronoun achieved
the dignity of capitalization.)
On It, unoccupied now' as zero-
second approached, evas the Parsec,
the only ship of its kind ever built
in the history of man. It lay, un-
manned, ready for its takeoff into
the inconceic able.
Gerald Black, who, as one of the
bright young men in ciherics engi-
neering, rated a front-row view,
cracked his large knuckles, then
wiped his sweating palms on his
stained white smock and said, sourly,
"Why don’t you bother the general,
or her Ladyship there?”
Nigel Ronson, of Interplanetary
Press, looked briefly across the gal-
lery toward the glitter of Major
General Richard Kallner and toward
the unremarkable woman at his side,
scarcely visible in the glare of his
dress uniform. He said, "I would,
except that I’m interested in news.”
Ronson was short and plump. He
painstakingly wore his hair in a
quarter-inch bristle, his shirt-collar
open, and his trouser-leg ankle-short,
in faithful imitation of the new'smen
stockly-characterized on the video
shows. He was a capable reporter
nevertheless.
Black was stocky and his dark
hairline left little room for forehead,
but his mind was as keen as his
strong fingers were blunt. He said,
"They’ve got all the new's.”
"Nuts,” said Ronson. "Kallner’s
got no body under that gold braid.
Strip him and you’ll find only a
conveyor-belt dribbling orders down-
W'ard and shooting responsibility up-
ward.”
Black found himself at the point
of a grin but squeezed it dow'n. He
said, "What about the Madam Doc-
tor?”
"Dr. Susan Calvin of LInited
States Robots & Mechanical Men,
Incorporated.” intoned the reporter.
"The lady with hyperspace where
her heart ought to be and liquid
helium in her eyes. She’d pass
through the sun and come out the
Other end encased in trozen flame.”
Black came even closer to a grin.
RISK
61
"How about Director Schloss, then?”
Ronson said, glibly, "He knows
too much. Between spending his
time fanning the feeble flicker of
intelligence in his listener, and dim-
ming his own brains for fear of
blinding said listener permanently
by sheer force of brilliance, he ends
lip saying nothing.”
Black showed his teeth this time.
"Now suppose you tell me why you
pick on me.”
"Easy, doctor. I looked at you and
figured you’re too ugly to be stupid
and too smart to miss a possible op-
portunity at some good personal
publicity.”
"Remind me to knock you down
some day,” said Black. "What do
you want to know?”
The man from Interplanetary
Press pointed into the pit and said,
"Is that thing going to work?”
Black looked downward, too, and
felt a vague chill riffle over him like
the thin night-wind of Mars. The
pit was one large television screen,
divided in two. One half was an
overall view of It. On It’s pitted gray
surface was the Parsec, glowing
mutedly in the feeble sunlight. The
other half showed the control room
of the Parsec. There was no life in
that control room. In the pilot’s scat
was an object the vague humanity
of which did not for a moment
obscure the fact that it was only a
positronic robot.
Black said, "Physically, mister,
this will work. That robot will leave
and come back. Space ! how we suc-
62
ceeded with that part of it. I watched
it all. I came here two weeks after
I took my degree in etheric physics
and I’ve been here, barring leave and
furloughs, ever since. I was here
when we sent the first piece of iron
wire to Jupiter’s orbit and back
through hyperspace — and got back
iron filings. I was here when we sent
white mice there and back and- ended
up with mincemeat.
"We spent six months establish-
ing an even hyper-field after that.
We had to wipe out lags of as little
as tenths of thousandths of seconds
from point to point in matter being
subjected to hyper-travel. After that,
the white mice started coming back
intact. I remember when we made
holiday for a week because one white
mouse came back alive and lived ten
minutes before dying. Now they live
as long as we can take proper care
of them.
Ronson said, "Great!”
Black looked at him obliquely, "1
Slid, physically it will work. Those
white mice that come back — ”
"Well?”
"No minds. Not even little white
mice type minds. They won’t eat.
They have to be force-fed. They
won’t mate. They won’t run. They
sit. They sit. They sit. That’s all.
We finally worked our way up _to
sending a chimpanzee. It was pitiful.
It was too close to a man to make
watching it bearable. It came back
a hunk of meat that could make
crawling motions. It could move its
eyes and sometimes it would scrabble.
It whined and sat in its own wastes
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
without the sense to move. Some-
body shot it one day, and we were
all grateful for that. I tell you this,
fella, nothing that ever went into
hyperspace has come back with a
mind.”
"Is this for publication.^”
"After this experiment, maybe.
They expect great things of it.” A
corner of Black’s mouth lifted.
"You don’t.^”
"With a robot at the controls?
No.” Almost automatically. Black’s
mind went back to that interlude,
some years back, in which he had
been unwittingly responsible for the
near-loss of a robot.* He thought
of the Nestor robots that filled Hyper
Base with smooth, ingrained knowl-
edge and perfectionist shortcomings.
What was the use of talking about
robots? He was not, by nature, a
missionary.
But then Ronson, filling the con-
tinuing silence with a bit of Small-
talk, said, as he replaced the wad of
gum in his mouth by a fresh piece,
"Don’t tell me you’re anti-robot. I’ve
.ilways heard that scientists are the
one group that aren’t anti-robot.”
Black’s patience snapped. He said,
"That’s true, and that’s the trouble.
Technology’s gone robot-happy. Any
job has to have a robot, or the engi-
neer in charge feels cheated. You
want a door-stop; buy a robot with
a thick foot. That’s a serious thing.”
He was speaking in a low, intense
voice, shoving the words directly
into Ronson’s ear.
'•^Litti.k Lokt Robot, Astounding Science
Fiction, March, UM7. page 111.
Ronson managed to extricate his
arm. He said, "Hey, I’m no robot.
Don’t take it out on me. I’m a man.
Homo sapiens. You just broke an
armbone of mine. Isn’t that proof?”
Having started, however, it took
more than frivolity to stop Black.
He said, "Do you know how much
time was wasted on this setup?
We’ve had a perfectly generalized
robot built and we’ve given it one-
order. Period. I heard the order
given. I’ve memorized it. Short and
sweet. 'Seize the bar with a firm grip.
Pull it toward you firmly. Firmly!
Maintain your hold until the control
board informs you that you have
passed through hyperspace twice!’
"So at zero time, the robot will
!;rab the control bar and pull it firmly
toward himself. His hands are heated
to blood temperature. Once the con-
trol bar is in position, heat expansion
completes contact and hypcrfield is
ii'.itiated. If anything happens to his
brain during the first trip through
hyperspace it doesn’t matter. All he
need do is maintain position one
micro-instant and the ship will come
back and the hyperfield will flip off.
Nothing can go wrong. Then we
study all its generalized reactions and
see what if anythng has gone
wrong.”
Ronson looked blank, "This all
makes sense to me.”
"Does it?” asked Black, bitterly,
"and what will you learn from a
robot brain? It’s positronic, ours is
cellular. It’s metal, ours is protein.
They’re not the same. There’s no
RISK
6o
comparison. Yet I’m convinced that
on the basis of what they learn, or
think they learn, from the robot,
they’ll send men into hyperspace.
Poor devils ! Look, it’s not a ques-
tion of dying. It’s coming back mind-
less. If you’d seen the chimpanzee,
you’d know what I mean. Death is
clean and final. The other thing — ”
The reporter said, "Have you
talked about this to anyone?”
Black said, "Yes. They say what
you said. They say I’m anti-robot
and that settles everything. Look at
Susan Calvin there. You can bet
she isn’t anit-robot. She came all the
way from Earth to watch this experi-
ment. If it had been a man at the
controls, she wouldn’t have bothered.
But what’s the use!”
"Hey,” said Ronson, "don’t stop
now. There’s more.”
"More what?”
"More problems. You’ve explain-
ed the robot. But why the security
provisions all of a sudden?”
"Huh?”
"Come on. Suddenly, I can’t send
dispatches. Suddenly, ships can’t
come into the area. 'What’s going on ?
This is just another experiment. The
public knows about hyperspace and
what you boys are trying to do, so
what’s the big secret?”
The backwash of anger was still
seeping over Black, anger against
the robots, anger against Susan Cal-
vin, anger at the memory of that
little lost robot in his past. There
was some to spare, he found, for the
irritating little newsman and his
irritating little questions.
64
He said to himself; Let’s see how .
he takes it.
He said, "You really want to
know?”
"You bet.”
"All right. We’ve never initiated
a hyperfield for any object a mil-
lionth as large as that ship, or to
send anything a millionth as far.
That means that the hyperfield that
will soon be initiated is some million
m.illion times as energetic as any
we’ve ever handled. We’te not sure
what it can do.”
"What do you mean?”
"Theory tells us that the ship will
be neatly deposited out near Sirius
and neatly brought back here. But
how large a volume of space about
the Parsec will be carried with it. It’s
hard to tell. We don’t know enough
about hyperspace. The asteroid on
which the .ship sits may go with
it and, you know, if our calculations
are even a little off, it may never
be brought back here. It may return
— say, twenty billion miles away.
And there’s a chance that more of
space than just the asteroid may be
shifted.”
"How much more?” demanded
Ronson.
"We can’t say. There’s an element
of statistical uncertainty. That’s why
no ships must approach too closely.
That’s why we’re keeping things
quiet till the experiment is safely
over.”
Ronson swallowed audibly. "Sup-
posing it reaches to Hyper Base?”
"There’s a chance of it,” said
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
Black with composure. "Not much
of a chance or Director Schloss
wouldn’t be here, I assure you. Still,
there’s a mathematical chance.’’
The newsman looked at his watch.
"When does this all happen?”
"In about five minutes. You’re not
nervous, are you?”
"No,” said Ronson, but he sat
down blankly and asked no more
questions.
Black leaned outward, over the
railing. The final minutes were
ticking off.
The robot moved!
There was a mass sway of human-
ity forward at that sign of motion
and the lights dimmed in order to
.sharpen and heighten the brightness
of the scene below. But so far it was
only the first motion. The hands of
the robot approached the starting bar.
Black waited for the final second
when the robot would pull the bar
toward himself. Black could imagine
a number of possibilities and all
sprang, nearly simultaneously, to
mind.
There would first be the short
flicker that would indicate the de-
partuie through hyperspace and re-
turn. Even though the time interval
was exceedingly short, return would
not be to the precise starting position
and there would be a flicker. There
always was.
Then, when the ship returned, it
might be found, perhaps, that the
devices to even the field over the
huge volume of the ship had proved
inadequate. The robot might be scrap
steel. The ship might be scrap steel.
Or their calculations might be
somewhat off and the ship might
never return. Or worse still. Hyper
Base might go with the ship and
never return.
Or, of course, all might be well.
The ship might flicker and be there
in perfect shape. The robot, with
mind untouched, would get out of
his seat and signal a successful com-
pletion of the first voyage of a man-
made object beyond the gravitational
control of the sun.
The last minute was ticking off.
The last second came and the
robot seized the starting-bar and
pulled it firmly toward himself —
Nothing !
No flicker. Nothing!
The Parsec never left normal
space.
Major General Kallner took off his
officer’s cap to mop his glistening
forehead and in doing so exposed
a bald head that would have aged
him ten years in appearance if his
drawn expression had not already
done so. Nearly an hour had passed
since the Parsec’s failure and noth-
ing had been done.
"How did it happen? How did it
happen? I don’t understand it.”
Dr. Mayer Schloss who, at forty,
was the "grand old man” of the
young science of hyperfield matrices,
said, hopelessly, "There is nothing
wrong with the basic theory. I’ll
swear my life away on that. There’s
a mechanical failure on the ship
somewhere. Nothing more.” He had
said that a dozen times.
RISK
65
“I thought everything was tested.”
That had been said, too.
"It was, sir, it was. Just the
same — ■" And that.
They sat staring at each other in
Kallner’s office which was now out
of bounds for all personnel. Neither
quite dared to look at the third per-
son present.
Susan Calvin's thin lips and pale
cheeks bore no expression. She said,
coolly, "You may console yourself
with what I have told you before.
It is doubtful whether anything use-
ful would have resulted.”
"This is not the time for the old
argument,” groaned Schloss.
"I am not arguing. United States
Robots & Mechanical Men, Inc. will
supply robots made up to specifica-
tion to any legal purchaser for any
legal use. We did our part, however.
We informed you that we could not
guarantee being able to draw conclu-
sions with regard to the human brain
from anything that happened to the
positronic brain. Our responsibility
ends- there. There is no argument.”
"Great Space,” said General Kall-
ner, in a tone that made the exple-
tive feeble indeed. "Let’s not discuss
that.”
"What else was there to do?”
muttered Schloss, driven to the sub-
ject, nevertheless. "Until we know
exactly v'hat’s happening to the mind
in hyperspace we can’t progress. The
robot’s mind is at least capable of
mathematical analysis. It’s a start, a
beginning. And until we try — ” He
looked up wildly, "But your robot
isn’t the point, Dr. Calvin. We’re
66
not worried about him or his posi-
tronic brain. Woman — ” His voice
rose nearly to a scream.
The robotpsychologist cut him to
silence with a voice that scarcely
raised itself from its level monotone.
"No hysteria, man. In my lifetime,
I have witnessed many crises and I
have ne\’cr seen one solved by hyste-
ria. I want answers to some ques-
tions.”
Schloss’ full lips trembled and his
deep-set eyes seemed to retreat into
their sockets and leave pits of shadow
in their places. He said, harshly,
"Are you trained in ethcric engi-
neering?”
"That is an irrelevant question.
I am Chief Robotpsychologist of the
United States Robots & Mechanical
Men, Inc. That is a positronic robot
sitting at the controls of the Parsec.
Like all such robots, it is leased and
not sold. I have a right to demand
information concerning any experi-
ment in which such a robot is in-
volved.”
"Talk to her, Schloss,” barked
General Kallner. "She’s . . . she’s
all right.”
Dr. Calvin turned her pale eyes
on the general, who had been present
at the time of the affair of the lost
robot and who, therefore, could be
expected not to make the mistake
of underestimating her. (Schloss had
been out on sick leave, at the time,
and later hearsay is not as effective
as personal experience.) "Thank
you, general,” .she said.
Schloss looked helplessly from one
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
to the other and muttered, "What
do you want to know?’’
"Obviously my first question is:
What is your problem if the robot
is not?’’
"But the problem is an obvious
one. The ship hasn’t moved. Can’t
you sec that? Are you blind?’’
"I sec quite well. What I don’t
see is your obvious panic over some
mechanical failure. Don’t you people
expect failure sometimes?’’
The general muttered, "It's the
expense. The ship was hellishly ex-
pensive. The World Congress . . .
appropriations — ’’ He bogged down.
"The ship’s still there. A slight
overhaul and correction would in-
volve no great trouble,’’
Schloss had taken hold of himself.
The expression on his face was one
of a man who had caught his soul
in both hands, shaken it hard and
set it on its feet. His voice had even
achieved a kind of patience. "Dr.
Calvin, when I say a mechanical
failure, I mean something like a relay
jammed by a speck of dust, a con-
nection inhibited by a spot of grease,
a transistor balked by a momentary
heat expansion. A dozen other things.
A hundred other things. Any of them
can be quite temporary. They can
stop taking effect at any moment.”
"Which means that at any mo-
ment, the Parsec may flash through
hypcrspace and back after all.’’
"Ex.ictly. Now do you under-
stand ?”
"Not at all. Wouldn't that be just
what you want?”
Schloss made a motion that looked
like the start of an effort to seize
a double handful of hair and yank.
He said, "You are not an ctherics
engineer.”
RISK
67
"Does that tongue-tie you, doc-
tor?”
"We had the ship set,” said
Schloss, despairingly, "to make a
Jump from a definite point in space
relative to the center of gravity of
the galaxy to another point. The re-
turn was to be to the original point
corrected for the motion of the Solar
System. In the hour that has passed
since the Parsec should have moved,
the»Solar System has shifted position.
The original parameters to which the
hyperfield is adjusted no longer ap-
ply. The ordinary laws of motion do
not apply to hyperspace and it would
take us a week of computation to
calculate a new set of parameters. We
can’t even guess approximately.”
"You mean that if the ship moves
now it will return to some unpredict-
able point thousands of miles away?”
"Unpredictable?” Schloss smiled
hollowly. "Yes, I should call it that.
The Parsec might end up in the An-
dromeda nebula or in the center of
the sun. In any case the odds are
against our ever seeing it again.”
Susan Calvin nodded. "The situa-
tion then is that if the ship disap-
pears, as it may do at any moment,
a few billion dollars of the taxpay-
er’s money may be irretrievably
gone, and — it will be said — through
bungling.”
Major General Kallner could not
have winced more noticeably if he
had been poked with a sharp pin.
The robopsychologist went on,
"Somehow, then, the ship’s hyper-
field mechanism must be put out of
68
action, and that as soon as possible.
Something will have to be unplugged
or jerked loose or flicked off.” She
was speaking half to herself.
"It’s not that simple,” said
Schloss. "I can’t explain it com-
pletely, since you’re not an etherics
expert. It’s like trying to break an
ordinary electric circuit by slicing
through high-tension wire with
garden shears. It could be disastrous.
It would be disastrous.”
"Do you mean that any attempt
to shut off the mechanism would
hurl the ship into hyperspace.”
"Any rat2dot?i attempt would
probably do so. Hyper-forces are not
limited by the speed of light. It is
very probable that they have no limit
of velocity at all. It makes things
extremely difficult. The only reason-
able solution is to discover the nature
of the failure and learn from that
a safe way of disconnecting the
field.”
"And how do you propose to do
that. Dr. Schloss?”
Schloss said, "It seems to me that
the only thing to do is to send one
of our Nestor robots — ”
"No! Don’t be foolish,” broke in
Susan Calvin.
Schloss said, freezingly, "The
Nestors are acquainted with the
problems of etheric engineering.
They will be ideally — ”
"Out of the question. You cannot
use one of our positronic robots for
such a purpose without my permis-
sion. You do not have it and you
shall not get it.”
"What is the alternative?”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
"You must send one of your en-
gineers.”
Schloss shook his head violently,
"Impossible. The risk involved is too
great. If we lose a ship and a man — ”
"Nevertheless, you may not use
a Nestor robot, or any robot.”
The general said, "I ... I must
get in touch with Earth. This whole
problem has to go to a higher level.”
Susan Calvin said with asperity,
"I wouldn’t just yet if I were you,
general. You will be throwing your-
self on the government’s mercy
without a suggestion or plan of ac-
tion of your own. You will not come
out very well, I am certain.”
"But what is there to do?” The
general was using his handkerchief
again.
"Send a man. There is no alterna-
tive.”
Schloss had paled to a pasty gray.
"It’s easy to say, send a man. But
whom?”
"I’ve been considering that prob-
lem. Isn’t there a young man — his
name is Black — whom I met on the
occasion of my previous visit to
Hyper Base?”
"Dr. Gerald Black?”
"I think so. Yes. He was a bache-
lor then. Is he still?”
"Yes, I believe so.”
"I would suggest that he be
brought here, say, in fifteen minutes,
and that meanwhile I have access to
his records.”
Smoothly, she had assumed au-
thority in this situation, and neither
Kallner nor Schloss made any attempt
to dispute that authority with her.
Black had seen Susan Calvin from
a distance on this, her second visit
to Hyper Base. He had made no
move to cut down the distance. Now
that he had been called into her
presence, he found himself staring
at her with repulsion and distaste.
He scarcely noticed Dr. Schloss and
General Kallner standing quietly be-
hind her.
He remembered the last time he
had faced her thus, undergoing a
cold dissection for the sake of a lost
robot.
Dr. Calvin’s cool, gray eyes were
fixed steadily on his hot brown ones.
"Dr. Black,” she said, "I believe
you understand the situation.”
Black said, "I do.”
"Something will have to be done.
The ship is too expensive to lose.
The bad publicity will probably mean
the end of the project.”
Black nodded. "I’ve been thinking
that.”
"I hope you’ve also thought that
it will be necessary for someone to
board the Parsec, find out what’s
wrong, and . . . uh . . . deactivate it.”
There was a moment’s pause. Black
said, harshly, "What fool would
go?”
Kallner frowned and looked at
Schloss, who bit his lip and looked
nowhere.
Susan Calvin said, "There is, of
course, the possibility of accidental
activation of the hyperfield, in which
case, the ship may drive beyond all
possible reach. On the other hand, it
may return somewhere within the
Solar System. If so, no expense or
RISK
69
effort will be spared to recover man
and ship.”
Black said, "Idiot and ship! Just
a correction.”
Susan Calvin disregarded the com-
ment. She said, "I have asked Gen-
eral Kallner's permission to put it
to you. It is you who must go.”
No pause at all here. Black said,
in the flattest possible way, "Lady,
I’m not volunteering.”
"There are not a dozen men on
Hyper Base with sufficient knowledge
to have any chance at all of carrying
this thing through successfully. Of
those who have the knowledge. I’ve
selected you on the basis of our pre-
vious acquaintanceship. You will
bring to this task an understand-
ing—”
"Look, I’m not volunteering. In
fact, I’m not even going!”
"You have no choice. Surely you
will face your responsibility?”
"My responsibility? What makes
it mine?”
"The fact that you are best fitted
for the job?”
"Do you know the risk?”
"I think I do,” said Susan Calvin.
"I know you don’t. You never saw
that chimpanzee. Look, when I said
'idiot and ship’ I wasn’t expressing
an opinion. I was telling you a fact.
I’ll risk my life if I h.ave to. Not
with pleasure, maybe, but I’d risk
it. Risking idiocy, a lifetime of ani-
mal mindlessness, is something I
won’t risk. That’s all,”
Susan Calvin glanced thoughtfully
at the young engineer’s sweating,
angry face.
Black shouted, "Send one of your
robots; one of your NS-2 jobs.”
The psychologist’s eye reflected a
kind of cold glitter. She said, with
deliberation, "Yes, Dr. Schloss sug-
gested that. But the NS-2 robots are
leased by our firm, not sold. I repre-
sent the company and I have decided
that they are not to be risked in a
matter such as this.”
Black lifted his hands. They
clenched and trembled close to his
chest as though he were forcibly
restraining them. "You’re telling me
. . . you’re saying you want me to go
instead of a robot because I’m more
expendable.”
"You can interpret it that way
if you wish.”
"Dr. Calvin,” said Black, "I’d see
you in hell, first.”
"That statement might be almost
literally true. Dr. Black. As General
Kallner will confirm, you are ordered
to take this assignment. You are
under quasi-military law here, I un-
derstand, and if you refuse an assign-
ment, you can be court-martialed. A
case like this will mean Mercury
prison and I believe that will be
close enough to hell to make your
statement uncomfortably accurate
were I to visit you, though I proba-
bly would not. On the other hand,
if you agree to board the Parsec and
carry through this job, it will mean a
great deal for your career.”
Black glared, red-eyed, at her.
Su-san Calvin said, "Give the man
five minutes to think about this,
General Kallner, and get a ship
ready.”
70
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
Two security guards escorted Black
out of the room.
Gerald Black felt cold. His limbs
moved as though they were not part
of him. It was as though he were
watching himself from some remote,
safe place, watching himself board
a .ship and make ready to leave for
It and for the Parsec.
He couldn’t quite believe it. He
had bowed his head suddenly and
said, 'Til go.”
But why.^
He had never thought of himself
as the hero type. Then why? Partly,
of course, there was the threat of
Mercury prison. Partly, it was the
awful reluctance to appear a coward
in the eyes of those who knew him,
that deeper cowardice that was be-
hind half the bravery in the world.
Mostly, though, it was something
else.
Ronson of Interplanetary Press had
stopped Black momentarily as he was
on his way to the ship. Black looked
at Ronson’s flushed face and said,
"What do you want?”
Ronson babbled, "Listen! When
you get back, I want it exclusive.
I’ll arrange any payment you want
. . . anything you want — ”
Black pushed him aside, sent him
sprawling, and walked on.
The ship had a crew of two.
Neither spoke to him. Their glances
slid over and under and around him.
Black didn’t mind that. They were
scared spitless themselves and their
ship was approaching the Parsec like
a kitten skittering sideways toward
the first dog it had ever seen. He
could do without them.
There was only one face that he
kept seeing. The anxious expression
of General Kallner and the look of
synthetic determination on Schloss’
face were momentary punctures on
his consciousness. They healed almost
at once. It was Susan Calvin’s un-
ruffled face that he saw. Her calm
expressionlessness as he boarded the
ship.
He stared into the blackness where
Hyper Base had disappeared into
space —
Susan Calvin ! Doctor Susan Cal-
vin ! Robotpsychologist Susan Calvin !
The robot that walks like a woman !
What were her three laws, he won-
dered. First Law: Thou shalt protect
the robot with all thy might and all
thy heart and all thy soul. Second
Law: Thou shalt hold the interests
of United States Robots & Mechani-
cal Men, Inc. holy provided it inter-
fereth not with the First Law. Third
Law: Thou shalt give passing con-
sideration to a human being provided
it interfereth not with the First and
Second Law.
Was she ever young, he wondered
savagely? Had she ever felt one
honest emotion ?
Space ! How he wanted to do
something — something that would
take that frozen look of nothing off
her face.
And he would I
By the stars, he would. Let him
but get out of this sane and he would
see her smashed and her company
with her and all the vile brood of
RISK
71
robots with them. It was that thought
that was driving him more than fear
of either prison or social prestige. It
was that thought that almost robbed
him of fear altogether. Almost.
One of the pilots muttered at him,
without looking, "You can drop
down from here. It’s half a mile
under.”
Black said, bitterly, "Aren’t you
landing?”
"Strict orders not to. The vibra-
tion of the landing might — ”
"What about the vibration of my
landing?”
The pilot said, "I’ve got my or-
ders.”
Black said no more but climbed
into his suit and waited for the
inner lock to open. A tool kit was
welded firmly to the metal of the
suit about his right thigh.
Just as he stepped in to the lock,
the earpieces inside his helmet rum-
bled at him. "Wish you luck, doc-
tor.”
It took a moment for him to real-
ize that it came from the two men
aboard ship, pausing in their eager-
ness to get out of that haunted vol-
ume of space, to give him that much,
anyway.
“Thanks,” said Black awkwardly,
half-resentfully.
And then he was out in space,
tumbling slowly as the result of the
slightly off-center thrust of feet
against outer lock.
He could see the Parsec waiting
for him, and by looking between
his legs at the right moment of the
tumble, he could see the long hiss
72
of the lateral jets of the ship that
had brought him, as it turned to
leave.
He was alone ! Space, he was
alone !
Could any man in history ever
have felt so alone?
Would he know, he wondered
sickly, if — if anything happened?
Would there be any moments of
realization? Would he feel his mind
fade and the light of reason and
thought dim and blank out?
Or would it happen suddenly, like
the cut of a force-knife?
In either case —
The thought of the chimpanzee,
blank-eyed, shivering with mindless
terrors, was fresh within him.
The asteroid was twenty feet below
him now. It swam through space
with an absolutely even motion.
Barring human agency, no grain of
sand upon it had as much as stirred
through astronomical periods of time.
In the ultimate jarlessness of It,
some small particle of grit encum-
bered a delicate working unit on
board the Parsec, or a speck of im-
pure sludge in the fine oil that bathed
some moving part had stopped it.
Perhaps it required only a small
vibration, a tiny tremor originating
from the collision of mass and mass
to Linencumber that moving part,
bringing it down along its appoint-
ed path, creating the hyperfield,
blossoming it outward like an in-
credibly-ripening rose.
His body was going to touch It
and he drew his limbs together in
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
his anxiety to "hit easy.” He did not
want to touch the asteroid. His skin
crawled with intense aversion.
It came closer.
Now . . . now —
Nothing!
There was only the continuing
touch of the asteroid, the uncanny
moments of slowly mounting pres-
sure that resulted from a mass of
two hundred fifty pounds — himself
plus suit — possessing full interia but
no weight to speak of.
Black opened his eyes slowly and
let the sight of stars enter. The sun
was a glowing marble, its brilliance
muted by the polarizing shield over
his faceplate. The stars were corre-
spondingly feeble but they made up
the familiar arrangement. With sun
and constellations normal, he was
still in the Solar System. He could
even see Hyper Base, a small, dim
crescent.
He stiffened in shock at the sud-
den voice in his ear. It was Schloss.
Schloss said, "We’ve got you in
view. Dr. Black. You are not alone!”
Black could have laughed at the
phraseology, but he only said in a
low, clear voice, "Clear off. If you’ll
do that, you won’t be distracting
me.”
A pause. Schloss’ voice, more
cajoling: "If you care to report as
you go along, it may relieve the
tension.”
"You’ll get information from me
when I get back. Not before.” He
said it bitterly, and, bitterly, his
metal-encased fingers moved to the
control panel in his chest and blank-
ed out the suit’s radio. They could
talk into a vacuum now. He had his
own plans. If he got out of this
sane, it would be h'n show.
He got to his feet with infinite
caution and stood on It. He swayed
a bit as involuntary muscular mo-
tions, tricked by the almost total lack
of gravity into an endless series of
overbalancings, pulled him this way
and that. On Hyper Base, there was
a pseudogravitic field to hold them
down. Black found that a portion
of his mind was sufficiently detached
to remember that and appreciate it
in absentia.
The sun had disappeared behind a
crag. The stars wheeled visibly in
time to the asteroid’s one-hour rota-
tion period.
He could, see the Parsec from
where he stood and now he moved
toward it slowly, carefully, tippy-toe
almost. (No vibration. No vibration.
The words ran pleadingly through
his mind.)
Before he was completely aware
of the distance he had crossed, he
was at the ship. He was at the foot
of the line of hand-grips that led
to the outer lock.
There he paused.
The ship looked quite normal. Or
at least, it looked normal except for
the circle of steely knobs that girdled
it one third of the way upward, and
a second circle two thirds of the way
upward. At the moment, they must
be straining to become the source-
poles of the hyperfield.
A strange desire to reach up and
73
RISK
fondle one of them came over Black.
It was one of those irrational im-
pulses, like the momentary thought;
"What if I jumped.^’’ that was al-
most inevitable when staring down
from a high building.
Black took a deep breath and felt
himself go clammy as he spread the
fingers of both hands, and then
lightly, so lightly, put each hand
flat against the side of the ship.
Nothing!
He seized the lowest hand-grip
and pulled himself up, carefully. He
longed to be as experienced at null-
gravity manipulation as were the
construction men. You had to exert
enough force to overcome inertia and
then stop. Continue the pull a second
too long and you would overbalance,
careen into the side of the ship.
He climbed slowly, tippy-fingers,
his legs and hips swaying to the
right as his left arm reached upward,
to the left as his right arm reached
upv.’ard.
A dozen rungs, and his fingers
hovered over the contact that would
open the outer lock. The safety
marker was a tiny green smear.
Once again he hesitated. This was
first use he would make of ship’s
power. His mind ran over the wiring
diagrams and the force distributions.
If he pressed the contact, power
would be siphoned off the micro-pile
to pull open the massive slab of
metal that was the outer lock.
Well?
What was the use? Unless he had
some idea as to what was wrong,
74
there was no way of telling the
effect of the power diversion. He
sighed and touched contact.
Smoothly, with neither jar nor
sound, a segment of the ship curled
open. Black took one more look at
the friendly constellations — they had
not changed — and stepped into the
softly-illuminated cavity. The outer
lock closed behind him.
Another contact now. The inner
lock had to be opened. Again he
paused to consider. Air pressure
within the ship would drop ever so
slightly as the inner lock opened and
seconds would pass before ship’s
electrolyzers could make up the loss.
Well?
The Bosch posterior-plate, to name
one item, was sensitive to pressure,
but surely not this sensitive.
He sighed again, more softly —
the skin of his fear was growing
calloused — and touched contact. The
inner lock opened.
He stepped into the pilot room
of the Parsec, and his heart jumped
oddly when the first thing he saw
was the visiplate, set for reception-
and powdered with stars. He forced
himself to look at them.
Nothing !
Cassiopiea was visible. The con-
stellations were normal and he was
inside the Parsec. Somehow he could
feel the worst was over. Having
come so far and remained within
the Solar System, having kept his
mind so far, something that was
faintly like confidence began to seep
back.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
There was almost a supernatural
stillness about the Parsec. Black had
been in many ships in his life and
there had always been the sounds of
life, even if only the scuffing of a
shoe or a humming cabin boy in
the corridor. Here, the very beating
of his own heart seemed muffled to
soundlessness.
The robot in the pilot’s seat had
its back to him. It indicated by no
re.sponse that it was aware of his
having entered.
Black bared his teeth in a savage
grin and said sharply, "Release the
bar! Stand up!” The sound of his
voice was thunderous in the close
quarters.
Too late, he dreaded the air vibra-
tions his voice set up, but the stars
on the visiplate remained unchanged.
The robot, of course, did not stir.
It could receive no sensations of any
sort. It could not even respond to
the First Law. It was frozen in the
unending middle ot what should
have been an almost instantaneous
process.
He remembered the orders it had
been given. They were open to no
misunderstanding; "Seize the bar
with a firm grip. Pull it toward you
firmly. Firmly! Maintain your hold
until the control board informs you
that you have passed through hyper-
space twice.”
Well, it had not yet passed
through hyperspace once.
Carefully, he moved closer to the
robot. It sat there with the bar
pulled firmly back between its knees.
That brought the trigger-mechanism
RISK
75
almost into place. The temperature
of his metal hands then curled that
trigger, thermocouple-fashion, just
efficiently for contact to be made.
Automatically, Black glanced at the
thermometer-reading set into the
control board. The robot’s hands
were at 37 Centigrade as they should
be.
He thought sardonically: Fhie
thing. I’m alone with this machine
and 1 can’t do anything about it.
What he would have liked to do
was take a crowbar to it and mash
it to filings. He enjoyed the flavor
of that thought. He could see the
horror on Susan Calvin’s face — if
any horror could creep through the
ice, the horror of a smashed robot
was it. Like all positronic robots, this
one-shot was owned by United States
Robots, had been made there, had
been tested there.
And having extracted what juice
he could out of imaginary revenge,
he sobered and looked about the ship.
He stirred uneasily.
After all, progress so far had been
zero.
Slowly, he removed his suit. Gent-
ly, he laid it on the rack. Gingerly,
he walked from room to room,
studying the large, interlocking sur-
faces of the hyperatomic motor, fol-
lowing the cables, inspecting the
field-relays.
He touched nothing. There were
a dozen ways of deactivating the
hyperfield but each one would be
ruinous unless he knew at least ap-
proximately where the error lay and
76
let his exact course of procedure be
guided by that.
He found himself back at the con-
trol panel and cried in exasperation
at the grave stolidity of the robot’s
broad back, "Tell me, will you?
What’s wrong?”
There was the urge to attack the
ship’s machinery at random. Tear at
it and get it over with. He repressed
the impulse firmly. If it took him
a week, he would deduce, somehow,
the proper point of attack. He owed
that much to Dr. Susan Calvin and
his plans for her. He had to solve
this if he was to pay her —
He turned slowly on his heel and
considered. Every part of the ship,
from the engine itself to each in-
dividual two-way toggle switch had
been exhaustively checked and tested
on Hyper Base. It was almost impos-
sible to believe that anything could
go wrong. There wasn’t a thing on
board ship —
Well, yes, there was, of course.
The robot ! That had been tested at
United States Robots and they could
be assumed to be competent.
What was it everyone always said:
A robot can just naturally do a better
job.
It was the normal assumption,
based in part on United States Ro-
bots’ own advertising campaigns.
They could make a robot that would
be better than a man for a given
purpose. Not "as good as a man,”
but "better than a man.”
And as Gerald Black stared at the
robot and thought that, his brows
contracted under his low forehead
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTIOlN
and his look became compounded
of astonishment and a wild hope.
He approached and circled the
robot. He stared at its arms holding
the control bar in trigger-position,
holding it forever so unless the ship
Jumped or the robot’s own power
supply gave out.
Black breathed, "I bet. 1 bet.”
He stepped away, considered
deeply. He said, "It’s got to be.”
He turned on ship’s radio. Its
carrier beam was already focused on
Hyper Base. He barked into the
mouthpiece, "Hey, Schloss.”
Schloss was prompt in his answer.
“Great Space, Black — ”
"Never mind,” said Black, crisply.
"No speeches. I just want to make
sure you’re watching.”
"Yes, of course. We all are.
Look — ■”
But Black turned off the radio.
He grinned with tight one-sidedness
at the TV camera inside the pilot
room and chose a portion of the
.hyperfield mechanism that would be
in view. He didn’t know how many
people would be in the viewing
room. There might be only Kallner,
Schloss and Susan Calvin. There
might be all personnel. In any case,
he ■ would give them something to
watch.
Relay Box #3 was adequate for
the purpose, he decided. It was lo-
cated in a wall recess, coated over
with a smooth cold-seamed panel.
Black reached into his tool kit and
removed the splayed blunt-edged
seamer. He pushed his spacesuit
farther back on the rack — having
turned it to bring the tool kit in
reach — and turned to the relay box.
Ignoring a last tingle of uneasi-
ness, Black brought up the seamer,
made contact at three separated
points along the cold seam. The
tool's force-field worked deftly and
quickly, the handle growing a trifle
warm in his hand as the surge of
energy came and left. The panel
swung free.
He glanced quickly, almost invol-
untarily, at the ship’s visiplate. The
stars were normal. He, himself, felt
normal.
That was the last bit of encourage-
ment he needed. He raised his foot
and smashed his shoe down on the
feather-delicate mechanisms within
the recess.
There was a splinter of glass, a
twisting of metal, and a tiny spray
of mercury droplets —
Black breathed heavily. He turned
on the radio once more. "Still there,
Schloss.”
"Yes, but — ”
"Then I report the hyperfield on
board the Parsec to be deactivated.
Come and get me.”
Gerald Black felt no more the
hero than when he had left for the
Parsec, but he found himself one
just the same. The men who had
brought him to the small asteroid
came to take him off. They landed
this time. They clapped his back.
Hyper Base was a crowded mass
of waiting personnel when the ship
arrived and Black was cheered. He
waved at the throng and grinned.
RISK
77
as was a hero’s obligation, but he
felt no triumph inside. Not yet. Only
anticipation. Triumph would come
later, when he met Susan Calvin.
He paused, before descending
from the ship. He looked for her
and did not see her. General Kallner
was there, waiting with all his sol-
dierly stiffness restored, and a bluff
look of approval firmly plastered on
his face. Mayer Schloss smiled nerv-
ously at him. Ronson of Interplane-
tary Press waved frantically. Susan
Calvin was nowhere.
He brushed Kallner and Schloss
aside when he landed. 'Tm going
to wash and cat first.”
He had no doubts but that, for
the moment at least, he could dic-
tate terms to the general or to any-
body.
The security guards made a way
for him. He bathed and ate leisurely
in enforced isolation, he himself
being solely responsible for the en-
forcement. Then he called Ronson
of Interplanetary and talked to him
briefly. (It had all worked out so
much better than he had expected.
The very failure ol the ship had
conspired perfectly with him.)
Finally, he called the general's
ofiice and ordered a conference. It
was what it amounted to — orders.
M.ijor General Kallner all but said,
"Yes, sir.”
They were together again. Gerald
Black, Kallner, Schlos.s — even Susan
Cabin. But it was Black who was
dominant now. The robotpsycholo-
gist, graven-faced as ever, as unim-
78
pressed by triumph as by disaster,
had nevertheless seemed by some
subtle change of attitude to have re-
linquished the spotlight.
Dr. Schloss nibbled a thumbnail
and began by saying, cautiously:
"Dr. Black, we are all very grateful
for your bravery and success.” Then,
as though to institute a healthy de-
flation at once, he added, '(Still,
smashing the relay box with your
heel was imprudent and . . . well, it
was an action that scarcely deserved
success.”
Black said, "It was an action that
could scarcely have avoided success.
You see” — this was bomb number
one — "by that time I knew what
had gone wrong.”
Schloss rose to his feet. "You
did.^ Are you sure?”
"Go there yourself. It’s safe now.
I’ll tell you what to look for.”
Schloss sat down again, slowly.
General Kallner was enthusiastic.
"Why, this is the best yet, if true.”
"It’s true,” said Black. His eyes
slid to Susan Calvin, who said
nothing.
Black was enjoying the sensation
of power. He released bomb number
two by saying, "It was the robot, of
course. Did you hear that, Dr. Cal-
%'ir. ?”
Susan Calvin spoke for the first
time. "I hear it. I rather expected it,
as a matter of fact. It was the only
piece of equipment on board ship
that had not been tested at Hyper
Base.”
For a moment. Black felt dashed.
He said, “You said nothing of that.”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
Dr. Calvin said, "As Dr. Schloss
said several times, I am not an
etherics expert. My guess, and it was
no more than that, might easily have
been wrong. I felt I had no right
to prejudice you in advance of your
mission.”
Black said, "All right, did you
happen to guess hoiv it went
wrong?”
"No, sir.”
"Why, it was made better than
a man. That’s what the trouble was.
Isn’t it strange that the trouble
should rest with the very specialty
of United States Robots ? They make
robots better tlian men, I under-
stand.”
He was slashing at her with words
now but she did not rise to his
bait.
Instead, she sighed. "My dear Dr.
Black. I am not responsible for the
slogans of our sales-promotion de-
partment.”
Black felt dashed again. She was
not an easy woman to handle, this
Calvin. He said, "Your people built
a robot to replace a man at the con-
trols of the Parsec. He had to pull
the control bar toward himself, place
it in position and let the heat of his
hands twist the trigger to make final
contact. Simple enough, Dr. Calvin?”
"Simple enough. Dr. Black.”
"And if the robot had been made
no better than a man, he would have
succeeded. Unfortunately, United
States Robots felt compelled to make
him better than a man. The robot
was told to pull back the control
bar firmly. Firmly. The word was
repeated, strengthened, emphasized.
So the robot did what he was told.
He pulled it back firmly. There was
only one trouble. He was easily ten
times- stronger than the ordinary hu-
man being for whom the control
bar was designed.”
"Are you implying — ”
"I’m saying the bar bent. It bent
back just enough to misplace the
trigger. When the heat of the robot’s
hand twisted the thermocouple, it
did not make contact,” He grinned,
"This isn’t the failure of just one
robot. Dr. Calvin. It’s symbolic of
the failure of the robot idea.”
"Come now. Dr. Black,” said
Susan Calvin, icily, "You’re drown-
ing logic in missionary psychology.
The robot was equipped with ade-
quate understanding as w'ell as with
brute force. Had the men w'ho gave
it its orders used quantitative terms
rather than the foolish adverb 'firm-
ly,’ this would not have happened.
Had they said, 'apply a pull of fifty-
five pounds’ all would have been
well.”
"What you are saying,” said Black,
"is that the inadequacy of a robot
must be made up for by the ingenuity
and intelligence of a man. I assure
you that the people back on Earth
will look at it in that way and will
not be in the mood to excuse United
States Robots for this fiasco.”
Major Geniral Kallner said quick-
ly, with a return of authority to his
voice, "Now wait. Black, all that
has happened is obviously classified
information.”
"In fact,” said Schloss, suddenly,
"your theory hasn’t been checked yet.
We’ll send a party to the ship and
find out. It may not be the robot
at all.’’
"You’ll take care to make that
discovery, will you.^ I wonder if
the people will believe an interested
party. Besides which, 1 have one
more thing to tell you.” He readied
bomb number three and said, "As
of this moment. I'm resigning from
this man’s project. I'm quitting.”
"Why?” said Susan Calvin,
"Because as you said. Dr. Calvin,
I am a missionary,” said Black,
smiling. "I have a mission. I feel I
owe it to the people of Earth to tell
them that the age of the robots has
reached the point where human life
is valued less than robot life. It is
now possible to order a man into
danger because a robot is too precious
to risk. I believe Earthmen should
hear that. Many men have many re-
servations about robots as is. United
States Robots has not yet succeeded
in making it legally permissible to
use robots on the planet. Earth, it-
self. I believe that what I have to
say, Dr. Calvin, will complete the
matter. For this day’s work. Dr.
Calvin, you and your company and
your robots will be wiped off the
face of the Solar System.”
He was forewarning her, Black
knew; he was forearming her, but
he could not forego this scene. He
had lived for this very moment, ever
since he had first left for the Parsec
and he could not give it up.
He all but gloated at the momen-
tary glitter in Susan Calvin’s pale
80
eyes and at the faintest flush in her
cheeks. He thought: Houi do you
feel nou’, madam scientist?
Kallner said, "You will not be
permitted to resign. Black, nor will
you be permitted — ”
"How can you stop me, general?
I’m a hero, haven't you heard. And
old mother Earth tvHl make much
of its heroes. It always has. They'll
want to hear from me and they’ll
believe anything I say. And they
won’t like it if I’m interfered with,
at least not while I’m a fresh, brand-
new hero. I’ve already talked to Ron-
son of Interplanetary Press and told
him I had something big for them;
something that would rock every
government official and science direc-
tor right out of the chair-plush, so
Interplanetary will be first in line,
waiting to hear from me. What can
you do except to have me shot?
And I think you’d be worse 'off after
that, if you tried it.”
Black’s revenge was complete. He
had spared no word. He had stinted
himself not in the least. He rose to
go.
"One moment. Dr. Black,” said
Susan Calvin. Her low voice carried
authority.
Black turned involuntarily, like a
schoolboy at his teacher’s voice, but
he counteracted that gesture by a
deliberately mocking, "You have an
explanation to make, I suppose?”
"Not at all,” she said, primly.
"You have explained for me, and
quite well. I chose you because I
knew you would understand, though
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
I thought you would understand
sooner. I had had contact with you
before. I knew you disliked robots
and would, therefore, be under no
illusions concerning tliein. From your
records, winch 1 asked to sec before
you were given your assignment, I
saw that you had expressed disap-
proval of this robot-through-hyper-
space experiment. Your superiors
held that against you, but 1 thought
it a point in your favor.”
"What are you talking about, doc-
tor, if you'll excuse my rudeness.^”
"The fact that you should have
understood why no robot could have
been sent on this mission. What w'as
it you yourself said? Something
about a robot's inadec|uacies having
to be made up by tlie ingenuity and
intelligence of a man. Exactly so,
young man, exactly so. Robots have
no ingenunity. Their minds are iinite
and can be calculated to the last
decimal. That, in fact, is my job.
"Now if a robot is given an Order,
a precise order, he can follow it. If
the order is not precise, he cannot
correct his own mistake without fur-
ther orders. Isn’t that what you re-
ported concerning the robot on the
ship? How then can we send a
robot to find a flaw' in a mechanism
when we cannot possibly give precise
orders since w'e know' nothing about
the flaw ourselves. 'Find out what’s
wrong’ is not an order you can give
to a robot; only to a man. The hu-
man brain, so far at least, is beyond
calculation.”
Black sat down abruptly and stared
at the psychologist in dismay. Her
words struck sharply on a substratum
of understanding that had been lard-
ed over with emotion. He found him-
self unable to refute her. Worse than
that, a feeling of defeat encompass-
ed him.
He said, "You might have said
this before I left.”
"I might have,” agreed Dr. Calvin,
"but lor tw'o critical factors. Since
you did not want to go, you would
liave been able to think of an answer
to any contingency I could suggest —
tliat ability to do so being precisely
why you, and not a robot had to
go! -and so would have been able
to effectively refute any argument
I might have proposed. You could
answ'cr any named problem — and
were, at that time, quite unable to
accept that the problem was inherent-
ly /'/w-namablc.
"The second critical factor tied in
with that problem. Such a discussion
would have lasted hours, with high
emotional tension. You would have
gone already brain-weary, and de-
feated. The ideal psychosomatic situ-
ation for a human being entering
on so dangerous a task is one c6
angry tension; Nature developed the
mechanisms of anger in us for pre-
cisely such work, and they make us
capable of high concentration, high
alertness, and quick evaluation of a
situation. You went angrily deter-
mined to beat us, your oppressors.
"It worked out satisfactorily, 1
think.”
Black said, "I’ll be damned.”
Susan Calvin said, "So now, if
you’ll take my advice, return to your
RISK
81
job, accept your status as hero, and
tell your reporter friend the details
of your brave deed. Let that be the
big news you promised him.”
Slowly, reluctantly. Black nodded.
Schloss looked relieved; Kallner
burst into a toothy smile. They held
out hands, not having said a word
in all the time that Susan Calvin
had spoken, and not saying a word
now.
Black took their hands and shook
them with some reserve. He said,
"It’s your part that should be pub-
licized, Dr. Calvin.”
Susan Calvin said, icily, "Don’t
be a fool, young man. This is my
job.”
THE END
VERY SHORT STORY
The Galactic Federation Survey ship landed on Achoo IV, and found that the
highly intelligent race which dominated that planet had no less than three races of
intelligent slaves. Of course, the Articles of Confederation of the Galactic Federation
forbid slavery, and require that slaves be freed wherever found. Commander Noble
explained this to Thronk, the Achooian leader.
Thronk Iwked at the gleaming metal device standing beside Commander Noble.
“And what, sir, is that?’’
“That,” said Commander Noble, “is a robot — a metallic device created by our
engineering techniques.”
“Ah,” said Thronk. “I see. It is intelligent, and serves you. Well, you must un-
derstand that we. Commander, are biological engineers. We work with protoplasm,
which is far superior to metal for structures, since it is self-repairing. Now, will you
please define this term ‘slave’ in engineering terms, so that I can understand why your
engineered servants differ from ours? I am also confused by this; you can be ordered
to perform an action very likely to lead to your own destruction ... yet you are not
a slave?”
At last reports, the Galactic Congress was still seeking an acceptable definition
of the terms involved.
FROM UNKNOWN WORLDS. . .
But in this case, they’re from England — the hard-cover
edition of the anthology FROM UNKNOWN WORLDS,
that is. Our English affiliate published ’em, and they’re
now available here for 7o(‘. There are still some left.
Send your order to:
STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, Inc.
.304 East 45th Street, New York 17, New York
82
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
WATCH
YOUR STEP
The thing you can’t possi-
bly do is the thing you just
can’t become interested in do-
ing. It isn’t that hard, exactly
. . . it’s just so boring.
BY ALGIS BUDRYS
The admiral frowned thoughtfully
down at the charts. Absently, he
rubbed his cheek with the blunt end
of a pencil. Then he tapped the
chart. "This one seems the most
suitable,” he said to his aide. "What
do you think of establishing a for-
ward base in this area, Cargre He
bent to read the minute lettering.
"This . . . this . . . Cargre, is that
word Sol? The light is very bad.”
Cargre bent forward and peered.
He grimaced in annoyance and wiped
his hngers over the surface. "There
seems to be a smudge on the chart,
sir,” he muttered, bending closer.
"Yes, sir,” he said, straightening.
"Sol. That’s a foreign word — native,
WATCH YOUR STEP
83
probably. They must have been con-
tacted some time.”
Admiral Tarlaten raised an eye-
brow. "Don’t you know definitely?”
The aide apologized. "I’m afraid
not, admiral. It’s a very minor, sys-
tem. I’ll check the ship’s references,”
he said, turning immediately to the
intercommunicator. He spoke into it
briefly, waited, received some reply,
spoke at greater length, waited an-
other, longer interval, was supplied
with the additional answer, shrugged,
and switched off.
The admiral had been waiting pa-
tiently, his gaze on the chart, his hand
on his jaw. Without looking up, he
twitched his head interrogatively.
"It’s barely listed in our cata-
logues, sir. Ten planets, only one of
them permanently inhabited. That
would be Terra. We have no survey
report on it — apparently, it was made
quite a while ago. Someone must
have decided it was too out-of-date
to be retained, but no new one has
yet been filed.”
The admiral grimaced. He sur-
veyed the chart again, shaking his
head. "Well, there seems to be noth-
ing else in the area. I’m afraid we’ll
just have to settle for . . . for — ”
"Terra, sir. Of Sol.”
"Yes. Thank you, Cargre.” He
turned away from the chart. "Awk-
ward name to remember,” he ob-
served. "Any idea of what these
Terrestrials are like?”
Cargre shook his head. "I’m afraid
not, sir.”
Admiral Tarlaten grimaced again.
"It seems we’ll have to furnish our
84
own survey.” He scratched his neck
philosophically. "Well, if we’re ever
to launch a decent campaign against
the Tratens, we’ll be slopping
through deeper backwaters than even
this . . . Cargre, u'hal’s that name
again ?”
His aide had to snatch a glance
at the chart before he could answer.
Cargre stood at the main screens,
one step behind the admiral, as the
flagship floated down. Terra had
turned out to be a drab planet, from
her puffy white clouds and brilliant
blue skies to the deep, heaving green
of her oceans. Monotonous mountain
chains, draped in every shade of
green and brown, crowned with
white fire, shambled along the spines
of her continents. The deep, breeze-
stirred grass of her plains stretched
out for unrelenting miles. The na-
tives and their inconsiderable works
broke the monotonous topography
only with fresh monotony.
The flagship stopped its descent
at an altitude of fifteen miles and
waited, hovering. Cargre felt the
shock tingle up through the deck as
the landing party broke away.
Admiral Tarlaten brooded at the
screens. "Well,” he sighed at last,
"it has a breathable atmosphere. Not
a very attractive place, is it?”
Cargre shook his head. "I can un-
derstand why Survey hasn't bothered
to re-check it.”
The admiral nodded slightly.
"That central plain” he mattered
to himself, "ought to make a good
supply dump. Bleak place. Have to
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
provide more than the usual amount
of recreation for the quartermaster’s
men. Cargre, get me Captain Lau-
kon on the phone, will you? Wonder
if we can store most of our stuff in
the open ? Save time and work —
Cargre, when you've got Laukon, get
me Meteorology, will you please?
Get this operation organized as fast
as possible. Any chance of getting
additional supplies from the natives
ought to be checked. Probably have
some cockeyed standard of ex-
change." He took the phone from
Cargre's hand. "Hello — Laukon?
Listen, get your men organized to
discharg'c supplies from the trans-
ports as soon as you get a go-ahead.
And — hold on a minute, will you?
— Cargre, get me the Bursar, please —
Laukon? Yes, I was saying, start
drafting plans for a receiving base
on that central plain on Continent
Four. Establish a liaison with Dis-
bursements and set up a purchasing
team. Get your research section to
work on finding out what supplies
the natives can furnish. O. K. — call
in and tell Cargre when you’re set
up. Hello, Drall ? What’s the dope
on the weather?”
Cargre touched the admiral’s arm.
"Excuse me, sir---the landing party’s
come back. They've got a native with
them,’
"Good. Good. I want to see the
party’s report, first. Have the native
made comfortable. I'll talk to him
later.”
Cargre pulled the report out of
the admiral’s message box and hand-
ed it to him. While the admiral sat
down to pore over it, he smoothly
took over the job of directing opera-
tions.
The tenuous exhaust wakes of
tenders and barges began to link the
ships of the hovering fleet. Twin-
kling in the sun, the vehicles of
Fleet’s Messengers crisscrossed the
sky. The complex, yet smoothly-
working machinery of Fleet Opera-
tions had begun its work.
Below the fleet. Terra revolved
slowly, drifting around its sun — Sol,
wasn’t it?
Admiral Tarlaten closed the renort
and sat back thoughtfully. Despite
its drabness, the planet — here he had
to leaf back until he found the word
"Terra” — the planet. Terra, was an
ideal site for a base. So ideal, as a
matter of fact, that only sheer neg-
lect could have kept the Tratens from
foreseeing the possibility and defend-
ing it.
Hm-m-m. But, no — the Tratens
set no trap.s. What they held as their
own they defended from the outset,
throwing up an almost impenetrable
defense and extracting a terrible
price for every cubic inch of terri-
tory. They had absolutely no concepts
of offensive strategy — nor, to do them
justice, did they need them. It fol-
lowed that this system was outside
the Traten "sphere” — though the
very fact that no holding in space
can be a sphere made this system so
valuable a base, locateil as it was,
deep within a wedge of unclaimed
stars that pointed like a spearhead
at the Traten Empire’s abdomen.
WATCH YOUR STEP
85
The planet itself was populated by
humanoids. This had long ago ceased
to be considered unusual in the uni-
verse. But it meant that the fleet’s
men were unlikely to suffer the ill
effects of a misfit ecology. It did
mean lots of work on immunization
shots, but, generally speaking, what
plagues one humanoid r.ace also
plagues the others, so there was little
likelihood of serious trouble with
deficient antibodies.
The people were a motley lot, yet
drab in the monotony of perfect
variegation. No two of them were
alike, either in their tastes or inclina-
tions. They had a simple barter-sys-
tem economy embracing everything
from turnips to musical compositions.
Every one of them was a dabbler.
You could depend on it that any na-
tive,' picked at random, could sing
you a song, build you a chair, or
weed your garden. They lived in
simple, unexciting homes that might
be clustered together in a village or
separated from each other by the
distance of a day's hike.
They were good handicrafters.
Quartermaster Corps might be able
to do something with that — trade
them simple machine-tools for fin-
ished valve parts — something like
that.
Admiral Tarlaten picked up his
phone. "Linguistics, please,’’ he said
into it. "Hello, Linguistics? What
have you got on the native’s lan-
guage?”
"Nothing unusual, sit. It’s derived
from the same root that all human-
oid languages are. It has drifted
86
away by a considerable amount, of
course, but we’ve already got a keyed
Translator set up, and it won’t take
more than a day or two — possibly
three — before he’s talking Freasan
like a native. He’s a bright enough
chap. Seems quite interested in our
work. Fascinated by the Translator.”
The admir.d's mouth twitched.
Had anyone tried glass heads or mir-
rors on the fellow yet? The degree
of fascination — and comprehension
— would certainly not change by
much.
"All right, then — ship him up
here.” He looked at Cargre. "Any
trouble?!’
Cargre shook his head. "No, sir.
All the transports are down and un-
loading. Meteorology tells me the
planet has a highly regular and pre-
dictable climate. It won’t storm for
three months, so I authorized Quar-
termaster to unload in the open and
build shelters at leisure. As a matter
of fact” — Cargre threw a glance
at a situation board — "there goes
the green light on the transports
now, sir. We’re unloaded.”
"Any trouble with the natives?”
Cargre’s fingertip traced out the
complicated network of one organiza-
tional chart. That led him into an-
other, and that to a third. "Uh . . .
oh, yes — No, sir, no trouble. As a
matter of fact, I see that Quarter-
master’s hired a gang of them to help
stack supplies.”
"Well, good. Good, Cargre. Thank
you.”
Cargre turned back to his phones
and ordered the transports into con-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
voy for their return to Haldeja. The
faster they got there, the faster they’d
get back with more. Two or three
ten-day trips and they’d have this
base fully equipped. Once that was
done, the admiral could launch the
first stages of the offensive.
The annunciator on the cabin
door chimed softly. Cargre looked up
from his charts, caught the admiral’s
nod, and opened the door.
The native stood just outside,
waiting. A Fleet courier, holding the
Translator, stood beside him. Car-
gre .shrugged and got back to his
work.
The native looked like an ordinary
humanoid being, with absolutely no
distinguishing features. FFis hair was
cropped close to his scalp, and his
face was weatherbeaten into a
permanent brown mask. Hair, eye-
brows, and eyelashes were all bleach-
ed out to the shade of straw. His
undistinguished pale-blue eyes
glowed like cold steel. He could
easily have passed unnoticed in the
average Freasan crowd.
Cargre was far too busy to pay
him any further attention. The na-
tive seemed to understand that. He
turned toward the admiral, his eyes
roving inquisitively over every detail
of Tarlaten’s features and uniform.
The courier set the Translator
down on the admiral’s desk, plugged
it in, saluted and left to wait outside
the door.
The admiral looked up at the na-
tive. "Sit down, please,’’ he said,
indicating the chair beside his desk.
As he sat down, the native shook
the admiral’s hand. "How do you
do, admiral,” he said. "My name’s
John Smith. Pleased to meet you.”
"Pleased to meet you, Mr,
Smith,” the admiral replied politely.
Actually, he had absolutely n,o feel-
ings in the matter. As long as the
landing party had brought the man
back, well and good. But there was
no real reason why he should waste
his time. The native’s mental hori-
zons could not possibly coincide
with his own. His conceptions of
the universe could not help but be
narrow and provincial. There was
very little likelihood of their finding
a common ground broad enough to
be of any help.
The admiral sighed inwardly. Ah,
well — "What had he told Cargre?
"We’ll be slopping in deeper back-
waters than this” — something like
that. Looking at this native — this . . .
Smith — the admiral wondered if he
hadn’t been wrong.
Smith had been peering curiously
at Cargre’s situation boards while the
admiral had been musing. The ad-
miral caught his eye and smiled.
"Complicated business, wouldn’t you
say ?”
Smith nodded slowly, obviously
awe-struck at the complexity of
blinking lights and Cargre’s con-
tinual barrage of orders into one
phone or another.
"I don’t suppose you people have
ever seen a space-fleet before?”
Smith shook his head. "Not that
I can remember.”
"Well, we’ve been here before, but
87
WATCH YOUR STEP
it must have been quite some time
ago. You’re listed in our catalogues.
It seems to me there was an indica-
tion that you possessed interplanetary
travel at the time.”
Smith shrugged. "It's possible, I
guess.” He was plainly fascinated by
the cabin, his eyes rarely remaining
directed at the admiral. His glance
roved around the furniture and ap-
pointments, stopping to stare wide-
eyed at the screens and the panels of
instruments and indicators.
”1 suppose you’re wondering why
we’re here?”
”1 was told you were fighting a
war with some other race.”
The admiral nodded. "That’s
right. The Tratens. They’re a non-
human race, and they’ve been giving
us trouble for centuries.”
Smith shook his head. The admiral
could not decide whether he was ex-
pressing sympathy or bewilderment.
One was as unimportant as the
other. The man, like his race, was
completely incapable of being im-
portant to any scheme of things but
his restricted own.
"Well,” the admiral said, com-
pletely bored and searching for a
conversational topic, "what do your
people think of our establishing a
base on your planet?” ■
Smith spread his hands. "We don’t
mind.”
And that seemed to be that. The
admiral sighed inwardly once more.
Why in the name of all space had
he bothered to let himself in for
this?
Smith had reverted to his first
love — the Translator. He had aban-
doned his ocular examination of the
cabin and was twisting his head at
uncomfortable angles, his eyes
prowling around the Translator’s
case. He noted the microphones that
picked up the conversation between
them, the speakers from w’hich the
Freasan-to-Terran and Terran-to-
Freasan translations came. He ran
his fingers over the metal of the
case. "Good workmanship,” he mut-
tered. He fiddled with the grommet
around the line-cord entry. "Mighty
nice plier work.”
The admiral, with a vision of a
towering drop-forge turning out
Translator cases by the thousands,
could barely restrain his impatience.
"Well. Well, Mr. Smith, I want
to thank you for giving me your
time. I’ll see to it that you’re given
passage back to your village.”
Smith stood up and extended his
hand again. "Oh, that’s all right, ad-
miral. It’s been a pleasure. And
thanks.”
Cargre let him out, and made sure
he was safely in the hands of his
courier. Then he exchanged a sour
glance with the admiral.
The admiral got to his feet and
stood in front of the screens, looking
down at the planet trudging along
below him.
Why had he come to this particu-
lar planet — granting that he had to
put a base in this system? There was
absolutely nothing special about this
world. Its features were dull, its na-
tives uninteresting. The men would
88
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
grumble and do their work shift-
lessly.
The thought occurred to him that
he might have made a mistake in
favoring this planet. It might be best
to set the base some place where the
men would have an environment that
kept them busy.
"No wonder the Tratens never
bothered with this planet,’’ he said
aloud. "They’d have died with bore-
dom before the first battery was in
place.” He shook his head. "I think
we ought to move out before we do
the same. What about those trans-
ports, Cargre.^”
Cargre looked at a board.
"They’ve already left.”
The admiral grimaced. "Well,
let’s get them back as fast as pos-
sible. What’s the name of the next
planet in.^”
"Venus, sir.”
The admiral nodded. "That’s
right, Venus. Comes easier than the
name of ^his place, doesn’t it?”
"It does seem to, sir.”
"Yes. Get me Laukon, will you
please?”
The admiral was already balancing
factors in his mind, calculating
elapsed time for the transports to
turn back, land, load, get to Venus
and unload. Then there were the
additional factors of underground
storage depots to be blasted out, oxy-
gen extractors to be set up, dormi-
tories built — "Hello, Laukon? Look,
get set to load the transports. Hold
on a second — Cargre, how long be-
fore the transports get back? Lau-
kon, you’ll have ships in two hours.
That’s right. Call in and tell Cargre
when you’re set. Cargre, get me
Meteorology, will you? Wonder
what the effect of wind-driven
formaldehyde will be? Cargre, be-
fore you give me Drall, get me Arti-
ficers, will you? We’ll need some-
thing special in the way of suits — ”
Sunlight shim.mered down the
flanks of the ships as the Fleet moved
spaceward. Below it, the abandoned
planet revolved slowly around her
sun, left to her own devices.
The name h Terra, isn’t it?
Yes, Terra. A hard name to re-
member.
Once you got him away from the
stultifying atmosphere of his home
planet. Smith was an interesting per-
son to talk to. Quite often, after the
day’s punishing work of supervising
the establishment of the base, the
admiral found it relaxing to invite
Smith up to his cabin and spend an
hour or so in conversation. Smith had
brought along one of his native mu-
sical instruments, and he sometimes
sang for the admiral.
As a matter of fact, it was the first
time Smith sang that they achieved
their first really intelligent conversa-
tion.
Smith had been sitting in his chair,
idly strumming the instrument.
Probably because of the perpetual
sound of Venusian winds rumbling
by aboveground, he had begun to
hum in a low voice, and, as the song
tightened its grip on his conscious-
ness, had broken into words. His
voice was not good by Freasan stand-
WATCH YOUE STEP
89
,ards. Nevertheless, the native had a
gift of pitch and delivery.
"Oh, blow ye winds a-monrnin ’ — ■
Blow all ye uinds — cry oh!
Ah, cry, ye tvinds a-mournhi ’ —
Oh, oh, oh! . .
He sang in Terran. Even so, the
admiral, who had looked up sharply,
asked: "Is that a native song?"
Smith nodded absently, his head
bent over the instrument.
"Odd,” the admiral mused. "I
know a song very much like it."
Smith shrugged, his fingers strok-
ing muted sounds out of the tight
cords.
"And . . . and that instrument —
what’s your word for it?”
"Guitar."
"Yes. Now, it looks very much
like a Freasan instrument called the
iter. Smith — have you ever won-
dered why you and I look as though
we were descended from the same
stock?”
Smith twitched a shoulder.
, The admiral found himself deep-
ly taken by the idea. "Could it be
because we are? Look — there are so
many similarities. Our languages are
based on the same root tongue. You
.shook my hand when we first met.
That is no unfamiliar custom to a
Freasan. So many thing.s —
"Consider, Smith. It has been
thousands of years since our race first
developed space travel. We have had
it as long as our history goes back.
The history of our race — of any
race — is a fragmentary thing. There
90
are disasters, dark ages — times wbich
might be centuries long when men
are not concerned with anything
more than sheer survival. Who is to
say that we did not, some time un-
imaginably long ago, leave a colony
on . . . on . . . excuse me. Smith — ”
"Terra.”
"Yes. On your planet. Who is to
say that when communication was
interrupted, perhaps by the Tratens,
perhaps by something else, your peo-
ple did not forget their heritage and
live on as though they were an en-
tirely separate race?”
Smith nodded slowly. "Sounds
logical.
"Yes, it does. Very much so,” the
admiral mused. "Play something else
for me, will you please?”
"Sure.” And Smith had played
while the admiral pondered, the
sound of an unfamiliar — and yet
hauntingly reminiscent — phrase occa-
sionally bringing a slow, speculative
look into the admiral’s eyes.
Cargre, Smith, and the admiral,
stood bulkily encased on a ledge,
watching the transports struggle
down on their third trip from Hal-
deja. The grimace on Cargre’s face
was reflected in his voice over the
radio as they watched the ships whirl
and dip like balloons on a gusty
March day.
"We'll lose one, at least,” he said.
The admiral kept his eyes locked
on the descending green-and-gold of
the transports. "I'm afraid so,” he
sighed. "Well, it couldn't be helped.”
Smith watched silently, his face a
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
brown-and-straw blur behind the
diffusing curve of his faceplate.
In the howling hell that served
Venus for a sky, two ships touched.
"No!” the admiral moaned in
agony as they burst apart. Fragments
whirled down out of the sky, shear-
ing the storm. The admiral paid no
attention to them. He was half-
crouched, counting the very few
escape-pods kaleidoscoping in the
sky. Cargre was cursing steadily,
blind with rage. A jag-toothed hull
section screamed silently down at
them, followed by a shower of bro-
ken metal.
An unexpected gust of wind caught
it, throwing it up like a shield from
which the dozen small pieces sud-
denly rebounded like shrapnel. Then
it fell vertically, scarred by the im-
pacts, and dropped to the ground
well short of Cargre, the admiral, and
Smith.
That night, the admiral sat brood-
ing in his quarters. He talkcii more
to himself than he did to Smith.
"Five ships, so far,” he muttered.
"Five ships before we’re fairly start-
ed.” He clutched a thigh with his
angry hand. Then he sighed.
"Well, we knew it would cost us.”
He turned to Smith for a sounding
board. "This is only one fleet. There
are six others, equally big, working
their way around the Tratcn peri-
phery, setting up bases from which
to supply the final attack. And we
don’t expect more than five or six
per cent to come back. What d’you
think of that.^” He found the shock
he was looking for in the native’s
face. "What d’you think of sitting
here and talking to a man who won’t
be alive next year.^ And yet we’ve
got to do it.
"Listen — we’ve been at war with
the Tratens for almost a thousand
years. War! I don’t think a disinter-
ested observer would call it that —
it’s been going on too long.
"They hold their stars, and won’t
let Us come into them. There are
stars beyond in which they have no
interest. They don’t attack us. But
they will not let us go through.
We’ve sent fleet after fleet against
them. We can’t let them block us.
We’d stifle. You can’t have two em-
pires in space.
"They’re like a steel wall in the
sky. One fleet after another’s smash-
ed itself against them.
"We’ve had enough. It’s taken us
a long time to reach this almost
suicidal point, but we have reached
it.
"It’ll bankrupt our economy, and
decimate our race. It’ll throw us back
a liundred years. But we’ll smash
them, this time. And, after tho.se
hundred lost years have passed, we’ll
be back. We 11 have a clear sky to
travel in, and the Tratens will be
out of our way at last.
"But what do you think of that?
Has anyone on your world, in your
society, ever imagined war on that
sort of scale? What do you think of
my people — of your people, perhaps,
as well — who have been able to
reach that kind of decision?”
Smith looked at him for a lung
91
WATCH YOUR STEP
time, his eyes sad. His fingers pluck-
ed at the strings of his guitar.
"Blow all ye winds — cry ohl
Ah, cry, ye winds a-mournin ’ —
Oh, oh, ohl . .
The days went by in a stink of
formaldehyde. As the base grew
nearer to its intended function, the
admiral’s eyes seemed to inch back
under his brows, taking on a darker
coloring. His nightly sessions with
Smith began to lengthen, as though
he had no hope of sleep, however
the time was spent. One by one, the
days whipped away and were gone
over the ugly horizon.
When Smith stepped into his quar-
ters on the last night, the admiral
smiled at him wanly.
"Tomorrow’s the day," he said.
Smith nodded, sitting down.
"How do you feel?"
The admiral twisted a corner of
his mouth. "Glad it’s finally gotten
past the spadework stage.
"You know," he mused, "I find
myself wondering what I’m doing
here.” He shrugged helplessly, "I’ve
had opportunities to retire. I used
to think, sometimes, that if I ever
came to a quiet, peaceful world —
some place with mountains to hunt
in and rivers to fish — But, let’s face
it. There aren’t any places like that.
And the Tratens have got to be bro-
ken, once and for all.”
He broke himself out of the mood
and laughed. "Tomorrow I’ll be
standing on my bridge with blood
92
in my eye, happy as a colt that I’m
finally off this God-forsaken place
and moving.” He turned to Smith.
"You know. I’ll admit I had you
tagged as a pretty dull specimen,
back on . . . your planet. But I’m
glad you came along. I'll tell you the
truth — I’ll be sorry to see you go.
I’ve arranged for a patrol boat to
take you back. You wouldn’t want
to be with us when we get where
we’re going."
"You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
"I’ll miss you. Which is more
than I can say for this solar system.
Let’s face it, and no insults intended
— you people may or may not have
as much claim to being Freasan as I
do, but there’s no real intellectual
tie between us. I come from a com-
plex culture that’s been evolving for
thousands of years. We don’t even
visit most solar systems any more.
We know you’re there. We’ve got
you catalogued and surveyed — most
of you, anyway. But there just isn’t
anything about you to ... to interest
us. D’you see what I mean? Your
motives — your actions — they’re im-
portant and meaningful to you. To
us, no. We’ve had them, and done
them. We’re beyond them.”
Smith nodded slowly. "Sounds
logical.”
"I’m glad you see it.” The ad-
miral was walking back and forth
animatedly. "Look — we’ve got mech-
anisms and sciences you don’t know
anything about. If we were compet-
ing with you for something, you
wouldn’t stand a chance. So what’s
the good of competing? We just
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
leave you alone. I wish I could say
that the average Freasan feels he’s
following a carefully thought-out
'hands off and let ’em evolve for
themselves’ policy. Maybe some of
our theoreticians do, and, certainly,
that’s the effect. But the blunt truth
is that the average Freasan would
no more become involved with you
than he would with a bunch of kids
solving kindergarten problems.”
Smith pulled his fingers across the
strings of his guitar.
The admiral put up his hand as
he walked. "No. Quit trying to spare
me embarrassment. Fm keyed-up as
a bridegroom the night before the
wedding, and I’ve got to run down.”
He swung around and faced Smith.
’’Look — as one Freasan to another,
and to hell with where the chips fall
— if this system wasn’t located in a
little enclave of space that’s man-
aged to somehow stick itself into the
middle of the Tretan empire, we
wouldn’t have revisited you in a
million years. Maybe more. But from
here we can cut ’em in two. So here
we are, in spite of the fact that we
would ordinarily have just as soon
set up housekeeping in the middle
of a desert.
’’Now — how do you feel about
Freasans? Still feel sorry for me?”
The admiral stopped to look at
him again. ’’You’re one prime ex-
ample of a cool customer,” he said
with a certain tinge of admiration.
"I still haven’t figured out how we
forgot to drop you off when we left
. . . uh . . . did you deliberately pick
a name nobody could remember for
your planet?”
Smith chuckled. ’’Terra.”
’’Terra. All right. It could just as
well be any one of a hundred other
planets in a hundred similar system;,
— none of which I can remember.”
Smith nodded quietly to himself
’’What’d you say?” the admiral
asked.
”Me? Nothing.”
’’Could have sworn I heard you
say ’I know.’ Well, anyway — you get
my point. We’re evolving. We’re,
moving up. We’re leaving things be-
hind, sure, but we’re gaining other
things — better things — to replace
them. And, some day, we’re going
to find out where the human race is
going. This thing with the Tratens is
going to set us back. But not per-
manently. We’ll come up again.”
’’This time,” Smith said with com-
plete conviction, ”I will say I know.”
’’Right. One of these days, the
galaxy is going to be Freasan from
end to end.”
’’Except for the solar systems that
bore you.”
’’All right, except for the solar
systems that bore us. But what’s a
solar system or two when you can
walk across the suns?”
Something — nothing he could see
as he looked down to search for it —
made him stumble.
Smith grinned dryly. ’’Careful,”
he said.
THE END
WATCH YOUR STEP
93
Director Byron Mnskin (left) and Producer George Pal (right) confer with authors
Chesley Bontstell and Willy Ley on the filming of their book, "Conquest of Space.’*
THE
CONQUEST
OF
SPACE
94
Paramount Pictures is releasing,
this month, their new George Pal
production, "The Conquest of
Space." The film is based on the
book Willy Ley and Chesley Bone-
stell did; in essence, this is the first
movie of straight science-fact-specu-'
lation that has been done. Sticking
as close to the facts-as-they-are-be-
lievcd-to-be as possible, with a mini-
mum of story-plot hokum, the picture
is a genuine effort to present in full
technicolor form what the present
engineering thoughts about inter-
planetary travel are.
Willy Ley and Chesley Bonestell
were the technical advisors on the
picture; Bonestell, of course, did
much of the art work essential to
screening a dream-comc-true.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
The basic conception is that the
United States Air Force takes on the
job of building first The Wheel, the
space-station orbiting Earth 1,080
miles out, and then the ship capable
of the Mars trip.
In Fig. 1, the whole group of
ships used is seen; at the far left,
the interplanetary satellite-to-Mars
ship; center, the Earth-Satellite ferry
ship, and, right. The Wheel — the
satellite station.
In Fig. 2, the spucesuited crew
of the Earth-to-Satellite ferry is
about to be picked up by a taxi-
rocket for transportation to The
Wheel.
Fig. 3 shows the landing on Mars.
Nasty looking territory for a high-
speed landing; it suggests that the
tail-first landing technique, backing
down on the jets, would be definite-
ly advantageous for a first landing
on a planet !
The picture follows closely the
lines of engineering speculation on
the subject at the present time. The
bulbous auxiliary tanks of the Satel-
lite-to-Mars ship shown in Fig. 1
have been left in orbit around Mars
before the winged ship heads toward
Mars itself.
Pictures of the interior or the
rocket ship show the fuel-control
pipe systems, and the valves are '
clearly labeled; it’s fueled with
hydrazine and nitric acid.
Our cover shows the take-off from
Fig. 1. The principal props in Paramount's “Conquest of Space,” new outer space film
concerning a group of Army volunteers who attempt a flight to Mars from “The
Wheel,” man-made space station some 1,080 miles above Earth.
THE CONQUEST OF SPACE 95
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
HOW TO LEARN MARTIAN
Once upon a time, people thought that a vocabulary
and the grammar rules were the whole story on learning
a language. But modern linguistics finds it’s both more
complicated, and also somewhat simpler than that . . .
BY CHARLES F. HOCKETT
Illustrated by Freas
An agent of the Galactic Federa-
tion, sent to Earth to case the joint
secretly for either friendly or inimi-
cal purposes, could do a good deal
worse than to make a survey of the
scientific terms that appear, quite
casually, in contemporary science fic-
tion. True enough, there would be
some discrepancy between the state
of scientific development suggested
by such a survey and the actual state
of development in laboratory and in-
dustry — atomic energy was spoken of
quite freely in our type of fiction for
HOW TO LEARN MARTIAN
97
decades before technology caught up
with imagination, and, in reverse,
real recent developments in' some
fields are only now beginning to find
their way into science fiction. If the
agent’s sole aim were to measure our
technological potential, science fic-
tion would be of no great help. But
if he also wanted to determine the
degree of general technological
readiness of the w'hole population —
at least in so-called "civilized” parts
of the w’orld — then the suggested
survey would be of considerable
value.
One score on which, as a measure
of real technological development,
our agent’s study of science fiction
might badly mislead him, is in the
matter of communication, particular-
ly the basic form of human communi-
cation, language. An occasional term
of modern linguistics turns up from
time to time in science fiction:
"phoneme,” in particular, is a word
to conjure with just as much as is
"transistor” or "cybernetics.” The
effect sought by the use of such a
word is spoiled if the story-writer
pauses to explain: the use must be
casual, implying that the reader
knows all about such things. And,
because many of our magazines reg-
ularly run factual articles or depart-
ments, and we addicts regularly read
them, this assumption of the story-
writer is very often true.
If w'c can pride ourselves on the
number of modern developments
which were anticipated by the lively
imaginations of an earlier generation
of authors, I think perhaps we
98
should temper this pride with a bit
of shame that w'e have been such
Johnny-come-latelies about phonemes,
morphemes, intonations, construc-
tions, immediate constituents, the im-
pact of languag'e on culture, and the
like. Do you know' when the funda-
mental principle of phonemics w'as
first expounded ?
It was explained rather clearly —
though of course without the w'ord
"phoneme ” — by a twelfth-century
Icelander who was annoyed by the
inaccuracy w'ith which his compat-
riots put dow'n written marks to rep-
resent Icelandic speech. We can
probably forgive ourselves for not
having know'n about this particular
early episode, especially since mod-
ern linguists had forgotten all about
it and had to rediscover the principle
for themselves. But even in modern
times the phonemic principle was
stated, in one way or another, as ear-
ly as about 1910: the earliest men-
tion I have been able to track down
in science fiction postdates World
War II.
Maybe we should catch up. If our
authors would like to follow their
usual custom of being ahead of the
times instead of lagging behind, they
must at least know what the times
have to offer. If w'e readers insist
that they should do this, they will.
We are going along on the first
voyage to Mars, and very convenient-
ly we shall find intelligent oxygen-
breathing beings W'ith respiratory and
digestive tracts shaped very much
like our own. (Later on we can point
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
out why this last assumption is so
convenient.) Our ship lands; we
make the first hesitant contact with
the Martians; and before long our
xenologist, Ferdinand Edward Leon-
ard, B.A., M.A., Ph.D., M.D., X.D.
— who is about as chock full of mod-
ern anthropological, linguistic, com-
municative, engineering, psychiatric,
and biological training as one skin
can be stuffed with — sits down with
a Martian to try to line! out some-
thing about the latter's language.*
(Hidden assumption: Martians can
sit down.) For short, wc shall c.dl
these two "Ferdie” and "Marty” — ■
the latter because even Ferdie won’t
be able to learn, or to pronounce,
Marty’s real name for quite a while.
(Query: Do Martians have personal
names .^)
Ferdie points to the Martian’s foot
and says, of course in English, '"What
do you call that in your language?”
Marty certainly does not understand,
but at this moment he makes a bit of
vocal sound, something like GAH-
djik. Ferdie puts this down in his
little notebook, and writes the Eng-
lish word "foot” by it. 'What Ferdie
puts down to represent the Martian
"word ” — if it really is a word, and
not just Marty clearing his throat in
the typical Martian manner — doesn’t
look quite like what we have written
" Roger Williams, of Rhode Island and Prov-
idence Plantations fame, wrote a little hook
called Kcu Into the Luni/iuif/e of Anirrica a
grammar of a language spoken hy a few hun-
dred Indians in his vicinity, which was but one
of several huridrf’d distinct languages spoken
in aboriginal North America. Some of our ex-
ploring science-fiction heroes fall into this
same error. If tnerc art* millions of intelligent
beings on Mars, there may be thousands of
Martian languages.
above, because Ferdie has a special
set of written marks which he can
use more efficiently and accurately
for the purpose (a "phonetic alpha-
bet’’); but wc needn't bother with
this, because it is merely a conven-
ience, not an essential. Now Ferdie
is not being a fool and jumping to
conclusions when he makes his note-
book entry. He knows perfectly well
that the sound Marty has made may
not only not mean "foot,” but may
not even be a word at all. Ferdie
makes his entry only as a memory
aid: it will be easy enough to scratch
it out when' and if necessary.
Ferdie also says GAHdj'/k himself
— or tries to — and observes Marty’s
reaction. Just for fun, we shall pre-
tend that Marty does not react, so
that this time Ferdie has gained
nothing.
Next Ferdie points to something
else, gets another reaction from
Marty which may be a "word,”
writes it down, and tries to imitate
it. Then he points to a third thing.
After a while, having elicited a num-
ber of such bits of what may be
speech, Ferdie returns to Marty’s
foot. This time what Marty says does-
n’t sound like GAHdjik, but more
like KAHcbuk.
Right at this point, Ferdie comes
face to face with the most ticklish
and crucial problem w'hich can be
encountered by a xenologist or by an
Earth linguist. (Wc except, of
course, the task of working with the
dragonlike inhabitants of Antares II,
whose languages make use not of
sound but of heat-waves.) Has
HOW TO LEARN MARTIAN
99
friend Marty given two different
“words” for two different meanings?
Has he given two distinct "words”
for a single meaning? Or has he
simply said the same "word” twice,
with slight differences in pronuncia-
tion which are clear to Ferdie but
which would be entirely overlooked
by Marty’s fellows?
Since this problem lies at the very
heart of phonemics, we had better
return to Earth momentarily and look
at some more homely examples of
what is involved.
Suppose that your name is Paul
Revere and that you want to arrange
for me, over in Boston, to send you
some sort of a signal across the
Charles River so that you can know
whether the British are coming by
land or by sea. This is all you want
to know — it is already clear that they
are going to be coming one way or
the other, but you need to know
which way. What we ha\ e to do is to
establish a code containing just two
signals. One of the signals will mean
"they’re coming by land,” and the
other will mean "they’re coming by
sea.” The physical circumstances have
something to do with what kinds of
signals we can choose. They must
both be something that you, over on
the Cambridge side of the river, can
easily detect, so that a shout or hal-
loo wouldn’t do very well. Since it
will be night, some sort of arrange-
ment of lights — up in a high place
— would be a good idea.
Another consideration is that there
must be no possible danger of my
100
sending one signal and you receiving
what is apparently the other. That is,
we want to keep the two signals
physically distinct, so that there will
be no danger of misunderstanding.
Shall we use a red lantern for "by
sea” and a green one for "by land”?
No — green rnight not show up too
well, and what's more, we haven’t
got a green l.intern. But I know' there
are tw'o lanterns over in the basement
of the Old North Church: suppose 1
put just one ot them up in the tow'et
for one of the signals, but both of
them, at opposite sides, for the other.
"One, if by land, and two, if by
sea?” Agreed! Good luck on youi
ride! Hope a fog doesn’t come up.
Pcojsle can make signals out of
anything they can control and can
observe, and they can make the sig-
nals mean anything they wish. We
constantly establish little short-term
signaling systems, use them, and then
discard them. A wave of the hand, a
drop of a handkerchief, a wink of
the eye, the raising of a w'indow
blind, the toot of an auto horn — such
events arc assigned special meaning
over and over again. Some signaling
systems are a little more elaborate
and a bit more enduring — for ex-
ample, the pattern of lights, stable
or w'inking, shown at night by a
plane for takeoff, for landing, or
during flight. The really elaborate
systems are hardly "invented,” but
merely passed down from genera-
tion to generation, with gradual
changes; among these, of course, be-
longs language itself. Now', however
varied these different systems may be,
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
they all conform to certain funda-
mental principles. One of these — the
one in which we are concerned here
— is that the users of the signals must
be able to tell them apart. This
sounds simple and obvious enough,
but it has some pretty complicated
results.
Paul Revere and his side-kick had
no trouble on this score, because
they needed only two signals — all
Paul had to have was one item of
information of the either-this-or-that
sort. But suppose you had to work
out a signaling-system which will in-
clude hundreds or thousands of dis-
tinct signals. Keeping them physi-
cally apart and easily distinguished is
in this case much more difficult.
One technique that anyone con-
fronted with such a design-problem
is bound to hit on is to set up some
fairly small repertory of basic ele-
ments, each of them quite different
physically from any of the others,
and then arrange for the actual sig-
nals to consist of some sort of ar-
rangement or combination of the
fundamental elements. Suppose Paul
and his henchman had needed a cou-
ple of hundred different signals.
They could have arranged, for ex-
ample, for a row of five lights to be
put up in the old North Church tow-
er, each light either red or green or
amber: this yields two hundred and
forty-three distinct combinations, yet
calls for only fifteen lanterns to be
available — one of each color for each
of the five positions.
It is pretty obvious that this set of
HOW TO LEARN MARTIAN
two hundred and forty-three signals
would be much easier for Paul to
read from across the river than, say,
the same number of signals consist-
ing each of a lantern of a different
shade. The human eye, true enough,
can distinguish several thousand
shades of color, but finer distinc-
tions are not easy to detect, and for
rapid and efficient use ought not to
be involved. Even as it is, if Paul’s
assistant is only able to find four
really red lamps and has to fill in
with one which is rather orange,
there will be the possibility that the
orange lamp, intended as function-
ally "red,” will be interpreted by
Paul as "amber.” This danger can be
avoided if Paul knows in advance
that the "red” lamps will in actual
transmission vary somewhat in pre-
cise shade, without making any
significant difference in the signal.
This sort of thing has actually
happened in every known case of a
really complicated signaling system,
including language. When a linguist
goes to work on a language he has
never heard before, he can count on
certain things along this line. The
colored lanterns in this case are dif-
ferent motions of lips, tongue, throat,
and lungs, which produce kinds of
sound which can be heard, and told
apart, by human cars.
The investigator knows that the
people who speak the language will
make distinctive use only of certain
differences of articulatory motion — -
that is, maybe they will use relatively
red, relatively green, and relatively
amber lanterns, but not also orange
101
or blue. He knows that if an articu-
latory motion of an ambiguous sort
occurs, it will count as a "mistake”
and will be allowed for by the speak-
ers of the language — since orange is
not functional, the actual appearance
of an orange lantern must be a mis-
take for red or for amber. But he
does not know in advance just what
differences of articulatory motion
will be thus used.
After all, a lantern-code could
make use of any number of differ-
ent ranges of spectral colors, provid-
ing that no two of the significantly
different shades were so close to-
gether as to give rise to serious dan-
ger of confusion. In just the same
way, there are any number of ways
in which a selection can be made,
from the "spectrum” of all possible
speech-sound, of "shades” to be used
distinctively. The only way to find
out what selection is actually made
by the speakers of a given language
is — but let’s watch Ferdie and Marty
again and see if we can find out.
We left Ferdie confronting the
problem of GAHdjik and KAHcLmk.
Assuming that each of these is really
speech, not just Martian throat-clear-
ing, then there are three possibilities:
(1) They are two different words
with two different meanings. If we
were in the position of Marty, the
first time a xenologist pointed to our
ear we might say ear, and at a subse-
quent time we might think he was
asking what the organ is used for,
and so say hear. Ear and bear are
pretty similar: a Frenchman or Ital-
102
ian who knew no English might eas-
ily wonder whether they were two
words or just one.
(2) They are two different words,
but for essentially one and the same
meaning. When we pronounce room
with the vowel sound of cooed we
are using one word; when we pro-
nounce it with the vowel sound of
could we are really using a different
word. But it would be hard to find
any difference in the meaning of the
two.
(3) Marty has simply said the
same word twice: the apparent varia-
tion in pronunciation would not be
noticed by his fellow Martians. A
speaker of Hindustani, hearing us
say pie or tie or cow sexeral times,
might be convinced that we were
pronouncing the initial p- (or t- or
^-) now in one way, now in an-
other, since Hindustani breaks up
the "spectrum” of possible speech
sound a little more finely in this par-
ticular region.
There are several things Ferdie
can do to try to solve this problem.
First, he points to Marty’s foot again
and says KAHcbuk, to observe the
response; a little while later, he
makes the same gesture and says
GAHdjik. For good measure, he also
tries GAHdjnk and KAHcbik, and
even gabDJlK and kahCHlK, mak-
ing the second syllable louder than
the first. The hope is that he can
manage to get something out of
Marty’s reactions which will indicate
acceptance or rejection of the various
pronunciations. If Marty accepts all
the pronunciations except the last
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
two, then Ferdie has fairly good in-
dication that the answer is the second
or third of the possibilities, rather
than the first. Of course he can’t yet
be absolutely certain; perhaps Mar-
tians are too polite to criticize, or
perhaps we simply haven’t yet
learned to read their gestures of ac-
ceptance and rejection.
Many: "FUM.”
Another procedure is available. Ferdie (the tuft of hair) ; "KOO-
Ferdie looks through his notebook pit.”
and notices an entry GOOpit, appar-
ently meaning "small tuft of green
hair sprouting from the back of a
Martian’s neck,” and an entry KOO-
sahng, which seems to refer to a
low-growing yellowish shrub that is
plentiful in the vicinity. This is what
Ferdie does and how Marty reacts:
Ferdie (pointing to the tuft of
Marty: "FUM. NAHboo GOO-
pit.”
Ferdie (the bush): "GOOsahng.”
Marty: "FUM. NAHboo KOO-
sahng.”
Ferdie (pointing to the spaceship
in which we arrived) : "GOOpit.”
Marty (popping all three eyes out
on their stalks) : "HLA - HLA -
hair) : "GOOpit." HLA - HLA! EEkup SAHCH bah-
Marty (closing his middle eye — ap- KEENdut!"
parently the gesture of assent). This last response, whatever it ac-
"FUM.” tually means, is certainly different
Ferdie (pointing to the bush) ; enough from the others to be in-
"KOOsahng.” dicative. Ferdie concludes that he can
HOW TO LEARN MARTIAN
103
probably work on the theory that the
last response was rejection, the oth-
ers all acceptance. But what does this
tell him? It tells him the following:
(1) GOOp/t (or KOOpil) does
not mean "spaceship.”
(2) The pronunciations GOOph
and KOOpit may sound different to
us English-speaking Earthlings, but
to Marty they are all the same.
(3) The pronunciations KOO-
sahng and GOOsahng are also all
the same for Marty.
(4) The pronunciations GAHdj/k,
GAHdjuk. KAHchik, KAHchuk
sound quite varied to us, with our
English-speaking habits, but the dif-
ferences are irrelevant for Marty’s
language.
Or, in short, for the last three
points, the difference between an ini-
tial /l-sound and an initial _^-sound,
which is distinctive for us, is not
functional in Marty’s language. Fer-
die has reached one conclusion about
the phonemic system of Marty’s lan-
guage; in the region of the spectrum
where English distinguishes between
two phonemes, k and g, Marty’s lan-
guage has only one.
It is entertaining to follow the
hard step-by-step field-work of a
xenologist or a linguist this far, but
after this it quickly becomes boring,
at least for everyone but the investi-
gator himself — and, often enough,
for him, too. Because what he has to
do is simply more of the same — over
and over and over again, eliciting,
recording, checking, correcting,
reaching an occasional tentative con-
104
elusion, finding out he was wrong
and revising. It is a routine sort of
task, before long, but unfortunately
it is not one which can be assigned
to any sort of machine. (At least, a
machine that could perform the task
would have to have all the logic and
illogic, all the strengths and lueak-
nesses, of human beings.)
Ferdie’s aim can be stated rather
easily. He wants to reach the point
where he can supply an accurate de-
scription of all the differences in pro-
nuncidlion which are dislimlive in
the linguistic signaling of Marty and
his fellows. He wants to be able to
state what shades of lanterns are
used, in what sequences the different
colors are allowed to occur, and just
what range of spectral shades counts
as an instance of each color. All of
this constitutes the phonemic system
of Marty’s language.
Maybe you think it need not take
Fcrdie very long to achieve this aim.
Well, if Earth languages are any
guide, there is a good chance that
our ship hasn’t brought along enough
food to supply Ferdie while he fin-
ishes the job; unless he can get along
on Martian lizard-weed, the native
staple, he is out of luck. In a day
or so, a well-trained Earth linguist,
working with a completely new lan-
guage, can get the cultural wax out
of his ears and begin to hear some-
thing that sounds like it might really
be a language. Before that, every-
thing is a mumbling buzz. In an-
other ten or so days of hard work,
the linguist can get perhaps ninety
per cent of what counts in the sound-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
making and sound-recognizing habits
of the language, though his own
hearing may not yet be too well train-
ed for the new system. In another
hundred days he can get perhaps
ninety per cent of the remainder.
Sometimes it is years before he gets
it all.
However, this rather long program
shouldn’t discourage us, since Ferdie
can be making effective practical use
of the local Martian dialect long be-
fore the full cycle is up. Ninety per
cent is actually pretty good, though
so long as, in his own attempts at
speaking Martian, Ferdie uses only
ninety per cent, he will impress
Marty as having a pretty un-Martian
accent. Let us see what "ninety per
cent” means and why it is effective.
The phonemic system of Marty’s
language — or of any other — is a set
of distinctive differences between
pronunciations. The units which we
call "phonemes” are in themselves of
no importance: it is the differences
between them that count. A given
phoneme, in terms of its use in com-
munication, is nothing except some-
thing which is different from all the
other phonemes in the system. In
Morse code, a "dot” is a "dot” and
a "dash” is a "dash” whether the
former is a short voltage pulse and
the latter a long one, or the former
is a wave of a flag in one direction
and the latter a wave in the other
direction. This is why we will irri-
tate Ferdie no end if we ask him,
after his first day’s work, "Well, do
they have a phoneme K?” or "Well,
HOW TO LEARN MARTIAN
is K a. phoneme in Martian.^” If you
want to compare languages with each
other, the sort of question which
must be asked — the sort that will be
meaningful to Ferdie even if he
can’t yet answer it — is "Does Marty
have a phonemic contrast between
K and G.^”
The difference between K and G
is distinctive in English, so that we
have two phonemes rather than just
one in this general region of the
.spectrum, because a great many pairs
of words are kept apart by the dif-
ference and by nothing else; good :
could, gap : cap, glue : clue, bag :
hack, bigger : bicker, and so on. In
Marty’s language there are no pairs
of vcords kept apart in just this way.
On the other liand, the difference
between EE and AH is distinctive in
Marty’s language — as in ours — be-
cause KEEtah means "eyestalk”
while KAHtah means "setting of
Deimos.”
The sole function of phonemes,
then, is to be different from each
other, and, in being so, to keep
words and utterances — whole sig-
naLs — apart. But some differences be-
tween phonemes do a lot more of this
work than do others. The difference
between K and G in English carries,
relatively speaking, a fairly large
share of the total load, as you can
easily see by looking for more pairs
of words like those which we gave
above — it is easy to list hundreds.
The difference between the j/a-sound
of she or hush and the z/)-sound in
the middle of pleasure is also func-
tional, but this distinction doesn’t
105
carry very much of the total load. If
you look hard, you may be able to
find three or four pairs of words in
which this difference is the only one
— one example is measure and
mesher — but there are very few.
Actually, a technique deriving
from information theory makes it
theoretically possible to express the
"functional load" of different pho-
nemic' contrasts in a language in
quantitative terms, to anv desired de-
gree of accuracy. But the amount of
counting and computing which is in-
volved is enormous, and would hard-
ly be undertaken without a properly
designed computing machine — and
then it costs lots of money instead
of lots of time, which for linguists
is even worse. But we don’t need
such figures here; the general prin-
ciple is, we hope, clear enough.
It is because of this that Ferdie
can begin making effective use of
Martian long before he has ferreted
out and pinned down every last ves-
tige of distinctive difference in artic-
ulation of which the language makes
some use. It is obvious on the face
of it that the differences which he
discovers first are bound to be, by
and large, the differences of greatest
functional importance. Working just
with these in his own attempts to
speak Martian, he will sometimes be
misunderstood — but we misunder-
stand each other from time to time
even under the best of circumstances.
If you want further empirical evi-
dence, you need only think of the
German or the Frenchman who makes
you understand him with imperfect
106
English — or of you, yourself, manag-
ing. to communicate in imperfect
French or German.
If there are Martians, and they are
intelligent and have a language, and
if they do have upper respiratory
and alimentary tracts shaped much
like our ow'n, and ears much like
ours, and, finally, if they do make
use of these organs in speech com-
munication — given all these ifs, then
tlie procedures of Ferdinand Edward
Leonard will work, and he will be
able to "break” the phonemic sys-
tem of the language.
But suppose that the Martians fail
on just one of the above ifs. Suppose
that they have two tongues and no
nose. How, then, is Ferdinand Ed-
ward Leonard to imitate and to learn
to recognize their speech sounds?
Suppose something even more dras-
tic. Suppose that the Martians com-
municate w'ith a system just as
complex as human language and
with much the same essential struc-
ture, but that instead of modulating
sound they modulate a carrier at fre-
quencies above the reach of human
cars — or radio waves, or a light beam,
or odors, or electrical flows, or some
kind of energy transmitted through
the "sub-ether.” What kind of equip-
ment and training shall we give our
xenologists to handle situations of
this sort? There are still certain fun-
damental design-features which any
such language-like communications
system- is bound to include, but the
problem of observation and analysis
is tremendously harder.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
THE LONG WAY HOME
Second of Four Parts. They weren't exactly welcome
on an Earth 5,000 years beyond their time — but they
were hotly contended for. Nobody liked them, but every-
body wanted them — particularly the one who wasn't there!
BY POOL ANDERSON
Illustrated by Frees
THE LONG WAY HOME
107
SYNOPSIS
In the Twenty-first Century, a
physical effect was discovered which
seemed to transport matter instan-
taneously from place to place and
thus to permit interstellar travel. Un-
fortunately, the positioning control
was very poor; therefore the United
States Department of Astronautics
outfitted a spaceship, the Explorer,
with the new "superdrive” and a
small crew of scientists who were to
get the bugs out of the system. Their
method was to fump across light-
years to test each change in the cir-
cuits, and in the course of a year they
had completed the task and returned
to Earth. The cretv consisted of:
Captain Edward Langley; pilot and
engineer; electronician Robert Mat-
sumoto; and physicist fames Blau-
stein. A fourth man had died, but
his place was taken by Saris Hronna
of Holat.
Holat, a thousand light-years from
Sol, had seemed a backward planet
whose race — big otterlike creatures —
were peaceful neolithic herders in
spite of being carnivorous. But its
world-wide civilization was highly
developed along nonhuman lines,
especially in the fields of psychology
and philosophy. The Holatans were
sensitive to neural currents, though
not mind readers, and enjoyed a
stabilizing emotional communion.
They had bec7i of considerable help
in improving the superdrive, and
Saris Hronna tvent along to Earth
as their representative.
When the Explorer returned, Earth
was far off its expected position.
Nevertheless Langley brought the
ship in, noting that his world was
strangely altered: the polar ice-caps
were gone, the coastlines changed,
cities he knew had disappeared atid
others arisen, the radio carried a
wholly foreign language. Antigrav-
ity warships forced him down to a
landing field i?i the New /Mexico
area, and the crew was arrested by
uniformed men carrying unktiown
weapons. Saris nullified these and
escaped into the agricultural coun-
tryside; the hutnans remained prison-
ers.
Under hypnosis they revealed
what they knew and learned the
present language. Awakening, Lang-
ley was interviewed by Chant havar
Tang VO Turin, chief field operative
of Solar military intelligence, who
explained the facts to him. The su-
perdrive was only light-speed, a pro-
jection and recreation of de Broglie
leaves rather than a jump through
"hyperspace,” and in crossing five
thousand light-years the Explorer
went five thousand years into the
future. No better drive had been dis-
covered, and only the nearer stars
were normally visited: lost colonies
were known to be scattered through
the galaxy, but they lay beyond con-
tact and must have developed a wide
variety of civilizations.
For the past two thousand years,
the Solar System had been unified
under the Technate, a petrified so-
ciety in which basic decisions were
made by the Technon, a giant, hid-
den sociomathematical computer. Ad-
108
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
ministration was in the hands of the
Ministers, a class of genetically se-
lected aristocrats; the army, like the
police and most servants, were slaves,
specially bred and trained: the Com-
moners lived relatively unsnpervised
lives in the loiver-city levels, work-
ing for hire or as small entrepreneurs,
but powerless, uneducated, and im-
poverished,
Sol’s deadly rivals tvere the Cen-
taurians, descendants of early colo-
nists on the habitable planets Thor
and Freyja of the Alpha Centaurian
System. They were mechanized semi-
barbarians, divided into nobles, yeo-
men, and technicians, warlike and
greedy for more land. They bad
fought an unsuccessful war with the
natives of Thrym, a poisonous giant
planet of Proxima, and later allied
themselves with the wholly unhuman
Thrymans. At present, sheer distance
prevented tvar with Sol, hut both
sides were maneuvering for advan-
tage and any upset in the balance of
power could lead to space fleets bom-
barding the planets with ruinous
effect.
Lord Brannoch dhu Crombar of
Thor was not only the Centaurian
ambassador to Sol, but the head of a
spy ring. Through a Solar officer in
his pay, he learned of the Explorer
and at once realized the significance
of Saris’ hitherto unknoum powers.
He had four Thrymans in a tank
with him — or one, since they could
hook up telepathically into a single
unit — whose ability to read humati
minds was a closely guarded secret
of immense value. But he got the
idea for d campaign to catch Saris
for himself: he would work through
Langley, of ivhose personal effects
he had obtained photographs. These
included pictures of the spaceman’s
long-dead wife.
Chanthavar teas also anxious to
get Saris, and asked Langley’s help;
the spaceman, stunned and heartsick,
stalled till he could learn more by
claiming he had no idea where Saris
ivould go. Chanthavar took the Ex-
plorer crew to a party, tvhere they
tvere a minor sensation and Langley
got a further impression of Solar
decadence and Centaurian ruthless-
ness. There he met Brannoch, as ivell
as Goltam Valti, chief Solar factor
of the Commercial Society. This was
a nomad group, a civilization in its
own right composed of many races,
trading tvith all known planets and
becoming ever more important as
these used up their own resources.
Both Brannoch and Valti hinted
strongly that they would pay well to
be told Saris’ whereabouts: obviously
both had agents in the Solar govern-
ment.
Meanwhile the Holatan, pursued
by Technate police, was trying to
hide till he could evaluate the new
situation for himself. He was afraid
his own playlet, though far off, might
become the prey of some chance con-
quistador; to aid it, he planned to
play the various human factions off
against each other. He used his
brain’s power of electromagnetic in-
duction, which enabled him to con-
trol any electronic apparatus, to help
him capture a police aircraft, and in
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109
this he went looking for a hiding
place.
PART 2
VI
Progress does get made: Langley’s
refresher cabinet removed all trace
of hangover from him the next
morning, and the service robot slid
breakfast from a chute onto a table
and removed it when he was through.
But after that there was a day of
nothing to do but sit around and
brood. Trying to shake off his depres-
sion, Langley dialed for books — a
slave superintendent had shown him
how to operate the gadgets in the
apartment. The machine clicked to
itself, hunted through the city library
microfiles under the topics selected,
and made copy spools which the
spacemen put into the scanners.
Blaustein tried to read a novel,
then some poetry, then some straight
articles, and gave it up; with his
scant knowledge of their background,
they were almost meaningless. He
did report that all writing today
seemed highly stylized, the intricate
form, full of allusions to the classic
literature of two millennia ago, more
important than the rather trivial con-
tent. "Pope and Dryden," he mut-
tered in disgust, "but they at least
had something to say. What are you
finding out, Bob.^’’
Matsumoto, who was trying to
orient himself in modern science and
technology, shrugged. "Nothing. It's
all written for specialists, takes for
110
granted that the reader’s got a thor-
ough background. I’d have to go to
college all over again to follow it —
what the blue hell is a Zagan ma-
trix.^ No popularization at all; guess
nobody but the specialists care what
makes things tick. All I get is an im-
pression that nothing really new has
been found out for a couple of thou-
sand years.’’
"Petrified civilization,’’ said Lang-
ley. ''They’ve struck a balance, every-
body in his place, everything running
smooth enough — there’s been noth-
ing to kick them out of their rut.
Maybe the Centaurians ought to take
over, I dunno. ”
He returned to his own spools,
history, trying to catch up on all that
had happened. It was surprisingly
hard. Nearly everything he found
was a .scholarly monograph assuming
an immense erudition in a narrow
field. Nothing for the common man,
if that much misunderstood animal
still existed. And the closer he got
to the present, the fewer references
there were — understandable enough,
especially in a civilization whose fu-
ture seemed all to lie behind it.
The most important discovery
since the superdrive was, he gath-
ered, the paramathematical theory of
man, both as individual and as so-
ciety, which had made it possible to
reorganize on a stable, predictable,
logical basis. There had been no
guesswork on the part of the Tech-
nate’s founders: they didn’t think
that such and such arrangements for
production and distribution would
work, they knew. The science wasn’t
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
perfect, it couldn’t be; such eventu-
alities as the colonial revolts had
arisen unforeseen; but the civiliza-
tion was stable, with high negative
feedback, it adjusted smoothly to
new conditions.
Too smoothly. The means of
sound social organization had not
been used to liberate man, but to
clamp the yoke more tightly — for a
small cadre of scientists had neces-
sarily laid out the plans and seen
them through, and they or their de-
scendants (with fine, humane ration-
alizations they may even have be-
lieved themselves) had simply stayed
in power. It was, after all, logical
that the strong and the intelligent
should rule — the ordinary man was
simply not capable of deciding issues
in a day when whole planets could
be wiped clean of life. It was also
logical to organize the rules; selec-
tive breeding, controlled heredity,
psychological training, could produce
a slave class which was both efficient
and contented, and that too was logi-
cal. The ordinary man had not ob-
jected to such arrangements, indeed
he had accepted them eagerly, be-
cause the concentration and central-
ization of authority which had by
and large been increasing ever since
the Industrial Revolution had incul-
cated him with a tradition of sub-
servience. He wouldn’t have known
what to do with liberty if you gave
it to him.
Langley wondered with a certain
glumness whether any other outcome
would have been possible in the long
run.
Chanthavar called up to suggest
a tour of the city,' Lora, next day. "I
know you’ve found it pretty dull so
far,” he apologized, "but I have
much to do right now. I’d enjoy
showing you around tomorrow,
though, and answering any questions
you may have. That seems the best
way for you to get yourselves
oriented.”
When he had hung up, Matsu-
moto said: "He doesn’t seem a bad
guy. But if the setup here’s as aris-
tocratic as I think, why should he
take so much trouble personally?”
"We’re something new, and he’s
bored,” said Blaustcin. "Anything
tor a novelty.”
"Also,” murmured Langley, "he
needs us. I’m pretty sure he can’t get
anything very coherent out of us un-
der hypnosis or whatever they use
nowadays, or we’d’ve been in the
calaboose long ago.”
"You mean the Saris affair?” Blau-
stein hesitated. "Ed, have you any
notion where that overgrown otter is
and what he’s up to?”
"Not . . . yet,” said Langley. They
were speaking English, but he was
sure there must be a recording micro-
phone somewhere in the room, and
translations could be made. "It
beats me.”
Inwardly, he wondered why he
held back. He wasn’t cut out for this
world of plotting and spying and
swift deadly action. He never had
been; a spaceman was necessarily a
gentle, introverted sort, unable to
cope with the backbitings and in-
trigues of office politics. In his own
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111
time, he had always been able to pull
rank when something went wrong —
and afterward lie awake wondering
whether his judgment had been fair
and what the men really thought of
him. Now he was nothing.
It would be so easy to give in,
cooperate with Chanthavar, and glide
with the current. How did he know
it wouldn’t be right The Tcchnate
seemed to represent order, civiliza-
tion, justice of sorts; he had no busi-
ness setting himself up against twen-
ty billion people and five thousand
years of history. Had Peggy been
along, he would have surrendered,
her neck was not one to risk for a
principle he wasn’t even sure of.
But Peggy was dead, and he had
little , except principle to live for. It
was no fun playing God, even on
this petty scale, but he had come
from a society which laid on each
man the obligation to decide things
for himself.
Chanthavar called the following
afternoon, still yawning. "What a
time to get up!’’ he complained.
"Life isn’t worth the effort before
sundown. Well, shall we go?’’
As he led them out, half a dozen
of his guards closed in around the
party. "What’re they for, anyhow?’’
asked Langley. "Protection against
the Commons?”
"I’d like to see a Commoner even
think about making trouble,” said
Chanthavar. "If he can think, which
I sometimes doubt. No, I need these
fellows against my own rivals. Bran-
noch, for instance, would gladly
112
knock me off just to get an incom-
petent successor. I’ve ferreted out a
lot of his agents. And then I have
my competitors within the Technate.
Having discovered that bribery and
cabals won’t unseat me, they may
\ ery well try the less subtle but direct
approach.”
"What would they stand to gain
by . . . assassinating you?” inquired
Blaustein.
"Power, position, maybe some of
my estates. Or they may be out and
out enemies: 1 had to kick in a lot
of teeth on my own way up, there
aren’t many influential offices these
days. My father was a very petty
Minister on Venus, my mother a
Commoner concubine. I only got
rank by passing certain tests and . . .
elbowing a couple of half brothers
aside.” Chanthavar grinned. "Rather
fun. And the competition does keep
my class somewhat on its toes, which
is why the Tcchnon allows it.”
They emerged on a bridgeway and
let its moving belt carry them along,
dizzily high over the city. At this
altitude, Langley could see that Lora
was built as a single integrated unit:
no building stood alone, they were
all connected, and there was a solid
roof underneath decking over the
lower levels. Chanthavar pointed to
the misty horizon, where a single
great tower reared skeletal, "Weath-
er-control station,” he said. "Most
of what you see belongs to the city.
Ministerial public park, but over that
way is the boundary of an estate be-
longing to Tarahoe. He raises grain
on it, being a back-to-nature crank.”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
"Haven’t you any small farms?”
asked Langley.
"Space, no!” Chanthavar looked
surprised. "They do on the Centaur-
ian planets, but I’d find it hard to
imagine a more inefficient system. A
lot of our food is synthesized, the
rest is grown on Ministerial lands —
in fact, the mines and factories,
everything is owned by some Min-
ister. That way, our class supports it-
self as well as the Commons, who
on the cxtrasolar planets have to pay
taxes. Here, a man can keep what
he earns. Public works like the mili-
tary forces are financed by industries
owned in the name of the Technon.”
"But what do the Commoners do?”
"They have jobs — mostly in the
cities, a few on the land. Some of
them work for themselves, as arti-
sians or meditechs or something sim-
ilar. The Technon gives the orders
on how to balance population and
production, so that the economy runs
a smooth course. Here, this ought to
interest you.”
It was a museum. The general lay-
out had not changed much, though
there was a lot of unfamiliar gadgetry
for better exhibition. Chanthavar led
them to the historical-archeological
section, the centuries around their
own time. It was saddening how
little had survived: a few coins, age-
blurred in spite of electrolytic restor-
ation; a chipped glass tumbler; a
fragment of stone bearing the defaced
name of some bank; the corroded
remnant of a flintlock musket, found
in the Sahara when it was being re-
claimed; broken marble which had
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once been a statue. Chanthavar said
that the Egyptian pyramids, part of
the Sphinx, traces of buried cities, a
couple of ruined dams in America
and Russia, some hydrogen-bomb
craters, were still around, otherwise
nothing earlier than the Thirty-fifth
Century. Time went on, relentlessly,
and one by one the proud works of
man were lost.
Langley found himself whistling,
as if to keep up his courage. Chan-
thavar cocked an inquisitive head.
"What’s that?”
"Conclusion to the Ninth Sym-
phony — Frei/de, schone Gotterf unken
— ever hear of it?”
"No.” There was a curious, wist-
ful expression on the wide bony face.
"It’s a shame. I rather like that.”
They had lunch at a terrace res-
taurant, where machines served a
gaily dressed, stiff-mannered clientele
of aristocrats. Chanthavar paid the
bill with a shrug. "I hate to put
money into the purse of Minister
Agaz — he’s after my head — but you
must admit he keeps a good chef.”
The guards did not eat; they were
trained to a sparse diet and an un-
tiring watchfulness.
"There’s a lot to see, here in the
upper levels,” said Chanthavar. He
nodded at the discreet glow-sign of
an amusement house. "But it’s more
of the same. Come on downside for
a change.”
A gravity shaft dropped them two
thousand feet, and they stepped into
another world.
Here there was no sun, no sky;
113
walls and ceiling were metal, floors
were soft and springy, and a ruler-
straight drabness filled Langley’s vi-
sion. The air was fresh enough, but
it throbbed and rang with a noise
that never ended — pumping, ham-
mering, vibrating, the deep steady
heartbeat of that great machine
which was the city. The corridors — ■
streets — were crowded, restless, alive
with motion and shrill talking.
So these were the Commoners.
Langley stood for a moment in the
shaft entrance, watching them. He
didn’t know what he had expected — ■
gray-clad zombies, perhaps — but he
was surprised. The disorderly mass
reminded him of cities he had seen
in Asia.
Dress was a cheap version of the
Ministerial: tunics for men, long
dresses for women; it seemed to fall
into a number of uniforms, green
and blue and red, but was sloppily
worn. The men’s'heads were shaven;
the faces reflected that mixture of
races which man on Earth had be-
come; there were incredible numbers
of naked children playing under the
very feet of the mob; there was not
that segregation of the sexes which
the upper levels enforced.
A booth jutting out from one wall
was filled with cheap pottery, and a
woman carrying a baby in her arms
haggled with the owner. A husky,
near-naked porter sweated under a
load of machine parts. Two young
men squatted in the middle of traffic,
shooting dice. An old fellow sat
dreamily with a glass in his hand,
just inside the door of a tavern. A
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clumsy fist fight, watched by a few
idlers, went on between a inan in
red and one in green. An obvious
streetwalker was making up to a
moronic-looking laborer. A slim,
keen-faced merchant — from Gany-
mede, Chanthavar said — was talking
quietly with a fat local buyer. A
wealthy man rode a tiny two-whecler
down the street, accompanied by two
servants who cleared a way for him.
A jeweler sat in his booih, hammer-
ing on a bracelet. A thrce-year-old
stumbled, sat down hard, and broke
into a wail which everybody ignored
— it could barely be heard through
all the racket. An apprentice fol-
lowed his master, carrying a tool box.
A drunk sprawled happily against
the wall. A vendor pushed a cart full
of steaming tidbits, crying his wares
in a singsong older than civilization.
So much Langley could see, then it
faded into the general turbulence.
Chanthavar ofifered cigarettes,
struck one for himself, and led the
way behind a couple of guards. Peo-
ple fell aside, bowing respectfully
and then resuming their affairs.
''We’ll have to walk,” said the agent.
"No slideways down here.”
'AVhat are the uniforms?” asked
Blaustein.
"Different trades — metalworker,
food producer, and so on. They have
a guild system, highly organized,
several years’ apprenticeship, and
there’s a lot of rivalry between the
guilds. As long as the Commons do
their work and behave themselves,
we leave them pretty much alone.
The police — city-owned slaves —
keep them in line if real trouble
ever starts.” Chanthavar pointed to a
burly-clad man in a steel helmet. "It
doesn't matter much what goes on
here. They haven’t the weapons or
the education to threaten anything;
such schooling as they get emphasizes
how they must fit themselves to the
basic system.”
"Who’s that?” Matsumoto ge.s-
tured to a man in form-fitting scarlet,
his face masked, a knife in his belt,
who slipped quietly between people
indisposed to hinder him.
"Assassins’ guild, though mostly
they hire out to do burglaries and
beatings. The Commoners aren't ro-
bots — we encourage free enterprise.
They’re not allowed firearms, so it’s
safe enough and keeps the others
amused.”
"Divided, you mean,” said Lang-
ley.
Chanthavar spread his hands.
"What would you do? It isn’t pos-
sible to have equality. It's been tried
again and again in history, giving
everybody a vote, and it’s always
failed — always, in a few generations,
the worse politicians drove out the
better. Because by definition, half the
people always have below-average
intelligence; and the average is riot
high. Nor can you let these mobs
go just anywhere — Earth’s too
crowded.”
"It’s a cultural matter,” said Lang-
ley. "I know a lot of countries back
around my own time started out with
beautiful constitutions and soon fell
into dictatorship: but that was be-
cause there was no background, no
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116
tradition. Some, like Great Britain,
made it work for centuries, because
they did have that kind of society,
that . . . common-sense attitude.”
"My friend, you can’t make over
a civilization,” said Chanthavar, "and
in reforming one, you have to use
the materials available. The founders
of the Technate knew that. It’s too
late; it was always too late. Look
around you — think these apes are fit
to decide public policy?” He sighed.
"Read your history and face it: war,
poverty, and tyranny are the natural
condition of man, the so-called gold-
en ages are freak fluctuations which
soon collapse because they don’t fit
a creature only three hundred life-
times out of the caves. Life is much
too short to spend trying to alter the
laws , of nature. Ruthless use of
strength is the law of nature.”
Langley gave up, became a tourist.
He was interested in the factories,
where men were ants scurrying
around the metal titans they had
built; in the schools, where a few
years including hypnotic indoctrina-
tion were enough to teach the needed
rudiments; in the dark, smoky, rau-
cous taverns; in the homes, small
crowded apartments with a moderate
comfort, even stereoscopic shows of
appropriate imbecility, and a rather
cheerful, indulgent family life in a
temple, where a crowd swaying and
chanting its hymns to Father remind-
ed him of an old-time camp meeting;
in the little shops which lined the
streets, last survival of handicraft
and a surprisingly good folk art; in
the market, which filled a gigantic
116
open circle with shrilling women —
Yes, a lot to see.
After dinner, which was at a spot
patronized by the wealthier Common
merchants, Chanthavar smiled. "Near
walked my legs off today,” he said.
"Now how about some fun? A city
is known by its vices.”
"Well . . . O. K.,” said Langley.
He was a little drunk, the sharp
pungent beer of the lower levels
buzzed in his head. He didn’t want
women, not with memory still a
bright pain in him, but there ought
to be games and — His purse was
full of bills and coins. "Where to?”
“Dreamhouse, I think,” said
Chanthavar, leading them out. "It’s
a favorite resort for all levels.”
The entrance was a cloudy blue-
ness opening into many small rooms.
They took one, slipping life-masks
over their faces: living synthetic
flesh which stung briefly as it con-
nected to nerve endings in the skin
and then was part of you. "Every-
body’s equal here, everybody anony-
mous,” said Chanthavar. "Refresh-
ing.”
"What is your wish, sirs?” The
voice came from nowhere, cool and
somehow not human.
"General tour,” said Chanthavar.
"The usual. Here . . . put a hundred
solars in this slot, each of you. The
place is expensive, but fun.”
They relaxed on what seemed a
dry, fluffy cloud, and were carried
aloft. The guards formed an im-
passive huddle some distance behind.
Doors opened for them. They hung
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
under a perfumed sky of surrealistic
stars and moons, looking down on
what appeared to be a deserted land-
scape not of Earth.
"Part illusion, part real,” said
Chanthavar. "You can have any ex-
perience you can imagine here, for
the right price. Look — ”
The cloud drifted through a rain
which was blue and red and golden
fire, tingling as it licked over their
bodies. Great triumphant chords of
music welled around them. Through
the whirling flames, Langley glimps-
ed girls of an impossible loveliness,
dancing on the air.
Then they were underwater, or so
it seemed, with tropical fish swim-
ming through a green translucence,
corals and waving fronds under-
neath. Then they were in a red-lit
cavern, where the music was a hot
pulse in the blood and they shot at
darting containers which landed to
offer a drink when hit. Then they
were in a huge and jolly company of
people, singing and laughing and
dancing and guzzling. A pneumatic
young female giggled and tugged at
Langley’s arm — briefly, he wavered,
there must be some drug in the air,
then he said harshly: "Scram!”
Whirled over a roaring waterfall,
sporting through air which was
somehow thick enough to swim in,
gliding past grottoes and glens full
of strange lights, and on into a gray
swirling mist where you could not
see a yard ahead. Here, in a dripping
damp quiet which seemed to mask
enormousness, they paused.
Chanthavar’s shadowy form ges-
tured, and there was a queer taui
note in his muffled voice: "Would
you like to play Creator.? Let me
show you — " A ball of raging flame
was in his hands, and from it he
molded stars and strewed them
through sightless immensity. "Suns,
planets, moons, people, civilizations
and histories — you can make them
here as you please.” Two stars
crashed into each other. "You can
will yourself to see a world grow,
any detail no matter how tiny, a
million years in a minute or a min-
ute stretched through a million years;
you can smite it with thunder, and
watch them cower and worship
you.” The sun in Chanthavar’s
hands glowed dully through the fog.
Tiny sparks which were planets flit
ted around it. "Let me clear the mist
let there be light. Let there be Life
and a History!”
Something moved in the we:
smoky air. Langley saw a shadow
striding between new-born constella
tions, a thousand light-years tall. A
hand gripped his arm, and dimly he
saw the pseudo-face beyond.
He writhed free, yelling, as the
other hand sought his neck. A wire
loop snaked out, tangling his ankles
There were two men now, closing
in on him. Wildly, he groped back-
ward. His fist connected with a cheek
which bled artificial blood.
” Chanthavar r
A blaster cra.shed, startlingly loud
and brilliant. Langley hurled a giant
red sun into one of the faces waver-
ing near him. Twisting free of an
arm about his waist, he kneed the
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117
vague form and heard a grunt of
pain.
"Light!” bellowed Chanthavar.
"Get rid of this mist!”
The fog broke, slowly and ragged-
ly. There was a deep clear blackness,
the dark of outer vacuum, with stars
swimming in it like fireflies. Then
full illumination came on.
A man sprawled dead near Chan-
thavar, his stomach torn open by an
energy bolt. The guards milled un-
easily, Otherwise they were alone.
The room was bare, coldly lit, Lang-
ley thought somewhere in his lurch-
ing mind that it was cruel to show
the emptiness here where there had
been dreams.
For a long moment, he and the
agent stared at each other. Blaustein
and Matsumoto were gone.
"Is . . . this . . . part of the fun.^”
asked Langley through his teeth.
"No.” A hunter’s light flickered
in Chanthavar’s eyes. He laughed.
"Beautiful job! I’d like to have those
fellows on my staff. Your friends
have been stunned and kidnaped un-
der my own eyes. Come on!”
VII
There was a time of roaring con-
fusion, as Chanthavar snapped or-
ders into a visiphone, organizing a
chase. Then he swung around to
Langley. "I’ll have this warren
searched, of course,” lie said, "but
I don’t imagine the kidnapers are
still in it. The robots aren’t set to
notice who goes out in what condi-
tion, so that’s no help. Nor do I ex-
118
pect to find the employee of this
place who helped fix matters up for
the snatch. But I've got the organ-
ization alerted, there’ll be a major
investigation hereabouts inside half
an hour. And Brannoch’s quarters
are being watched already.”
"Brannoch?” repeated Langley
stupidly. His brain felt remote, like
a stranger's, he couldn’t throw off
the air-borne drugs as fast as the
agent.
"To be sure! Who elsc.^ Never
thought he had this efficient a gang
on Larth, but — They won’t take
your friends directly to him, of
course, there’ll be a hideout some-
where in the lower le\els, not too
much chance of finding it among
fifteen million Commoners, but we’ll
try. We’ll try!”
A policeman hurried up with a
small, metal-cased object which
Chanthavar took. "Peel off that mask.
This is an electronic scent-tracer,
we’ll try to follow the trail of the
pseudo-faces — distinctive odor, so
don’t you confuse it. I don’t think
the kidnapers took the masks off in
Dreamhouse, then someone might
notice who they were carrying. Stick
with us, we may need you. Let’s go!”
A score of men, black-clad, armed,
and silent, surrounded them. Chan-
thavar cast about the main exit.
There was something of the questing
hound over him — the aesthete, the
hedonist, the casual philosopher,
were blotted up in the hunter of
men. A light glowed on the ma-
chine. "A trail, all right,” he mut-
tered. "If only it doesn’t get cold
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too fast — Damn it, why must they
ventilate the lowers so well?” He
set off at a rapid jog trot, his men
keeping an easy pace. The milling
crowds shrank away.
Langley was too bewildered to
think. This was happening faster
than he could follow, and the drugs
of Dreamhoiise were still in his
blood, making the world unreal. Bob,
Jim, now the great darkness had
snatched them too, and would he ever
see them again ?
Why?
Down a drop-shaft, falling like
autumn leaves, Chanthavar testing
each exit as he passed it. The un-
ceasing roar of machines grew loud-
er, more frantic. Langley shook his
head, trying to clear it, trying to
master himself. It was like a dream,
he was carried willessly along be-
tween phantoms in black, and —
He had to get away. He had to
get off by himself, think in peace;
it was an obsession now, driving
everything else out of his head, he
was in a nightmare and he wanted
to wake up. Sweat was clammy on
his skin.
The light flashed, feebly. "This
way!” Chanthavar swung out of a
portal. "Trail's weakening, but may-
be — ”
The guards pressed after him.
Langley hung back, dropped farther,
and stepped out at the next level
down.
It was an evil section, dim-lit and
dingy, the streets almost deserted.
Closed doors lined the walls, litter
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blew about under his feet, the stamp-
ing and grinding of machines filled
his universe. He walked fast, turning
several corners, trying to hide.
Slowly, his brain cleared. An old
man in dirty garments sat cross-leg-
ged beside a door, watching him out
of filmy eyes. A small group of
grimed children played some game
under the white glare of a fluoro-
lamp in the street ceiling. A sleazy
woman slunk close to him, flashing
bad teeth in a mechanical smile, and
fell behind. A tall young man, rag-
ged and unshaven, leaned against
the wall and followed his movements
with listless eyes. This was the slum,
the oldest section, poor and neglect-
ed, last refuge of failure; this was
where those whom the fierce life of
the upper tiers had broken fled, to
drag out lives of no importance to
the Technon. Under the noise of
mills and furnaces, it was very quiet.
Langley stopped, breathing hard.
A furtive hand groped from a nar-
row passage, feeling after the purse
at his belt. He slapped, and the
child’s bare feet pattered away into
darkness.
Fool thing to do, he thought. /
could be murdered for my cash. Let’s
find us a CO f and get out of here,
son.
He walked on down the street. A
legless beggar whined at him, but
he didn't dare show his money. New
legs could have been grown, but
that was a costly thing. 'Well be-
hind, a tattered pair followed him.
Where was a policeman ? Didn’t any-
one care what happened down here.^
119
A huge shape came around a
corner. It had four legs, a torso with
arms, a nonhuman head. Langley
hailed it. '"Which is the way out?
Where’s the nearest shaft going up?
I’m lost.”
The alien looked blankly at him
and went on. No spikka da Inglees.
Etie Town, the section reserved for
visitors of other races, was some-
where around here. That might be
safe, though most of the compart-
ments would be sealed off, their in-
teriors poisonous to him. Langley
v/ent the way the stranger had come.
His followers shortened the distance
between.
Music thumped and wailed from
an open door. There was a bar, a
crowd, but not the sort where he
could look for help. As the final
drug-mists cleared, Langley realized
that he might be in a very tight fix.
Two men stepped out of a passage.
They were husky, well dressed for
Commoners. One of them bowed.
"Can I do you a service, sir?”
Langley halted, feeling the cold-
ness of his own sweat. “Yes,” he
said thickly. "Yes, thanks. How do I
get out of this section?”
"A stranger, sir?” They fell in,
one on either side. "We’ll conduct
you. Right this way.”
Too obliging! "What are you do-
ing down here?” snapped Langley,
"last looking around, sir."
The speech was too cultivated, too
polite. These aren't Comnioners any
more than 1 am! "Never mind. I . . .
I don’t want to bother you. Just point
me right.”
120
"Oh, no, sir. That would be dan-
gerous. This is not a good area to
be alone in.” A large hand fell on
his arm.
"No!”
Lar
igley stopped dead
"We must
insist. I’m a
fraid.”
An
expert shove.
and he was
being
half
dragged.
"You’ll be all
right.
sir.
just relax.
no
harm.”
The tall shape of a slave police-
man hove into view. Langley’s
breath rattled in his throat. "Let me
go,” he said. "Let me go, or — ”
Fingers closed on his neck, cuiite
unobtrusively, but he gasped with
the pain. When he had recovered
himself, the policeman was out of
sight again.
Numbly, he followed. The portal
of a grav-shaft loomed before him.
They tracked me, he thought bitter-
ly. Of coarse they did. I don't know
how stupid a man can get, bat T ve
been trying hard tonight. And the
price of this stupidity is apt to be
total!
Three men appeared, almost out
of nowhere. They wore the gray
robes of the Society. "Ah,” said one,
"you found him. Thank you. ”
"What's this?” Langley's compan-
ions recoiled. '"\)(''ho’rc you? What
d’yOLi w'ant? ”
"We wish to sec the good captain
home,” answered one of the new-
comers. His neatly bearded face
smiled, a gun jumped into his hand.
"That’s illegal , . , that weapon — ”
"Possibly. But you’ll be very dead
if you don’t — That’s better. Just
come w'ith us, captain, if you please.”
Langley entered the shaft between
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
his new captors. There didn’t seem
to be much choice.
VIII
The strangers did not speak, but
hurried him along. They seemed to
know all the empty byways, their
progress upw.irds was roundabout
but fast and hardly another face was
seen en route. Langley tried to re-
lax, feeling himself swept along a
dark and resistless tide.
Upper town again, shining pin-
nacles and loops of diamond light
against the stars. The air was warm
and sweet in his lungs, he wondered
how much longer he would breathe
it. Not far from the shaft exit, a
massive octagonal tower reared out
of the general complex, its architec-
ture foreign to the slim soaring
exuberance which was Technate
work. A nimbus of radiance hung
over its peak, with letters of flame
running through it to spell out COM-
MERCIAL SOCIETY. Stepping onto
a bridgeway, the four were borne up
toward a flange near its middle.
As they got off onto the ledge, a
small black aircraft landed noise-
lessly beside them. A voice came
from it, amplified till it boomed
through the humming quiet: "Do
not move farther. This is the police.”
Police! Langley’s knees felt sud-
denly watery. He might have known
• — Chanthavar would not leave this
THE LONG WAY HOME
121
place unwatched, he had sent an
alarm when the spaceman was found
missing, the organization was effi-
cient, and now he was saved !
The three traders stood immobile,
their faces like wood. A door dila-
ted, and another man stepped from
the building as five black-clad slaves
and one Ministerial officer got out
of the boat. It was Goltan Valti. He
waited with the others, rubbing his
hands together in a nervous washing
motion.
The officer bowed slightly, "Good
evening, sir. I am pleased to see you
have found the captain. You are to
be commended.”
"Thank you, my lord,” bowed
Valti. His voice was shrill, almost
piping, and he blew out his fat
cheeks and bobbed his shaggy head
obsequiously. "It is kind of you to
come, but your assistance is not re-
quired.”
"We will take him home for you,”
said the officer.
"Oh, sir, surely you will permit
me to offer my poor hospitality to
this unfortunate stranger. It is a firm
rule of the Society, a guest may never
leave without being treated.”
"I am sorry, sir, but he must.” In
the vague, flickering light, the offi-
cer scowled, and there was a sharp
ring in his tones. "Later, perhaps.
Now he must come with us. I have
my orders.”
Valti bowed and scraped. "I sym-
pathize, sir, these dim eyes weep at
the thought of conflict with your
eminence, but poor and old and help-
less worm though I be” — the whine
122
faded into a buttery purr — "never-
theless, I am forced to remind you,
my lord, much against my will, which
is only for pleasant relationships,
that you are outside your jurisdic-
tion. By the Treaty of Lunar, the
Society h.as extraterritorial rights.
Honored sir, I pray you not to force
me into requesting your passport.”
The officer grew rigid. "I told you
I had my orders,” he said thinly.
The trader’s bulky shape loomed
suddenly enormous against the sky.
His beard bristled. But the voice re-
mained light: "Sir, my nose bleeds
for you. But be so kind as to remem-
ber that this building is armed and
armored. A dozen heavy guns are
trained on you, and I must regretfully
enforce the law. The captain will
take refreshment with me. Afterward
he shall be sent to his home, but at
present it is most inhospitable to
keep him standing in this damp air.
Good evening, sir.” He took Lang-
ley’s arm and walked him to the
door. The other three followed, and
the door closed behind them.
"I suppose,” said the spaceman
slowly, "that what I want isn’t of
much account.”
"I had not hoped to have the
honor of talking with you privately
so soon, captain,” answered Valti.
"Nor do I think you will regret a
chat over a cup of good Ammonite
wine. It gets a little bruised in trans-
it, so delicate a palate as yours will
detect that, but I humbly assert that
it retains points of superiority.”
They had gone down a hall, and
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
now a door opened for them. "My
study, captain,” bowed Valti. "Please
enter.”
It was a big, low-ceilingcd, dim-
lit room, lined with shelves which
held not only microspools but some
authentic folio volumes. The chairs
were old and shabby and comfortable,
the desk was big and littered with
papers, there was a haze of strong
tobacco in the rather stuffy air. Lang-
ley’s attention was drawn to a screen
in which a stereoscopic figure was
moving. Briefly, he failed to under-
stand the words —
"Existence or nullity — thus the
problem:
Whether more free-horn mentally
to endure
The blasts and bolts of adverse
chance occurrence,
Or to shoot through a universe of
troubles,
And counteracting, annul them?"
Then he realized. The actor had a
queue; he wore a fur cap, a lac-
quered breastplate, and flowing black
robes; he was reaching for a scimitar;
the background was a kind of Gre-
cian temple — but by all the gods, it
was still Hamlet!
"An old folk play, I believe, cap-
tain,” said Valti, shuffling up behind
him. "They’ve been putting on some
revivals lately — interesting material.
I believe this is Martian of the In-
terregnum period.”
"No,” said Langley. "A bit older
than that.”
"Oh.? From your own time, even.?
Very interesting!” Valti switched it
off. "Well, pray sit down and be
comfortable. Here comes refresh-
ment.”
A creature the size of a monkey,
with a beaked face and strangely
luminous eyes beneath small anten-
nae, entered bearing a tray in skinny
arms. Langley found a chair and ac-
cepted a cup of hot spiced wine and
a plate of cakes. Valti wheezed and
drank deep. "Ah! That does these
rheumatic old bones good. I fear
medicine will never catch up with
the human body, which finds the
most ingenious new ways of getting
deranged. But good wine, sir, good
wine and a pretty girl and the dear
bright hills of home, there is the best
medicine that will ever be devised.
Cigars, Thakt, if you please.”
The monkey-thing leaped gro-
tesquely to the desk and extended a
box. Both men took one, and Langley
found his good. The alien sat on
Valti’s shoulder, scratching its own
green fur and giggling. Its eyes never
left the spaceman.
"Well — ” After the last couple of
hours, Langley felt exhausted. There
was no more fight in him, he relaxed
and let the weariness run through
nerve and muscle. But his head
seemed abnormally clear. "Well, Mr.
Valti, what was all this foofaraw
about.?”
The trader blew smoke and sat
back, crossing his stumpy legs.
"Events are beginning to move with
uncomfortable rapidity,” he said in
a quiet tone. "I’m glad this chance
came to see you.”
THE LONG WAY HOME
123
"Those cops seemed anxious that
I shouldn’t.”
"Of course.” The deep-sunken
little eyes twinkled. "But it will take
them some time to line up those col-
lections of reflexes they call brains
and decide to attack me; by then,
you will be home, for I shall not
detain you long. The good Chantha-
var, now, would not stall, but he is
fortunately engaged elsewhere.”
"Yes . . . trying to find my
friends.” Langley felt a dull grief in
him. "Do you know they were
taken ?”
"I do.” There was sympathy in
the tone. "I have my own agents in
the Solar forces, and know more or
less all which happened tonight.”
"Then — where are they? How are
they?”
Bleakness twisted the half-hidden
mouth. "I am very much afraid for
them. They are probably in the
power of Lord Brannoch. They may
be released, I don’t know, but — ”
Valti sighed. "I’ve no spies in his
organization, nor he in mine ... I
hope; both of them are too small,
too uncorrupted, too well set up —
unlike Sol’s. We must be very much
in the dark with regard to each
other.”
"Are you sure, then, that it was
he who —
"Who else? Chanthavar had no
need that I can see to stage such an
affair, he could order all of you ar-
rested any time he chose. None of
the other foreign states are in this
at all, they are too weak. Brannoch
is known to head Centaurian mili-
124
tary intelligence at Sol, though so
far he has been clever enough to
leave no evidence which would be
grounds for his expulsion. No, the
only powers which count in this part
of the galaxy are Sol, Centauri, and
the Society.”
"And why,” asked Langley slow-
ly, "would Brannoch take them?”
"Isn’t it obvious? The alien. Saris
Hronna I think he’s called. They
may know where to find him.
"You don’t realize what a fever
he has thrown all of us into. You
have been watched every minute by
agents of all three powers. I toyed
with the idea of having you snatched
myself, but the Society is too peace-
ful to be very good at that sort of
thing, and Brannoch beat us to it.
The moment I learned what had
happened, I sent a hundred men out
to try to locate you. Fortunately, one
group succeeded.”
"They almost didn’t,” said Lang-
ley. "They had to take me away from
two others — Centaurians, I sup-
pose.”
"Of course. Well ... I don’t
think Brannoch will try to assault
this stronghold, especially since he
will have hopes of getting the in-
formation from your friends. Do you
think he will?”
"Depends.” Langley narrowed his
eyes and took a long drag of smoke.
"I doubt it, though. They never got
very intimate with Saris. I did — we
used to talk for hours — though I
still can’t claim to know just what
makes him tick.”
"Ah, so.” Valti took a noisy sip
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
of wine. There was no expression in
the heavy face. "Do you know why
he is so important?”
"I think so. Military value of his
ability to damp out or control elec-
tronic currents and so forth. But I’m
surprised you haven’t got a machine
to do the same thing.”
"Science died long ago,” said
Valti. "I, who have seen worlds
where they are still progressing,
though behind us as yet, know the
difference between a living science
and a dead one. The spirit of open-
minded inquiry became extinct in
known human civilizations quite a
while back: the rigidity of social
forms, together with the fact that
research no longer discovered any-
thing not predicted by theory, caused
that. It was, after all, reasonable to
assume that the variety of natural
laws was finite, that a limit had been
reached. Nowadays, the very desire
to inquire further is lacking. Sol is
stagnant, the other systems barbaric
under their facade of machine tech-
nology, the Society too loosely organ-
ized to support a scientific com-
munity. A dead end, yes, yes, so it
goes.”
Langley tried to concentrate on
abstractions, to escape the new fear
which gnawed in his breast. "And
so now something turns up which
is not accounted for by standard
theory. And everybody wants to
study it and learn about it and du-
plicate it on a grand scale for mili-
tary purposes. Yeah. I get the idea.”
Valti looked at him under droop-
ing lids. "There are, of course, ways
to make a man talk,” he said. "Not
torture — nothing so crude — but drugs
which unlock the tongue. Chanthavar
has hesitated to use them on you,
because if you do not, after all, have
an idea where Saris is, the rather
unpleasant process could easily set up
a subconscious bloc which would for-
bid you to think further about the
problem. However, he may now be
desperate enough to do so. He will
surely do it the moment he suspects
you have deduced something. Have
you?”
"Why should I tell you?”
Valti looked patient. "Because
only the Society can be trusted with
a decisice weapon.”
"Only one party can,” said Lang-
ley dryly, "but which party depends
on who you’re talking to. I’ve heard
that song before.”
"Consider,’’ said Valti. His voice
remained dispassionate. "Sol is a
petrified civilization, interested only
in maintaining the status quo. The
Cental! rians brag a great deal about
frontier vigor, but they are every bit
as dead between the ears; if they
won, there would be an orgy of de-
struction followed by a pattern much
the same, nothing new except a
change of masters. If either system
suspects that the other has gotten
Saris, it will attack at once, setting
off the most destructive w'ar in a his-
tory which has already seen destruc-
tion on a scale you cannot imagine.
The other, smaller states are no bet-
ter, even if they were in a position
to use the weapon effectively.”
THE LONG WAY HOME
125
"I don’t know,” said Langley.
"What people seem to need today is
a good swift kick in the pants. May-
be Centauri can give it to them.”
"Not with any beneficial effect.
What is Centauri? A triple-star sys-
tem. Alpha A has two habitable plan-
ets, Thor and Freyja. Alpha B has
two semi-poisonous ones slowly be-
ing made habitable. Proxima is a dim
red dwarf with one inhabited planet,
the frigid giant Thrym. Otherwise
there are only mining colonics main-
tained with great difficulty. The
Thorians conquered and assimilated
the men of the other worlds long
ago. They established contact with
the Thrymans, showed them modern
technology; soon the natives — already
highly civilized — were equal to their
teachers. Then Thrym denied them
right to settle the Proximan System.
A war was fought over it, which
ended officially in compromise and
unification; actually, Thrym had the
upper hand, and its representatives
occupy key positions in the League.
Brannoch has Thryman advisors
here on Barth, and I wonder who is
really the chief.
"Bve no prejudice against nonhu-
mans, but Thrym makes me feel cold.
They’re too remote from man, I
think they have little use for him
except as a tool toward some pur-
pose of their own. Study the situa-
tion, study history, and I think you’ll
agree. A Centaurian conquest, quite
apart from the killing of some bil-
lions of innocent people, would not
be an infusion of invigorating bar-
barian blood. It would be a move in
a very old and very large chess
game.”
"All right.” Langley gave up.
"Maybe you’re right. But what claim
has your precious Society got? Who
says you’re a race of — ” He paused,
realized that there was no word for
saint or angel, and finished weakly:
"Why do you deserve anything?”
"We are not interested in im-
perialism,” said Valti. "We carry on
trade between the stars — ”
"Probably cleaning the pants off
both ends.”
"Well, an lioncst businessman has
to live. But we have no planet, we
are not interested in having one, our
home is .space itself. We do not kill
except in self-defense; normally we
avoid a fight by simply retreating,
there is always plenty of room in the
universe and a long jump makes it
easy to overcome your enemies by
merely outliving them. We are a
people to ourselves, with our own
history, traditions, laws — the only
humane and neutral power in the
known galaxy.”
"Tell me more,” said Langley. "So
far I’ve only got your word. You
must have some central government,
someone to make decisions and co-
ordinate you. Who are they? Where
are they?”
"I will be perfectly honest, cap-
tain,” said Valti in a soft tone. "I
do not know.”
"Eh?”
"No one knows. Each ship is com-
petent to handle ordinary affairs for
itself. We file reports at the plan-
126
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
etary offices, pay our tax — where the
reports and the money go, I don’t
know, nor do the groundlings in the
offices. There is a chain of commu-
nications, a cell-type secret bureauc-
racy which would be impossible to
trace through tens of light-years, I
rank high, running the Solar offices
at present, and can make many de-
cisions for myself, but I get special
orders now and then through a
sealed circuit. There must be at least
one of the chiefs here on Earth, but
where and who — or what — I could-
n’t say.”
"How does this . . . government
. . . keep you in line?”
'”We obey,” said Valti. "Ship dis-
cipline is potent, even on those who
like myself are recruited from plan-
ets rather than born in space. The
rituals, the oaths — conditioning, if
you will — I know of no case wher^
an order has been deliberately vio-
lated, But we are a free people, there
is no slavery and no aristocracy
among us.”
"Except for your bosses,” mur-
mured Langley. "How do you know
they’re working for your own
good ?”
"You needn't read any sinister or
melodramatic implications into a se-
curity policy, captain. If tlic head-
quarters and identity of our cliiefs
were known, they would be all too
liable to attack and annihilation. As
it is, promotion to the bureaucracy
involves complete disappearance,
probably surgical di.sguise; I will
gladly accept the offer if it is ever
made to me.
THE LONG WAY HOME
"Under its bosses, as you call
them, the Society has prospered in
the thousand years since its found-
ing. We are a force to be reckoned
with. You saw how I was able to
make that police officer knuckle un-
der.”
Valti took a deep breath and
plunged into business: "I have not,
as yet, received any commands about
Saris. If I had been told to keep you
prisoner, be sure you would not
leave here. But as things are, I still
have considerable latitude.
"Here is my offer. There are small
interplanetary flitters hidden here and
there on Earth. You can leave any-
time. Away from Earth, safely con-
cealed by sheer volume of space un-
less you know her orbit, is an armed
light-speed cruiser. If you will help
me find Saris, I will take you two
away, and do what I can to rescue
your companions. Saris will be
studied, but he will not be harmed
in any manner, and if he wishes can
later be returned to his home world.
You can join the Society, or you can
be set up on some human-colonized
planet beyond the region known to
Sol and Centauri. There arc many
loc'cly worlds out there, a wide cul-
tural variety, places where you can
feel at home again. Your monetary
reward will give you a good start.
"I do not think you will like Earth
any more, captain. Nor do I think
you will like the responsibility of un-
leashing a war which will devastate
planets. I believe your best course
is with us.”
Langley stared at the floor. Wcari-
127
ness was close to overwhelming him.
To go home, to creep down light-
years and centuries until . he found
Peggy again, it was a scream within
him.
But —
"I don’t know,” he mumbled.
"How can I tell if you’re not lying? ”
With an instinct of self-preserva-
tion; "I don’t know where. Saris is
either, you realize. Doubt if I can
find him myself.”
Valti lifted a skeptical brow, but
said nothing.
“I need time to think,” pleaded
Langley. "Let me sleep on it.”
"If you wish.” Valti got up and
rummaged in a drawer. "But remem-
ber, Chanthavar or Brannoch may
soon remove all choice from you.
Your decision, if it is to be your own,
must be made soon.”
He took out a small, flat plastic
box and handed it over. "This is a
communicator, keyed to a frequency
which varies continuously according
to a random-chosen series. It can
only be detected by a similarly tuned
instrument which I possess. If you
want me, press this button and call;
it need not be held to your mouth.
I may even be able to rescue you
from armed force, though it’s best
to be quiet about this affair. Here
. . . keep it next to your skin, under
your clothes, it will hang on of itself
and is transparent to ordinary spy-
beams.”
Langley rose. "Thanks,” he mut-
tered. "Decent of you to let me go.”
Or is it only a trick to disarm me?
"It’s nothing, captain.” Valti wad-
.128
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
died ahead of him to the outside
flange. An armored police craft
hovered just beyond its edge. "I be-
lieve transportation home is waiting
for you. Good night, sir.”
"Good night,” said Langley.
IX
Wcatlicr Control had decreed rain
for this area today, and Lora stood
under a low gray sky with her high-
est towers piercing its mists. Looking
out of the window which made one
wall of his living room, Brannoch
saw only a wet metal gleam, fading
into the downward rush of rain. Now
and then lightning flickered, and
when he told the window to open
there was a cool damp breeze on his
face.
He felt caged. As he paced the
room, up and down and around,
there was rage in his heart, and he
snapped his report as if every word
had to be bitten off and spat out.
"Nothing,” he said. "Not one
damned sterile thing. They didn’t
know. They had no idea where the
creature might be. Their memories
were probed down to the cellular
level, and nothing turned up we
could use.”
"Has Chanthavar any clue?” asked
the flat mechanical voice.
"No. My Mesko agent’s last re-
port said that a warehouse was bro-
ken into the nigtit that flier was
stolen, and several cases of space ra-
tions removed. So all the being had
to do was hide these in whatever
den he’s got, release the flier on
THE LONG WAY HOME
automatic, and settle down to wait.
Which he’s apparently been doing
ever since.”
"It would be strange if human
food would sustain him indefinitely,”
said Thrymka. "The probabilities all
favor his dietary requirements being
at least slightly different from yours
— there will be some small cumula-
tive deficiency or poisoning. Eventu-
ally he will sicken and die.”
"That may take weeks,” snarled
Brannoch, “and meanwhile he may
find some way of getting what he
needs — it may only be some trace
element, titanium or — anything. Or
he may make a deal with one of
the parties looking for him. I tell
you, there’s no time to lose!”
"We are well aware of that,” an-
swered Thrymka. "Have you punish-
ed your agents for their failure to
get Langley, too?”
"No. They tried, but luck was
against them. They almost had him,
down in the Old City, but then
armed members of the Society took
him away. Could he have been
bribed by Valti? It might be a good
idea to knock that fat slug off.”
"No.”
"But—”
"No. Council policy forbids mur-
der of a Society member.”
Brannoch shrugged bitterly. "For
fear they’ll stop trading with Cen-
tauri? We should be building our
own merchant ships. We should be
independent of everybody. There’ll
come a day when the Council will
see — ”
"After you have founded a new
129
dynasty to rule over a Centaurian
interstellar hegemony? Perhaps!”
There was the faintest lilt of sardon-
icism in the artificial voice. "But
continue your report; you know we
prefer verbal communication. Did
not Blaustein and Matsumoto have
any useful information at all?”
"Well . . . yes. They said that' if
anyone could predict where Saris is
and what he’ll do, it’s Langley. Just
our luck that he was the one man we
did not succeed in grabbing. Now
Chanthavar has mounted such a
guard over him that it’d be impos-
sible.’’ Brannoch ran a hand throimh
his yellow mane. 'Tve put an equal
number of my men to watching him,
of course. They’d at least make it
difficult for Chanthavar to .spirit him
away. For the time being, it’s a dead-
lock.”
"What disposition has been made
of the two prisoners?”
"Why . . . they’re still in the Old
City hideout. Anesthetized. I thought
I’d have memory of the incident
wiped from them, and let them go.
They’re not important.”
"They may be,” said the monster
— or the monsters. "If returned to
Chanthavar, they will be two hos-
tages by which he may be able to
compel Langley’s cooperation: which
is something we cannot do without
showing our hands too much, prob-
ably getting ourselves deported. But
it is dangerous and troublesome for
us to keep them. Have them killed
and the bodies disintegrated.”
Brannoch stopped dead. After a
long time, during which the beat of
130
rain against the window seemed very
loud, he shook his head. "No."
"Why not?”
"Assassination in the line of busi-
ness is one thing. But we don't kill
helpless prisoners on Thor.”
"Your reason is logically insuffi-
cient. Give the orders.”
Brannoch stood quiet. The con-
cealing wall pattern swirled slowly
before his eyes; opposite it, rain was
liquid silver running down the single
big pane.
It struck him suddenly that he
had never seen a Thryman. There
were stereographs, but under the
monstrous weight of their atmos-
phere, dragged down by a planet of
fifty thousand miles diameter and
three Earth gravities, no man could
live. Theirs was a world in which ice
was like rock to form mountains,
where rivers and seas of liquid am-
monia raged through storms which
could swallow Earth whole, where
life based its chemistry on hydrogen
and ammonia instead of oxygen and
water, where explosions of gas
burned red through darkness, where
the population of the dominant spe-
cies was estimated at fifty billions and
a million years of recorded history
had united them in one unhuman
civilization — it was not a world for
men, and he wished sometimes that
men had never sent robots down to
contact the Thrymans, never traded
instruction in the modern science
which alone was able to maintain
vacuum tubes against that pressure,
for their chemicals.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
He considered what was going on
inside that tank. Four thick disks,
six feet in diameter, slaty blue, each
stood on six short legs with wide,
clawed feet; between each pair of
legs was an arm ending in a three-
fingered hand of fantastic strength.
A bulge in the center of tlie disk
was the head, rigidly fixed, with four
eyes arranged around a trunklike
feeler on top and tympana for ears;
underneath was the mouth and an-
other trunk which was nose and feed-
er. You could not tell one from an-
other, not by appearance or acts. It
made no difference wliether Thrym-
ka-1 or Thrymka-2 spoke.
"You are debating whether or not
to refuse,” said the microphonic
voice. "You are not especially fond
of us.”
That was the damnable part of it.
At short range, a Thryman could
read your mind, you could have no
thought and make no plan which he
didn’t know. It was one reason why
they w'cre valuable advisors. The
other reason was tied in with the
first: by joining feelers, they could
discard spoken language, communi-
cate directly by thought — nerve to
nerve, a linkage in which individual-
ity was lost and several intelligent,
highly specialized entities became
one brain of unimaginable power.
The advice of such multi-brains had
done much to give the League of
Alpha Centauri its present strength.
But they weren’t human. They
weren’t remotely human, they had
almost nothing in common with man.
They traded within the League, a
THE LONG WAY HOME
swapping of mutually unavailable
materials; they sat on the Council,
held high executive positions — but
the hookup ability made their minds
quasi-immortal and altogether alien.
Nothing was known of their cul-
ture, their art, their ambitions;
w'hatever emotions they had w'ere so
foreign that the only possible com-
munication with humankind was on
the level of cold logic.
And curse it all, a man was more
than a logic machine.
"Your thinking is muddy,” said
Thrymka. "You may clarify it by
formulating your objections ver-
bally.”
"I won’t have those men mur-
dered,” said Brannoch flatly. "It’s
an ethical question. I'd never forget
what I had done.”
"Your society has conditioned you
along arbitrary lines,” said Thrymka.
"Like most of your relationship-con-
cepts, it is senseless, contra-survival.
Within a unified civilization, which
man does not possess, such an ethic
could be justified, but not in the face
of existing conditions. You are or-
dered to have those men killed.”
"Suppose I don’t.^” asked Bran-
noch softly.
"When the Council hears of your
insubordination, you will be removed
and all your chances for attaining
your own ambitions vanish.”
"The Council needn’t hear. I
could crack that tank of yours. You’d
explode like deep-sea fish. A very
sad accident.”
"You will not do that. You can-
not dispense with us. Also, the fact
131
of your guilt would be known to all
Thrymans on the Council as soon
as you appeared before it.”
Brannoch’s shoulders slumped.
They had him, and they knew it.
According to his own orders from
home, they had the final say — al-
ways.
He poured himself a stiff drink
and gulped it down. Then he
thumbed a special communicator.
■'Yantri speaking. Get rid of those
two motors. Dismantle the parts. Im-
mediately. That’s all.”
The rain poured in an endless
heavy stream. Brannoch stared emp-
tily out into it. Well — that was that.
7 tried.
The glow of alcohol warmed him.
It had gone against the grain, but
he had killed many men before, no
few of them with his own hand. Did
the manner of their death make such
a difference? There were larger is-
sues at stake. There was his own
nation, a proud folk, should they be-
come the tributaries of this walking
corpse which was Solar civilization?
Two lives against a whole culture?
And there was the land. Always
there was the land, space and fer-
tility, a place to strike roots, a place
to build homes and raise sons. There
was something unreal about a city.
Money was a fever-dream, a will-o’-
the-wisp which had exhausted many
lives. Only in soil was there strength.
And Earth had fair broad acres.
He shook himself, driving out the
last cold which lay in his blood.
Much to do yet. "I suppose,” he said,
132
"that you know Langley is coming
here today.”
"We have read that much in your
brain. We are not sure why Chan-
thavar permits it.”
"To get a lead on me, of course,
an idea of my procedures. Also, he
would have to set himself against
higher authorities, some of whom are
in my pay, who have decreed that
Langley shall have maximum free-
dom for the time being. There’s a
good deal of sentimentality about
this man from the past and — Well,
Chanthavar would defy them if he
thought there was something to gain;
but right now he wants to use Lang-
ley as bait for me. Give me enough
voltage to electrocute myself.”
Brannoch grinned, suddenly feel-
ing almost cheerful. "And I’ll play
along. I’ve no objections at all to his
knowing my game at present, be-,
cause there isn’t much he can do
about it. I’ve invited Langley to drop
over for a talk. If he knows where
Saris is, you can read it in his mind:
I’ll direct the conversation that way.
If he doesn’t, then I have a scheme
for finding out exactly when he’s
figured out the problem and what
the answer is.”
"The balance is very delicate,” said
Thrymka. "The moment Chanthavar
suspects we have a lead, he will take
measures.”
"I know. But I’m going to acti-
vate the whole organization — spy-
ing, sabotage, sedition, all over the
Solar System. That will keep him
busy, make him postpone his arrest
and interrogation of Langley till he’s
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
sure the fellow knows. Meanwhile,
we can — ” A bell chimed. "That
must be him now, downshaft. Here
we go!’’
Langley entered with a slow step,
hesitating in the doorway. He looked
very tired. His conventional clothes
were no disguise for him — even if
he had not been of fairly unmixed
race, you would have known him
for an outsider by his gait, his ges-
tures, a thousand subtle hints. Bran-
noch thought in a mood of sympathy
how lonesome the man must be.
Then, with a secret laughter: We’ll
fix th:lt!
Stepping forward, his flame-red
cloak swirling from his shoulders,
the Centaurian smiled. "Good day,
captain. It’s very kind of you to come.
I’ve been looking forward to a talk
with you.’’
"I can’t stay long,” said Langley.
Brannoch flashed a glance at the
window. A fighting ship hovered
just outside, rain sluicing off its
flanks. There would be men posted
everywhere, spy-beams, weapons in
readiness. No use to try kidnaping
this time. "Well, please sit down.
Have a drink.’’ Flopping his own
huge form into a chair: "You’re
probably bored with silly questions
about your period and how you like
it here, I won’t bother you that vv.iy.
But I did want to ask you something
about the planets you stopped at.”
Langley’s gaunt face ti;;h'(ned.
"Look here,” he said slowly, "ihe
only reason I came was to try and
get my friends away from you.”
Brannoch shrugged. "I’m very
sorry about that.” His tone was gen-
tle. "But you see, I haven’t got them.
I’ll admit I wanted to, but somebody
else got there first.”
"If that isn’t a lie, it’ll do till one
comes along,” said the spaceman
coldly.
Brannoch sipped his drink. "Look
here, I can’t prove it to you. I don’t
blame you for being suspicious. But
why fasten the guilt on me particu-
larly.-' There are others who were
just as anxious. The Commercial So-
ciety, for instance.”
"They — ” Langley hesitated.
"I know. They picked you up a
couple nights ago. News gets
around. They must have sweet-talked
you. How do you know they were
telling the truth? Goltam Valti likes
the devious approach. He likes to
think of himself as a web-weaver,
and he’s not bad at it either.”
Langley fixed him with tormented
eyes. "Did you or did you not take
those men?” he asked harshly.,
"On my honor, 1 did not.” Bran-
noch had no scruples when it came
to diplomacy. "I had nothing to do
with what happened that night.”
"There were two groups involved.
One w.is the Society. Wh.it was the
o.her?”
"Possibly ’Haiti’s agents, too. It’d
be helpful if you thought of him as
a rescuer. Or . . . here’s a possibility.
Chanthavar himself staged that kid-
naping. He wanted to try interroga-
tion but keep you in reserve. 'When
you escaped him, 'Valti’s gang may
have seized the chance. Or Valti
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133
himself may be in Chanthavar’s pay
—or even, fantastic as it sounds,
Chanthavar in Valti’s. The permuta-
tions of bribery — ” Brannoch smiled.
"I imagine you got a good scolding
when you returned to friend
Channy.”
"Yeah. I told him what to do
with it, too. I’ve been pushed around
long enough.’’ Langley took a deep
gulp of his drink.
"I’m looking into the affair,” said
Brannoch. "I have to know myself.
So far. I’ve not been able to discover
anything. It is not that there are no
clues — but too many.”
Langley’s fingers twisted together.
"Think I'll ever see those boys
again he asked.
"It’s hard to say. But don’t set
your hopes up, and don’t accept any
offers to trade their lives for your
information.”
"I won’t ... or wouldn’t have
. . . I think. There’s too much at
stake.”
"No,” murmured Brannoch. "I
don’t think you would.”
He relaxed still further and
drawled out the key question: "Do
you know where Saris Hronna is.^”
"No, I don’t.”
"Haven’t you any ideas Isn’t
there some probable place
"I don’t know.”
"You may be stalling, of course,”
said Brannoch. "I won’t badger you
about it. Just remember. I’m pre-
pared to offer a very generous pay-
ment, protection, and transportation
to the world of your choice, in return
for that information. The world may
134
well be Earth herself ... in a few
years.”
"So you do plan to attack her?”
Damn the fellow ! Mind like a
bulldog. Brannoch smiled easily.
"You’ve heard about us from our
enemies,” he said. "I’ll admit we
aren’t a sweet-tempered people.
We’re farmers, fishermen, miners,
mechanics, the noble isn’t very much
different from the smallholder except
in owning more land. Why don't
you get a book about us from the
library, strain out the propaganda,
and see for yourself?
"Ever since we got our indepen-
dence, Sol has been trying to retake
us. The Technon’s idea is that only
a unified civilization — under itself —
should exist; everything else is too
risky. Our notion is that all the cul-
tures which have grown up have a
right to their own ways of life, and
to blazes with the risks. You can’t
unify man without destroying the
variety and color which makes him
worth having around — at least, you
can’t unify him under anything as
deadening as a machine which does
all his thinking for him.
"Sol is a menace to our self-re-
spect. She’s welcome to sit back and
let her own arteries harden, but we
don’t want any part of it. When she
tries to force it on us, we have to
resist. Eventually, it probably will be
necessary to destroy the Technon
and occupy this system. Frankly, I
don't think much will be lost. We
could make those sheep down in
low-level back into human beings.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
We don’t want to fight — Father
knows there’s enough to do in our
own system — but it looks as if we’ll
have to.”
'Tve heard all the arguments be-
fore,” said Langley. "They were cur-
rent back around my own time. Too
bad they haven't been settled yet, de-
spite all the centuries.”
"They never will be. Man is just
naturally a rebel, a diversifier;
there’ll alw.ays be nonconformists
and those who’d force conformity.
You must adjnit, captain, that some
of these eternal arguments are better
than others.”
"I . . . suppose so.” Langley
glanced up. "I can’t help you any-
way. Saris’ hangout isn’t known to
me either.”
"Well, I promised I wouldn’t pes-
ter you. Relax, captain. You look
like outworn applesauce. Have an-
other drink.”
The talk strayed for an hour, wan-
dering over stars and planets.
Brannoch exerted himself to charm,
and thought he was succeeding.
'Tve got to go,” said Langley at
last. "My nursemaids must be getting
fretful.”
"As you say. Come in again any
time.” Brannoch saw him to the
door. "Oh, by the way. There’ll be
a present for you when you get back.
I think you’ll like it.”
"Huh?” Langley stared at him.
"Not a bribe. No obligation. If
you don’t keep it, I won’t be offend-
ed. But it occurred to me that all
the people trying to use you as a
tool never stopped to think that you
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135
are a man.” Brannoch clapped his
shoulder. "So long. Good luck.”
When he was gone, the Thorian
whirled back toward his listeners.
There was a flame in him. "Did you
get it?” he snapped. "Did you catch
any thoughts?”
There was a pause. Chanthavar
didn’t know, thought Brannoch half
drunkenly, or he would never have
let Langley come here. Even the
Thorians hadn’t realized for a long
time that a Thryman was telepathic,
and since discovering it they had
been careful to keep the fact secret.
Maybe . . . maybe —
"No,” said the voice. "We could
not read his mind at all.”
"What?”
"It was gibberish. There was noth-
ing recognizable. Now we must de-
pend on your scheme.”
Brannoch slumped into a chair.
Briefly, he felt dismayed. Why? Had
a slow accumulation of mutations
altered the human brain that much?
He didn’t know; the Thrymans had
never told anyone how their telep-
athy worked.
But — Well, Langley was still a
man. There was still a chance. A
very good chance, if I know men,
Brannoch sighed gustily and tried to
ease the tautness within himself.
X
The police escort dogged him all
the way back. And there would be
others in the throngs on the bridge-
ways, hidden behind the blurring
rain which runneled off the trans-
136
parent coverings. No more peace, no
more privacy. Unless he gave in,
told what he really thought.
He’d have to, or before long his
mind would be wrenched open and
its knowledge pried out. So far, re-
flected Langley, he’d done a good
job of dissimulation, of acting
baffled. It wasn’t too hard. He came
from another civilization, and his
nuances of tone and gesture and
voice could not be interpreted by the
most skilled psychologist today. Also,
he’d always been a good poker player.
But who? Chanthavar, Brannoch,
Valti — didn’t Saris have any rights
in the matter? They could all have
been lying to him, there might not
be a word of truth in any of their
arguments. Maybe no one should
have the new power, maybe it was
best to burn Saris to ash with an
energy beam and forget him.. But
how could even that be done?
Langley shook his head. He had
to decide, and fast. If he read a few
of those oddly difficult books, learned
something — just a little, just enough
for a guess as to who could most be
trusted. Or maybe he should cut
cards. It wouldn’t be any more sense-
less than the blind blundering fate
which seemed to rule human destiny.
No ... he had to live with him-
self, all the rest of his days.
He came out on the flange of the
palace tower which held his apart-
ment. (Only his. It was very big and
lonely now, without Jim and Bob.)
The hall bore him to a shaft, and he
sped upward toward his own level.
Four guards, unhuman-looking in the
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
stiff black fabric of combat armor,
followed; but at least they’d stay
outside his door.
Langley stopped to let it scan him.
"Open, sesame,” he said in a tired
voice, and walked through. It closed
behind him.
Then, for a little while, there was
an explosion in his head, and he
stood in a stinging darkness.
It lifted. He swayed on his feet,
not moving, feeling the tears that ran
down his face, "Peggy,” he whis-
pered.
She came toward him with the same
long-legged, awkward grace he re-
membered. The plain white dress
was belted to a slender waist, and
ruddy hair fell to her shoulders. The
eyes were big and green, there was
gentleness on the wide mouth, her
nose was tilted and there was a dust-
ing of freckles across its bridge.
When she was close, she stopped and
bent the knee to him. He saw how
the light slid over her burnished
hair.
He reached out as if to touch her,
but his hand wouldn’t go all the
way. Suddenly his teeth were clap-
ping in his jaws, and there was a
chill in his flesh. Blindly, he turned
from her.
He beat his fists against the wall,
hardly touching it, letting the forces
that shuddered within him expend
themselves in controlling muscles
that wanted to batter down a world.
It seemed like forever before he
could face her again. She was still
waiting.
'"You’re not Peggy,” he said
through his tears. "It isn’t you.”
She did not understand the Eng-
lish, but must have caught his mean-
ing. The voice was low, as Hers had
been, but not quite the same. "Sir,
I am called Marin. I was sent as a
gilt by the Lord Brannoch dhu
Crombar, It will be my pleasure to
serve you.”
At least, thought Langley, Bran-
noth had enough brains to give her
another name.
His heart, racing in its cage of
ribs, began skipping beats, and he
snapped after air. Slowly, he fum-
bled over to the service robot. "Give
ine a sedative,” he said. "I want to
remain conscious but calm.” The
voice was strange in his ears.
When he had gulped the liquid
down, he felt a darkness rising. His
hands tingled as warmth returned.
The heart slowed, the lungs expand-
ed, the sweating skin shivered and
eased. There was a balance within
him, as if his grief had aged many
years.
He studied the girl, and she gave i
him a timid smile. No — not Peggy.
The face and figure, yes, but no
American woman had ever smiled in
just that way, that particular curve
of lips; she was a little taller, he
saw, and did not walk like one born
free, and the voice —
"Where did you come from?” he
asked, vaguely amazed at the level-
ness in his tone. "Tell me about
yourself.”
"I am a Class Eight slave, sir,”
she answered, meekly but with no
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137
self-consciousness about it. "We are
bred for intelligent, pleasant com-
panionship. My age is twenty. The
Lord Brannoch purchased me a few
days ago, had surgical alterations and
psychological conditioning perform-
ed, and sent me here as a gift to
you. I am yours to command, sir.”
"Anything goes, eh?”
"Yes, sir.” There, was a small
flicker of fear in her eyes, stories
about perverted and sadistic owners
must have run through the breeding
and training centers; but he liked the
game way she faced up to him.
"Never mind,” he said. "You’ve
nothing to worry about. You’re to
go back to the Lord Brannoch and
tell him that he’s just wrecked any
chance he ever had of getting my
cooperation.”
She flushed, and her eyes filmed
with tears. At least she had pride —
well, of course Brannoch would have
known Langley wasn’t interested in
a spiritless doll — It must have been
an effort to control her reply: "Then
you don’t want me, sir?”
"Only to deliver that message. Get
out.”
She bowed and turned to go.
Langley leaned against the wall, his
fists knotted together. O Peggy,
Peggy!
"Just a minute!” It weis as if
someone else had spoken. She stop-
ped.
"Yes, sir?”
"Tell me . . . what’ll happen to
you now?”
"I don’t know, sir. The Lord
Brannoch may punish — ” She shook
138
her head with a queer, stubborn hon-
esty that did not fit a slave. But
Peggy had been that way, too. "No,
sir. He will realize I am not to blame.
He may keep me for a while, or
sell me to someone else. I don’t
know.”
Langley felt a thickness in his
throat.
"No.” He smiled, it hurt his
mouth. "I’m sorry. You . . . startled
me. Don’t go away. Sit down.”
He found a chair for himself, and
she curled slim legs beneath her to
sit at his feet. He touched her head
with great gentleness. "Do you know
who I am?” he asked.
"Yes, sir. Lord Brannoch said you
were a spaceman from very long ago
who got lost and — I look like your
wife, now. I suppose he used pictures
to make the copy. He said he thought
you’d like to have someone who look-
ed like her.”
"And what else? What were you
supposed to do? Talk me into help-
ing him ? He wants my help in an
important matter.”
"No, sir.” She met his eyes stead-
ily. "I was only to obey your wishes.
It — ” A tiny frown creased her brow,
so much like Peg’gy’s that Langley
felt his heart crack within him. "It
may be he was relying on your grati-
tude.”
"Pat chance!” Langley tried to
think. It wasn’t like Brannoch, who
must be a cynical realist, to assume
that this would make the spaceman
come slobbering to him. Or was it?
Some traits of human nature had
changed with the change in all so-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
ciety. Maybe a. present-day Earthman
would react like that.
"Do you expect me to feel obli-
gated to he asked slowly.
"No, sir. Why should you.^ I’m not
a very expensive gift.”
Langley wished for his old pipe.
He’d have to have some tobacco cut
for it special one of these days, he
thought vaguely; nobody smoked
pipes any more. He stroked her
bronze hair with a hand which the
drug had again made steady.
"Tell me something about your-
self, Marin,” he said. "What sort of
life did you lead?”
She described it, competently,
without resentment and not without
humor. The center didn’t meet any
of Langley’s preconceived notions;
far from being a hole of lust, it
sounded like a rather easy-going in-
stitution. There had been woods and
fields to stroll in between the walls,
there had been an excellent educa-
tion, there had been no attempt —
except for conditioning to acceptance
of being property — to prevent each
personality from growing its own
way. But of course, those girls were
meant for high-class concubines.
With the detachment lent him by
the sedative, Langley perceived that
Marin could be very useful to him.
He asked her a few questions about
history and current events, and she
gave him intelligent answers. Maybe
her knowledge could help him de-
cide what to do.
"Marin,” he asked dreamily,
"have you ever ridden a horse?”
"No, sir. I can pilot a car or flier,
but I was never on an animal. It
would be fun to try.” She smiled,
completely at ease now.
"Look,” he said, "drop that su-
perior pronoun and stop calling me
'sir.’ My name’s Edward — plain Ed.”
"Yes, sir . . . Edwy.” She frowned
with a childlike seriousness. "I’ll try
to remember. Excuse me if I forget.
And in public, it would be better
to stay by the usual rules.”
"O. K. Now — ” Langley couldn’t
face the clear eyes, he stared out at
the rain instead. "Would you like
to be free?”
"Sir?”
"Ed ! I suppose I can manumit
you. Wouldn’t you like to be a free
agent?”
"It’s . . . very kind of you,” she
replied slowly. "But—”
"Well?”
"But what could I do? Td have
to go to low-level, become a Com-
moner’s wife or a servant or a prosti-
tute. There isn’t any other choice.”
"Nice system. Up here, you’re at
least protected, and among your in-
tellectual equals. O. K., it was just a
thought. Consider yourself part of
the furniture.”
She chuckled. "You’re . . . nice,”
she said. "I was very lucky.”
"Like hell you were. Look, I’m
going to keep you around because I
haven’t the heart to turn you out.
But there may well be danger. I’m
right in the middle of an interstellar
poker game and — I’ll try to get you
out from under if things go sour,
but I may not be able to. Tell me
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139
honestly, can you face the prospect
of getting killed or . . , or anything?”
"Yes, Edwy. That is of the essence
of my training. We cannot know our
future — so we must learn the cour-
age to accept it.”
"I wish you wouldn’t talk that
way,” he said gloomily. "But I sup-
pose you can’t help it. People may
still be the same underneath, but
they think different on top. Well — ”
"What is your danger, Edwy? Can
I help?” She laid a hand on his
knee, it was a slim hand but with
strong blunt fingers like — "I want
to, I really do.”
"Uh-huh.” He shook his head.
'Tm not going to tell you more
than I must, because if people real-
ize you know anything you’ll become
a poker chip, too.” He had to use
the English phrase, only chess had
survived of the games he knew, but
she got the idea. "And don’t try to
deduce things, either. I tell you, it’s
dangerous.”
There was no calculation in the
way she got up and leaned over him
and brushed his cheek with one hand.
'Tm sorry,” she whispered. "It must
be dreadful for you.”
"I’ll survive. Let’s cohtinue the
roundup. I mean you well, but right
now I’m under a sedative. It was a
shock seeing you, and it’s going to
go on being a shock for a while.
Keep in the background, Marin;
duck for cover if I start throwing
things. Don’t try to be sympathetic,
just let me alone. Savvy?”
She nodded mutely.
In spite of the drug, his voice
roughened. There was still a knife
in him. "You can sleep in that room
there.”
"All right,” she said quietly. "I
understand. If you change your mind.
I’ll understand that, too.” After a
moment: "You could have my ap-
pearance altered again, you know.”
He didn’t reply, but sat wonder-
ing. It was the logical answer — No.
He would always remember. He did-
n’t believe in hiding from a fact.
The door chimed and said: "Min-
ister Chanthavar Tang vo Turin
wishes to see you, sir.” The scanner
screen flashed an image of the agent’s
face; it was taut and cold with a
choked anger.
"All right. Send him in.” Marin
went into another room. Langley did
not rise as Chanthavar entered, and
sat waiting for the other to speak
first.
"You saw Brannoch today.”
Langley raised his brows. The
coolness was still on him, but it
only made his stiff-necked resent-
ment more controlled. "Is that ille-
gal?” he asked.
"What did he want of you?”
"What do you think? The same
as 'Valti and you and everybody else
wants. I told him no, because I have-
n’t anything to give.”
Chanthavar’s sleek dark head
cocked forward. "Haven’t you?” he
snapped. "I wonder! I wonder very
much. So far my superiors have kept
me from opening your mind. They
claim that if you don’t know, if you
really haven’t figured it out, the pro-
140
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
cedure will keep you from ever do-
ing so. It’s not a pleasant experience.
You won’t be quite the same man
afterward. "
"Go ahead, ” challenged Langley.
"1 can’t stop you."
"If 1 had ti.me to argue my chiefs
down, I would," said Chanthavar
bluntly. "But everything’s happening
at once. A munitions plant on Venus
was blown up today. I'm on the
track of a ring which is trying to
stir up the Commons and arm them.
It’s — Brannoch's work, of course.
He’s gambling his whole organiza-
tion, just to keep me too busy to
find Saris. Which suggests he has
reason to believe Saris can be found.’’
"I tell you, I've thought about it
till I’m blue in the face, and . . .
I . . . don't . . , know." Langley
met the wrathful black eyes with a
hard gray stare. "Don’t you think
I’m smart enough to save myself a
lot of trouble.^ If I did know, I’d
tell somebody or other, I wouldn’t
horse around this way.’’
"That may be,” said Chanthavar
grimly. "Nevertheless, I warn you
that if you haven’t offered some log-
ical suggestion within another cou-
ple of days, I’ll take it on myself to
have you interrogated. The hunt’s
going on, but we can’t scour every
nook and cranny of a whole world
— especially with so many powerful
Ministers fussy about having their
private estates searched. But Saris
will be found if 1 have to rip the
planet apart — and you with it.”
"I’ll do my best,” said Langley.
"This is my planet too, you know.”
"All right. I’ll settle for that, but
very temporarily. Now, one other
thing. My watchers report a female
slave was sent you by Brannoch. I
want to see her.”
"Look here — ”
"Shut up. Fetch her out.”
Marin entered of herself. She
bowed to Chanthacar and then stood
quietly under the rake of his eyes.
There was a long stillness.
"So,” whispered the agent. "I
think I sec. Langley, what arc your
reactions to this ? Do you want to
keep her?”
"I do. If you won't agree. I’ll guar-
antee to do my best to see you never
find Saris. But I'm not going to
swap a whole civilization just for her,
if that’s what you’re thinking.”
"No ... it isn’t. I’m not afraid
of that.” Chanthavar stood with feet
wide apart, hands clasped behind his
back, scowling at the floor. "I won-
der what his idea really is? Some of
his own brand of humor? I don’t
know. I’ll have her guarded, too.”
He was silent for a while. Lang-
ley wondered what was going on in-
side that round skull. And then he
looked up with elfish merriment it
his eyes.
"Never mind!” said Chanthavar.
"I just thought of a joke. Sit back
and do some hard thinking, captain.
I’ve got to go now. Good day to you
both — enjoy yourselves.” He bowed
crisply and went out.
(to be continued)
THE LONG WAY HOME
141
THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
BY P. SCHUYLER MILLER
FOR YOUR POCKET
One of the publishing phenomena
of the last few years has been the
rise of the paper-bound "pocket”
books. For reasons which are neither
here nor there, we’ve more or less
ignored them in the past. However,
the advent of Ballantine’s parallel
series of science-fiction originals,
published simultaneously in paper
and hard covers, has made this policy
rather ridiculous, and we’ll try to
do justice to the pocket s-f from
here in — though in the case of re-
prints of previously published books,
a notice should be enough. Having
broken the ice, I want to sum up
the pocket-book situation for 1954
and start clean from there.
Let it be said that the economics
142
of the pocket-books have far from
shaken down. They came into being
for the same reason that popular
magazines did, and for the same
reason that they have before, here
and throughout the world. Cheaper
paper and binding, plus a relatively
enormous print order, brings the cost
per book down to the level of a
magazine. Reprint rights for previ-
ously published material, and royalty
rates for new stuff, arc lower than
for most regular hard-bound books
in recognition of the fact that //
th.c larger edition sells out, the writer
stands to gain more. To offset this,
the paper-back publisher gets no
income from advertising — as most
national magazines do, but the sci-
ence-fiction iield do not to any extent.
And he has to distribute his books
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
as if they .were magazines, through
drugstores, newsstands, or whatever
media the magazine distributors use.
But with a difference —
The difference is that Life and the
Saturday Evening Post go out of
date in a week; Astounding in a
month; some of the quarterly com-
petition in three months — whereas
a book, paper-backed or cloth-bound,
is theoretically good forever. And
that's been a mighty hard thing to
put across to the distributors and to
the man with a few shelves in the
corner of his drugstore. 'With new
titles coming out at terrific speed,
he can’t — physically — keep and dis-
play them all. It would be nice if
he could sell them as fast as they
came in, but that just doesn’t hap-
pen. What docs he do? Ship back
a carton of old titles whenever a
box of new ones comes in. And
does he do it with discrimination,
culling out the trash and keeping
the pure gold? Are you nuts? His
time is worth too much for that — -
and chances are the trash sells better,
if it has a busty, bloody cover.
The result has been that pocket-
books, except in a few rare stores
in the larger cities — or, interestingly
enough, in the smaller places where
rentals aren’t so high and a news-
stand can afford to display more
books and magazines, while people
can’t get books as easily — are not
treated like books at all. If you
don’t catch a title while it’s new,
you may never sec it. And of late,
publishers have been complaining
that the distributor — the wholesaler
THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
who gets the pocket-books for an
entire city or region, direct from the
publisher or a central jobber, and
passes them on to the local retailer
— these distributors haven’t even
bothered to unpack the cartons of
new titles as they arrive. They leave
the box in a corner for a month or
a couple of weeks, then ship it right
back, unopened. Result; old titles
stay in the store longer, but new
titles may never get to the shelf
at all.
The Wall Street Journal — accord-
ing to Random House's Bennett Cerf
—recently editorialized on the over-
production of paper-backs. They’re
being dumped into canals or shred-
ded into waste paper, because it’s too
costly to store them. Royalties — and
especially advance payments to au-
thors and original publishers — are
being cut back. Yet sales are edging
a quarter of a billion copies a year,
which is probably more than all
hard-bound books put together — and
fifty million in excess of sales.
Meanwhile it’s being proven
again and again that selectivity is
the answer. The older PB publisher'
are continuing to put out novels and
nonfiction of solid literary quality.
Penguin Books, the pioneering
British publisher — who now has an
American outlet, and who previously
launched what is now the Signet-
Mentor house — has a series of origi-
nal books in archeology which rank
— at 75<i to 95^ a copy — with uni-
versity press titles at $10 to $30 pet
volume. Several publishers are trying
their hand at "high brow” reprints
143
of literary classics, on book paper,
at around 95«^ — books you’ll want
to keep, as Europeans long have kept
their PBs.
I have, spread out in a four-foot
line on the floor, fifty-eight pocket-
book editions of science fiction and
fantasy which were distributed in
1954. This includes one French title
which happened to reach me, but
none of the British books, which I
understand are many, and none from
other countries. They range from
thin reprints of novels to very, very
fat anthologies, and they include an
increasing number of original books
—both first reprints from magazines,
and real originals, written for first
publication as paper-backs. But be-
fore trying to sum up the year, let’s
have another look at what you get
in a pocket-book.
Prices for about half of these are
25^; the rest, and all the fatter titles,
are 35(f, which makes them more or
less direct counterparts of this and
other science-fiction magazines. Most
of them have a format which gives
you about three hundred fifty words
per page: Ace gets that up to about
four hundred fifty. Pennant, Ballan-
tine and Gold Medal to around four
hundred, and Signet, by using amaz-
ingly readable type, to four hundred
eighty. The number of pages, as you
might expect, varies all over the
place — but the average novel seems
to give you around sixty-four thou-
sand words for your 35(f From there
■it ranges up to one hundred thirty-
seven thousand words in a typical
144
Ace "double” selection — two novels,
back to back — and to one hundred
sixty-eight thousand in one fat Pocket
Book reprint of an excellent short
story anthology.
Forgetting these oversize editions,
and concentrating on the run-of-thc-
mill titles, it turns out that when you
count words and pages for the lead-
ing tour or five science-fiction maga-
zines, you are getting forty to fifty
per cent more solid wordage in an
issue of Astomidnig, and around
fourteen per cent more in the three
nearest current contenders, than you
do in an average pocket-book. This
includes articles, editorials and de-
partments; it excludes table of con-
tents and advertisements. It does not
allow any deduction for illustrations,
because I consider them worth as
much or more than the wordage they
replace: and you don’t get ’em in
most PBs.
In any of the best science-fiction
magazines, then, you get more solid
wordage for your money than in the
average pocket-book of the same
price — though some of the best cost
less. In addition you get articles,
book news, illustrations, editorials,
plus the readers’ discussions. You
get the balance that a good editor
gives his magazine — variety in type
and style, variety in length. You get
a cover painting that’s as good as
most paper-backs can offer, and bet-
ter than a good many.
No magazine need apologize to
readers because it isn’t a pocket-book.
Especially, may I say, this magazine!
Nor should the PBs apologize for
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
not being magazines. They give you
selectivity in place of variety, and
for that reason the pocket-book sci-
ence fiction has until recently been
largely limited to paper-backed edi-
tions of popular cloth-bound books.
In 1954 we were getting more origi-
nal books, both novels and short
story anthologies.
Six of the eleven anthologies pub-
lished in 1954 — including the French
"Escales dans I’lnfini" from Librairie
Hachette of Paris — were originals
and nearly all of them rated hard-
cover editions. Ballantine gave us
the third "Star Science Fiction
Stories” and the first "Star Short
Novels,” both edited by Frederik
Pohl, which were for good measure
collections of brand-new stories; I’ve
described them here. Dell opened
the year with Groff Conklin’s choice
of "6 Great Short Novels of Science
Fiction” which were all you’d expect
of a Conklin selection. Lion Books
got Judith Merril’s excellent "Hu-
man.^” which fortunately appeared
recently enough to get regular men-
tion. And Donald Wollheim edited
an Ace "double book” composed of
five "Tales of Outer Space” and five
"Adventures in the Far Future,”
which is the best Wollheim anthol-
ogy in a long time, if not up to those
we’ve just mentioned. For good
measure, half of another double,
"The Ultimate Invader,” contains
four novelettes dealing with time in
its various aspects.
These Ace doubles are by long
odds your biggest money’s worth in
sheer wordage, and they do pretty
THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
well in quality, too. Their "gimmick"
is that each consists of two books,
one printed upside down and back-
to-front with respect to the other.
One is usually a reprint of a hard-
cover book: in 1954, we’ve had
Asimov's "The Rebellious Stars”
("The Stars, Like Dust”); Simak’s
"Ring Around the Sun”; van Vogt’s
"Weapon Shops of Isher”; Andre
Norton’s "Daybreak — 2250 A.D.”
(originally "Star Man's Son”); and
Bellamy’s "Atta.” Paired with these
were first PB editions of serials or
single-shot novels from the maga-
zines. In the order given above, these
were: Roger Dee's "An Earth Gone
Mad”; de Camp’s "Cosmic Man-
hunt” (otherwise "The Queen of
Zamba” when it was here); Lein-
ster’s "Gateway to Elsewhere”; a
Padgett-Moore, "Beyond Earth’s
Gates”; another Leinster in "The
Brain Stealers”; and to match "The
Ultimate Invader,” Eric Frank Rus-
sell’s "Sentinels of Space.” As you’ll
notice, these are for the most part
middle-of-the-road plot-color-and-ac-
tion yarqs.
Having been sidetracked by the
Ace books, we can return to the
anthologies to note that the year
also saw reprints of hard-cover an-
thologies in a selection of eight of
the best ASF yarns from the old
Healy-McComas "Adventures in
Time and Space” {Pennant) ; twelve
from the Margulies-Friend collec-
tion, "My Best Science Fiction
Story” {Pocket Books)-, and all
twenty-one stories in the excellent
145
William Tenn selection, "Children
of Wonder,’’ retitled "Outsiders:
Children of Wonder’’ by Perma
Books. Pennant also gave us twelve
of the stories in Judith Merril’s "Be-
yond Human Ken.’’
The French anthology is, I believe,
the first short story collection in
Hachette’s series, "Le Rayon F.m-
tastique,’’ which had previously been
limited to novels. It is edited by
Georges Gallet (and apparently
translated by him); he is perhajss
the top French student of science
fiction, and has chosen ten stories
which range over both science fiction
and fantasy.
In addition to the Ballantine series
of original science-fiction novels,
which have been reviewed here as I
got them (Pohl and Kornbluth’s
"Search the Sky,’’ Crane’s "Hero’s
Walk,’’ Anderson’s "Brain Wave,’’
Oliver’s "Shadows in the Sun,” and
Siodmak’s "Riders to the Stars”) the
year brought an outstanding original
novel in Ricliard Matheson’s "I Am
Legend,” from Gold Medal, which
has also distinguished itself for top-
notch original mysteries. There was
also Kendell F. Crossen’s good "Year
of Consent,” another Dell First Edi-
tion. Original short story collections
by one author included Kornblulh’s
excellent "The Explorers” from Bal-
lantine, and new assortments of
stories which, unless I am mistaken,
came from other previously publish-
ed books: Lewis Padgett’s "Line to
Tomorrow” {Bantani) and Nelson
Bond’s "No Time Like the Future”
{^Avon, otherwise unusually quiet in
146
’54). Frankly, the Padgett and Bond
stories have been anthologized so
often, in so many books, that with-
out an elaborate cross-index — which
I don’t and won't have — I don’t
know which are re-reprints and
which arc new to book torm in these
collections.
As might be expected, much of
the best PB science iiction in 1954
came i rom magazine serials and prior
hard-cover publication. Oldest of the
lot was Perma’s edition of A. Conan
Do)le's classic "The Lost World.”
B.dlantine had the edge with Dun-
can’s "Dark Dominion,” Clarke’s
"Prelude to Space,” and a paper
edition of Gore 'Vidal’s "Messiah,”
plus Sheckley’s shorts in "Untouched
By Human Hands. ” Signet’s top title
ot the year w'as Alfred Hester’s "The
Demolished Man,” but it also had
Tucker’s " Fime Masters ” and Hein-
lein's tour novelettes in "Assignment
in Eternity,” w'hilc Dell published
Tucker’s "The Long Loud Silence,”
plus Cyril Judd’s "Outpost Mars”
and the Robert Spencer Carr shorts,
"Beyond Infinity.” Perma had
Simak’s "City” and Clarke’s "Against
the Fall of Night” and Pocket Books
had his "Sands of Mars,” the un-
usual 'Vercors "You Shall Know
Them,” and a minor Leinster, "Space
Tug.”
Lion, hitherto a minor PB pub-
lisher whose books frequently don’t
get space on the stands, had two
good titles in Fritz Leiber’s "Green
Millennium” and Steve Frazee’s sus-
pense-adventure yarn, "The Sky
Block,” both from original hard-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
cover books which haven’t been
serialized. Bantam gave us two other
top-notchers in Fredric Brown’s
"The Lights in the Sky are Stars”
and Kurt Vonnegut's "Player Piano,”
renamed "Utopia 14.” Pennant had
Jerry Sohl’s "Altered Ego,” and Ace
had one of its occasional single titles,
direct from magazine publication, in
L. Ron Hubbard’s "Return to To-
morrow” (published here in 1950
as, I think, "To the Stars.”)
I’d advise you to watch for popu-
lar science titles among the pocket-
books. I have only three in my count
of fifty-eight, but there were certain-
ly more worth noting. Those I pick-
ed up were a Signet edition of Leon-
ard's "Flight Into Space,” a Mentor
of Hoyle’s "Nature of the Universe,”
and a Pocket Books edition of
Clarke’s "Exploration of Space.”
Outright fantasy didn’t do very
well in ’54. Outstanding ,PB of the
year was a Cardinal edition of the
complete "Great Tales of Fantasy
and Imagination” edited by Philip
van Doren Stern (originally "The
Moonlight Traveler”). No one
should miss it. Lion brought out
Leiber’s classic "Conjure Wife” and
Michael Fessier’s light "Fully Dress-
ed and in Flis Right Mind.” Dell
had Henry James’ masterpiece, "The
Turn of the Screw,” with his non-
fantasy "Daisy Miller.” And Ban-
tam gave us John Dickson Carr’s
classic combination of detection and
the supernatural, "The Burning
Court,” which you should certain-
ly read if you missed it back in
1937.
THE REFERENCE LIBRARY
There were also new PB editions
of several books which were first
published as paper-backs some time
ago, went out of print, and are back
again with new covers. Bradbury’s
"Martian Chronicles” is one of sev-
eral that I won’t try to list. And
having, in a sense, caught up with
this survey of a year’s publishing in
the pocket-book field, I promise not
to do it again, but to try to bring
you the original PB editions as I get
them, and notice the reprints in
passing.
(KZX)
The Science-Fiction Subtreas-
ury, by Wilson Tucker. Rinehart
& Co., New York. 1954. 240 pp.
$2.75.
Here is a minor collection of ten
short stories by one of the most
consistently good novelists in the
science-fiction field. As their author
says in his introduction, they are not
intended to be representative of any-
thing except the good time you can
have playing with ideas in science-
fiction: they arc "dedicated to the
proposition that very little in science
fiction is sacred.”
The ten stories have been drawn
from seven different magazines. The
best, "MCMLX” (in which a science-
fiction writer has a very useful — and
troublesome — encyclopedia) , seems
to be an original written f'r the
book. Next in line, to me, is "Gen-
tlemen — the Queen,” which follows
the logic of a romantic situation to
147
its bitter end. The longest, "The Job
Is Ended,” was evidently a trial run
in novelette form for Tucker’s much
better novel (now out in a Signet
25(t edition), "The Time Masters.”
The opener, "The Street Walker,”
develops a theme much like that of
Bradbury’s "Pedestrian” in a purely
Tuckeresque way.
The others; "Home Is Where the
Wreck Is,” a comedy on the lines of
a reverse "Admirable Crichmn”;
"My Brother's Wife,” a ghoulish
little family-circle tale; "Exit,” in
which a philosopher talks too much;
"The Wayfaring Strangers” who pop
up in poor old Charley Horne’s back
yard and another "shaggy dog” story
about visiting aliens, "The Moun-
taineer”; and that other admirable
yarn about the struggles of Mr.
Horace Reid to eradicate anachro-
nisms from our times, "Able to
Zebra.” (How about Kim Novak
as Dog.^ I’ll bet Author Tucker
would lean way out of his projection-
ist’s booth and applaud.)
0<=>0
The Best from Fantasy and Sci-
ence Fiction: Fourth Series,
edited by Anthony Boucher. Dou-
bleday & Co., Garden City. 1955.
250 pp. $3.50.
These annual collections should
need no introduction. Even if you
don’t like fantasy — five out of fifteen
stories — you are certain to find some
of the year’s best science fiction. I
have a hunch Anthony Boucher —
148
now operating without McComas —
has to fight hard to keep some of
these stories away from Bleiler and
Dikty. This year’s lot, by the way, is
embellished with some of the verse
which has been cropping up in F&SF
lately: notably, Isaac Asimov’s "Foun-
dation of Science Fiction Success.”
Best of the science fiction in the
book are Robert Abernathy’s picture
of ancient cultural patterns emerging
in a Russia devastated by World
War III ("Heirs Apparent”); Ri-
chard Matheson’s "The Test,” in
which the problem of our aging
population is played out bitterly, Ray
Bradbury’s "All Summer in a Day,”
another of his vignettes of children’s
cruelty; Daniel F. Galouye’s "Sanc-
tuary,” a moving story of a tortured
telepath, and I guess Shirley Jack-
son’s scrap of paper from the future,
"Bulletin.”
Right up in there, and I’d hate to
have to justify putting them on the
next-to-thc-top step of the ladder,
are Alfred Bester’s story of android
insanity, "Fondly Fahrenheit”; J.
Francis McComas’ story of a primi-
tive innovator, "Brave New World”;
and Albert Compton Friborg’s "Care-
less Love,” or the romance of a
computer. Step three from the top —
and it’s a tall ladder — Poul Ander-
son’s lorn- de force of chess, '"rhe
Immortal Game,” and Lord Dun-
sany’s "Misadventure” in an intel-
ligent lift.
At the top of the fantasy section
are Robert Sheckley’s "Accountant,”
which must surely have starred in
Unknown were that lamented maga-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
zine still with us, and another of
Manly Wade Wellman’s distinguish-
ed series about wandering John, his
guitar, and his strange experiences
with the legendry of the southern
hills; "The Little Black Train.”
Arthur Forges, in "$1.98,” gives us
an item which might have come from
Dunsany, and C. M. Kornbluth has
a riotous tale about a tough slum kid
paroled to magic, "I Never Ast No
Favors,” which also belongs up there
at the top. Finally, in "My Boy
Friend’s Name is Jello,” Avram
Davidson has a neatly understated
vista of witchcraft among the tene-
ments.
"No BEMs,” Tony Boucher ad-
vertises on his jacket; it’s an over-
sight. He hires only the best BEMs.
IXZXi
Shadows in the Sun, by Chad
Oliver. Ballantine Books, New
York. 1954. 152 pp. $2.00; paper
35«f.
Here is Ballantine’s top book of
1954, and a probable contender in
the International Fantasy Awards for
the year (though I am still rooting
for Pangborn’s "Mirror for Observ-
ers” as the best). It shows Chad
Oliver’s study of anthropology sink-
ing into his thinking and writing,
and I’m inclined to say that it’s tne
best science-fiction with an anthro-
pological theme that I have seen.
Paul Ellery is studying the cultural
and social structure of a small Texas
town, Jefferson Springs. He finds
that its entire population seems to
have been replaced, over a period of
years, by aliens . . . and then the
"secret” is laid open for him, and
his and the book’s real problem is
stated. Men, "real” men, people the
stars and their higher civilization is
pressed for room into which to ex-
pand. Their solution is to colonize
the underdeveloped worlds like
Earth, to take over the country towns
and let our kind retreat to natural
"reservations” in the cities where, in
the end, their superior culture will
be able to preserve us in happy con-
gestion. The gulf between "savages”
and civilized is not one of evolution
or intelligence, it is purely and sim-
ply cultural, and Paul can be taught
to take a place in the society of the
outsiders. Should he, and will he?
(It is almost exactly the problem of
Jack Williamson’s "The Humanoids”
that Paul Ellery faces.)
I hope we can expect more and
even better books from Chad Oliver
as he moves into an anthropological
career.
THE REFERENCE LIBRART
149
BRASS TACKS
Dear Mr. Campbell;
The 13th World Science-Fiction
Convention will be held in Cleve-
land, Ohio over Labor Day week-end,
September 2, 3, 4, and 5, 1955.
Because of space limitations, we
cannot give an itemized account of
what we have already planned, but
here is a brief resume.
1. Convention headquarters will
be the Hotel Manger in the heart of
downtown Cleveland. This hotel has
been re-decorated in the most modern
manner, guaranteeing the most pleas-
ant accommodations. Rooms run
from as low as $5.00 for a single
to a maximum of $9.00 for a double
and $12.00 for one with twin beds.
2. The convention guest of honor
will be Isaac Asimov, brilliant author
of the "Foundation” stories, many
150
other books and hundreds of short
stories and articles. Dr. Asimov is
also one of the wittiest speakers we
have encountered in the science-
fiction held.
3. We arc considering presenting
a science-fiction play to be produced
by one of Cleveland’s outstanding
semi-professional theater groups.
4. There will be three or possibly
four panel discussions, one of which
will be a formal debate. Some of the
personalities that have said they
would attend are Mark Clifton,
James E. Gunn, Anthony Boucher,
John W. Campbell, Jr., Bob Tucker,
Lloyd Eshbach, Willy Ley, Forrest
Ackerman, Betsy Curtis, E. E. Evans,
and Evelyn Gold.
5. We will have the annual Mas-
querade ball with a "name band”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
and a competition for the best cos-
tumes with art work for prizes, and
of course, the auction.
6. We are also planning to rein-
state the Achievement Awards insti-
tuted by the 11th World Science-
Fiction Conventon m Philadelphia
and inaugurating a Afystery Guest
contest, however, the particulars
will be found in all Progress Reports.
For more information, please write
to us for the "Special Issue Progress
Report” which contains all the nec-
essary information on the convention
in detail. Or, if you prefer, send your
|2.00 registration fee to 1.3th Annual
World Science-Fiction Convention,
P.O. Box 508, Edgewater Branch,
Cleveland 7, Ohio. — Norecn Kane
Falasca, Chairman.
Making plans for Labor Day yet?
Dear Mr. Campbell:
The picture of solar system astro-
nautics and its attendant logistics
seems to be settling into focus now
like the surface of a lake near the
termination of a wild storm — as seen
from inside the lake. Each step in
the direction ot c|uantitative analysis
has seemed to bring about large
qualitative revisions in our ideas of
space travel and what possible ex-
cuses we could find for engaging in
it — or what possible means. Arthur
C. Clarke in the November Journal
of the British Interplanetary Society
has needled a number of "Astronau-
tical Fallacies” in a concise manner
pleasing to many of us, I’m sure,
wh'o’ve been exasperated to find
otherwise esteemed friends mired
deep beyond momentary aid in these
mental sandtraps.
He also manages to set up a fal-
lacy or two of his own, at least on
the verbal level, but such are the
times and their velocity that J. J.
Coupling spears them in turn in the
January Astounding while my jaw
is still slack. For instance, this:
"There are no circumstances, in fact,
where making such a rendezvous
(spaceship matching velocity and
position with an asteroid with the
intent of interplanetary hitch-hiking)
would have any effect except that of
increasing fuel consumption and
adding to the hazards of the voyage.
Even if there was any advantage in
such a scheme, one might have to
wait several hundred years before
there was a chance for a return trip.
No, interplanetary hitch-hiking will
not work . . .”
Those little dots which Mr. Clarke
places at the end of his paragraph
are the mathematical symbol for the
truncated or infinite portion of an
infinite scries and I presume that,
with tongue in cheek, he intends
them to have that significance.
"Any advantage in such a scheme”
is tied up in the single factor of
"reaction mass,” to which, even after
Ley and von Braun and Kooy &
Uytenbogaart, we are paying insuf-
ficient attention, and to which Cou-
pling brings precise and correct at-
tention on page 123: ". . . space
travel . . . has several elements: . . .
(4) A trip to the vicinity of some
BRASS TACKS
151
light satellite, asteroid or ring (of
Saturn). (5) Picking up reaction
mass ...”
Every bit of matter floating about
in the universe, and — in the case of
this century’s interest — in the solar
system, from comet-size — a few hun-
dred million tons each — upward
through asteroids and moons to the
j'.lancts, is a space "filling station”
lor reaction-mass.
For analogy, in order to emphasize
the importance of this factor, imagine
touring across the United States in
your car — that second Ford in the
family — with fourteen tanker trucks
and their drivers tagging along be-
hind as your fuel supply — AND AS
THEIR OWN FUEL SUPPLY. But
no filling stations — they died of fill-
ing station pox or other gimmicks
to wit — Well, that trip is going to
cost you a lot more for gas than it
would if there were filling stations,
and a lot more for capital invest-
ment, personnel, hamburgers, et
cetera.
Read reaction mass, capital, ro-
bots and uranium for fuel, per-
sonnel and hamburgers and the
problem’s yours. For tanker trucks,
read rocket stages. Oh — and multiply
costs by about lO’H
If any Terran government —
national or planetary — ever gets big
and bold enough to establish mrani-
um-and/ or-solar-powered reaction-
mass refineries on the moons of the
solar system, the individual trader’s
most economical trip, from Earth-
surface to Saturn-surface — for a
nice example — will, in my present
qualitative estimate, follow Cou-
pling’s dicta closely: Earth to 1075-
mile satellite vehicle on reaction-mass
obtained from Earth; then vehicle to
Luna on reaction-mass originating on
Luna and transported — earlier than
date of need — to and stored at
vehicle; then:
KIIOM TO SOURCE OF
REACTION
MASS
lAina
Deimos
Luna
Deimos
a belt asteroid Ceres, Vesta, etc.)
Deimos
Ceres
J9 or a Trojan planet
Ceres
Trojan asteroid
Phoebe
Trojan
Phoebe
lapetus
Phoebe
Japetus
Hyjierion
lapetus
Hyperion
Titan
Hyperion
Titan
Rhea
Titan
Rhea
Dione
Rhea
Dione
Trthys
Dione
Tethys
Enceladus
Tf'thys
Enco'adua
Mimas
Eij<('ladus
Mimas
Outer Ring
Mimas
Outer Ring
Bright Ring
Outei- Ring
Hright Ring
Crape Ring
Bright Ring
Crape Ring
Outer Saturn SaTcl'‘t»' Vehicle
Crape Ring
Outer Saturn S. V.
Intermediate S. S. V.’s
Crape Ring
Intermediate S. S. V.’s
Saturn Exposphere Vehicle
Cl ajiu Ring
Saturn Ex-Vehide
Floating Base on Saturn Ocean
Crape Ring
1612
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE EICTION
Any moment, now, it will happen ... a little hand
reaching ... a puppy-tail wagging . . . and
suddenly a boy and his new dog will be
tumbling together in the beginning of love.
Here, in such a moment, out of the
heart’s deep need for love begins the
reaching for security that all of us
need all our lives.
Only in the freedom of a country like
ours can each one of us have the
privilege of working for the security
of those we love. And building that
security yields a double reward:
happiness in our homes and strength
for America.
For the strength of our country is
simply that of one secure home joined
to another’s.
Your security and that of your
country begin in your home.
Saving for security is easy! Here’s a sav-
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If you can save only $3.75 a week on
the Plan, in 9 years and 8 months you will
have $2,137.30. For your sake, and your
family’s, too, how about signing up today?
Or, if you are self-employed, join the con-
venient Bond-A-Month Plan where you
bank. Start saving this easy way today!
The U. S. Government does not pay for this advertisement. It is
donated by this publication in cooperation with the Advertising
Council and the Magazine Publishers of America.
This list is slightly more subtle
than a mere tabulation, although not
difficult in the continued light of the
tourist-and-gas-stations analogy :
1. No mention has been made of
possible satellite vehicles around
Luna, Ceres, Titan as cheaper
remassing stations than the sur-
faces of the bodies themselves —
which would however remain the
SOURCES of the remassing-mass-
— because this is a quantitative
matter that I've not gone into.
2. Stopping at both 1075MSV and
Luna is superior to stopping at
only one of them in the hard fight
against Terran gravity — and this
is clearly indicated if not absolute-
ly proven by the tourist-and -gaso-
line analogy to which the interest-
ed scholar is heartily referred,
along with his desk calculators,
minute stipendia et aliqui,
3. Phobos and Mars are omitted be-
cause they are situated at the same
crossroads as Deimos and yet
charge somewhat and much (re-
spectively) more for their gasoline
— I mean their grav fields rob you
of more of your hard-purchased
reaction-mass before you can get
under way again.
4. Any asteroid in the main belt will
do. They’re all low-grav fields of
small extent. Plenty of cheap gas.
Heart of the oil country. Don't
have to watch your timing too
close either.
5 . A leading Trojan planet ("Jupiter
Equilateral”), J9 or a lagging
Trojan, depending upon the
154
timing of the individual voyage.
A Trojan is superior to J9 becau.se
there's less perturbation from
Jupiter (oh, Lawden ! why'd you
ever bring THAT up?) and less
Jovian grav to fight on the ways
in and out, and J9 superior to
the other Jovian moons for the
same reason. I hope it is obvious
to sundry as well as all that we
are wc/ stopping at Jupiter to pick
up reaction mass on a Terra-
Saturn . . . er . . . "run.”
6. The reason for "climbing down”
from Saturn’s outer moon Phoebe
along the entire ladder of moons,
rings and a number of fictitious
satellite vehicles, is not the IN-
TENSITY of Saturn’s grav field
but its EXTENT — or, rather, the
product INTENSITY x EXTENT
and the exponential effect of EX-
TENT upon required reaction-
mass, the number of rocket stages
and the mass-ratio.
To elaborate upon this last point;
Saturn has very little more theoretical
(i.e. : cirro-stratus-level) "surface”
gravity than Earth: about 1.17 to
1.25 "g” is the present estimate. So
far as intensity goes, we would not
expect to have to add even a fourth
stage to the three-stage Earth-escap-
ing rocket to make a Saturn-cscaping
rocket of it. However, Saturn’s mass
is ninety-five times Earth’s, and
escape from or surfacing upon that
planet without benefit of remassing
stations would require, using Cou-
pling’s excellent data, a mass-ratio of
4117, of six of von Braun’s mass-
ratio-four stages.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
That’s 4117 just between Saturn
and Space, which means 4117 tons
of fuel to lift 1 ton of payload off
Saturn into Space in an orbit not too
much different from Saturn’s orbit
about Sol. Earth’s escape mass ratio
is given by Coupling as 57, so the
Earth-Saturn mass ratio, one way,
ignoring velocity-matching-energy, is
57 times 4117, and the mass raho
for a round-trip is the square of that
product. But we cannot ignore veloc-
ity-matching, and the mass-ratios for
velocity-matching will be multiplied
by the above mentioned square of
57x4117. Putting remassing-stations
on all convenient bodies along the
way cuts down this chain of multi-
plications (tending ideally towards
converting it into a chain of mere
additions instead). ’Nuff said. —
Alan F. Wilson, 333 Clay Street, Los
Angeles 13, California.
P.S.:
With a planet of very high equa-
torial velocity, somewhat above the
Keplerian circular-orbit velocity for
a distance of one planetary radius
from center, there are critical equa-
torial velocities which we might wish
the planet possessed to match the
Hohmann ellipse connecting the
planet’s equator with the orbit of
each of its moons. If the equator
has the critical velocity to match the
Hohmann orbit to the outermost
moon, then no energy need be ex-
pended (and the engines may remain
OFF) during landing upon and
taking off from the planet — at the
equator — and the planet will possess
two parallels of latitude (one North
Harold A. Seward, of
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Look 4t This Record
In checking over some files recently, we dis-
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BRASS TACKS
and one South) for each of the
other moons such that the velocity
of a parallel matches the Hohmann
orbit to the corresponding moon.
Some energy will have to be expend-
ed in the latter cases to compensate
for the motion of the rocket in lati-
tude. At the moment of no-energy or
low-energy surfacing on such a plan-
et you would have to "grab a hold ’
fast, like the daring young man on
the flying trapeze or you’d be headed
for space again. In such a case, I
think you’d want jets in the roof (no
remarks please) to hammer the ship
down onto the ground until you got
an eyebolt screwed securely into the
lithosphere. That would be a jittery
moment with an UNPLANNED
TRIP into space again hovering over
your neck like the Sword of Damo-
cles ... I mean, like a boomerang.
Needless to say, such a planet
would be even more bizarre than
Mesklin in that while it might pos-
sess a heavy polar atmosphere (I
should say; T'WO heavy polar at-
mospheres) it could not contain
either a tropical atmosphere or a
tropical ocean. It will be interesting
in mortal futurity to determine if
there are any likely lithospheric mate-
rials having sufficient solid-state
shrinkage to allow a planetary equa-
tor to exceed Keplerian velocity in
the slow geological (planetological)
ages of a wo**ld’s cooling.
Deep metal-mining and export
should be a breeze in such Tropics,
but the ’quakes if any would be
perilous indeed, and any vulcanism
would lead to pillars of fire that
156
would drain the planet like a racoon
sucking an egg — until sub-Keplcrian
dynamic stability is reached that is.
And we’re pretty certain now that
radioactive heating can lead to local
liquefactions in a lithosphere after
it has solidified.
Speaking of Mesklin, I think that
big old world will go down into the
legends of the future as Ilium and
Ithaca have come down into ours.
Really Homeric. Even Simakian.
a.w.
Hitch-hiking on an asteroid does
make much sense in these terms!
Dear Mr. Campbell:
Your article a while back by Poul
Anderson, "Those Hairy Ancestors”
did a fine job of debunking some of
the current myths on early man. Of
course, the actual basic data is so
limited that much controversy exists
on various points. This, I think, is
due more to the attempts to use an-
thropology to defend some precon-
ceived idea — in one of its worst cases,
the attempt of certain Argentine
scientists to find man’s origin on the
Argentine pampas to support their
brand of nationalism — than to am-
biguities in the basic evidences. Sci-
ences which are not closely related to
prejudices and personalities do not
have nearly so many bitter disputes.
However, I was surprised to see
that Anderson followed the conven-
tional line in attributing the inven-
tion of agriculture to Neolithic
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
times, in dose association with "vil-
lage and town life, the nation, highly
organized religion, the wheel, the
seagoing ship, the loom, metallurgy,
writing’’ et cetera. Archaeologists
are largely agreed on this — I am
speaking here of the Old 'World
only — recent invention of agricul-
ture. If they were as aware of botan-
ical evidence as of potsherds and
village sites, I think they would have
to leave the question open.
There is botanical evidence.
In my opinion, based upon the
botanical evidence, what was invent-
ed in Neolithic times, and perhaps
in the Iraq-Iran region as conven-
tionally thought, was the cultivation
of grains. A number of grasses and
grasslike plants, some completely un-
known to most Americans or even
Europeans, came into large-scale cul-
tivation. Since grains take rather long
to grow and are bulky to store — but
can be stored, notice — it was neces-
sary to have permanent or nearly
permanent villages. Since these
grains should be planted, cultivated,
and harvested at certain times of
year, a calendar is needed. Since a
community might acquire a surplus
in good years, records must be kept
of who owns what, the priests — who
keep the calendar — must keep their
tithes coming in properly, et cetera,
so writing becomes important. With
surplus grain, cattle can be kept in-
stead of hunted. Weeding and tend-
ing the fields must have been the
first large-scale standardized industry
where a person repeats over and over
a simple monotonous task in the
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9
SPRtNG 1955
JANUARY
ALL ABOUT THE FUTURE
Edited by Morfin Greenberg
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BRASS TACKS
157
same place. The adventure of hunt-
ing would be lost.
Civilization, I think, sprang up
more from the adoption of grain-
crops than all other causes combined.
The growing of grains may have
come from cultivating grain-ama-
ranths, w'hich are still a crop
throughout the tropics and subtrop-
ics. The grain-amaranths often have
red splotched and marked leaves and
these forms have great magical sig-
nificance in many areas. Perhaps they
were grown first for magic, then for
the seeds, and by analogy, the true
grains came into cultivation. The
actual origin of agriculture must
go back far into the Pleistocene.
There has been no important crop
originate in all six thousand years of
history. At the dawn of historical
times we find several hundred im-
portant cultivated plants being
grown across vast areas. Now these
plants have several unique features
■ — they will grow in most soils and-
climates — virtually no wild plant, if
any, has the adaptability of any of
these diverse crops — they have no
reseinblance, or very little, to any
known wild species — a very peculiar
situation in this large a nitinbcr —
they hacc highly modified reproduc-
tive s)’stems and may even be sterile,
they show cviilencc of hybridization
and chromosome changes, and — very
notably — they are associated with
large numbers of weeds, which share
their peculiarities. The crop of yes-
terday is the weed of today as a gen-
eral rule. The few crops that we
thought W'ere close to some existing
ancestor have recently been found to
be the ancestor of the weed, not vice
versa. Corn, for instance, is one of
the parents of the weed-grass teo-
sinte, long thought corn’s ancestor.
The cultivation of crops such as
gourds, gingers, amaranths, lotus,
and other exotic plants, was prob-
ably going on in India, Turkestan,
China, and Malayasia, at a time when
Homo neanderthalcnsis was chipping
flints along the edges of the Eurasian
glaciers. Or — did Neanderthal man
practice agriculture? There is no evi-
dence he did, so I doubt it, but what
evidence would survive? Wooden
plows, grains, et cetera would rot in
fifty thousand years of humid cli-
mate. It isn’t impossible. In any case,
French caves and Iraq village sites
will give us little evidence if the
real origin of agriculture was inside
the present U.S.S.Pv. and Red China.
— John Beckner, Myrtle Way
South, St. Petersburg, Florida.
Hm-ni-m — Then how old IS agri-
cnUure? How long would it take
to break the chrnmosoiue stability
oj a wild plant?
Dear Mr. Campbell:
I have been conducting a statistical
study of vocabulary in your maga-
zine. Flcre arc the results:
1. ERIC FRANK RUSSELL
averages: 4.79 letters per word.
2. RALPH WILLIAMS: 4,68 let-
ters.
3. E. B. COLE: 4.50 letters.
4. JAMES WHITE; 4.50 letters.
5. ISAAC ASIMOV: 4.28 letters.
158
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION
6. JAMES BUSH: 4.26 letters.
The above results are as accurate
as I can make them — taking random
samples of a thousand words from
different parts of a story, and from
different stories by the same author,
counting the letters and averaging.
Some words are hyphenated, and
some autliors use hyphens more
often than others. I've counted all
hyphenated words as two words.
The results aren’t meaningless.
They have a detinitc signihcance. It
isn’t pure chance that, say, Russell’s
average is 4.79 and Asimov's is
4.28. And there is no likelihood that
my figures are radically inaccurate.
If any of your readers care to check,
they may do so by counting the num-
ber of letters in a passage of a thou-
sand words taken at random out of
a story by Asimov. They will find
that the passage has maybe 4,280
letters in it, maybe 4,180, or maybe
4,380. But it will /!erei- have 4,790.
Conversely, a passage of 1,000
words of Russell's prose may have
4.690, 4,790 or 4,890 letters in it.
But it will never have 4,280 or less.
By the way, if any reader is inter-
ested, try writing a readable 5,000
word story with an average word-
length of less than 4 letters or more
than 5 letters. It may sound easy, but
it isn’t, I assure you. — James Eng-
land, 17, 'Wellington Street, Little-
borough, Lancashire, England.
Hexnpeclal'uin polysyllabic composi-
tion’s similarly i)iefficien/ly ardu-
ous.
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BRASS TACKS
159
{Continued from page 5)
ing friends. Sorry; the penalty of
being out in front of the crowd is
that there is no crowd with you.
Actually, the genius prob.ibly
doesn't want to be a leader; he is
simply trying to be w'hat his nature
makes him — and it makes him lone-
ly because his nature is unusual.
Well — "A poor w'orkman quarrels
with his tools." If the genius wants
to work with Mankind, he mis'ht,
perhaps, do so more etficiently if he
got over blowing his stack at their
stupidity, and tried taking the view'-
point he so violently demean.s — that
they are ?iot stupid. That they have a
great, and very ancient w'isdom. That
the flash of genius can be flashing
in the wrong direction. Hitler was
undoubtedly a genius; so w’as Ghen-
gis Klian and many another of Man-
kind’s great geniuses-in-t‘he-w'rong-
direction.
The trouble is that the great men
have transmitted not only their very
real and very great wnsdom to the
culture — they’ve also transmitted
their anger at Man.
Since geniuses suffer most intol-
erably from Mankind's intolerance of
new' ideas, the culture has a great
schism in its thinking; it insists that
we must be tolerant — and is intoler-
ant. Possibly things would work bet-
ter if we acknowledged that Intol-
erance is a great, useful, and neces-
sary thing — properly used. It’s worth
noting that three billion years of
evolution has produced a human
organism that is so intolerant that you
160
can’t tolerate a skin-graft from any
individual . . . unless you happen
to be a one-egg twin, in which case
you can tolerate a skin-graft from
your genetically identical twin.
Three billion years of evolution
doesn’t make nonsense; why is intol-
erance a good and necessary tiling.^
I don’t know . . . but I’ve a strong
hunch we’d do a lot better with con-
trolling intolerance if we first found
out W'hat it was meant to do, and
how it was meant to be used. Most
communities feel that it is wrong to
tolerate a thief, pervert, or a sadistic
killer. Let’s try the demeaned view-
point that Intolerance is a sound,
necessary, and valuable function — in
its proper place.
\Vhen the United States tried the
experiment of Prohibition, it held
"There is no place for a liquor
seller.’’ Since people do want liquors,
there obviously is a place for liquor
sellers. Denying this fact pushed the
liquor seller underground, w'herc he
operated without thoughtful control.
The result was very bad liquor,
poisonous liquor, and uncontrolled
distribution of liquor. Fortunately
alcohol is one of the best antiseptics,
so bacterial contamination of the
liquor due to dirty handling didn’t
add to Mankind’s w'oes. Just imagine
what would have happened if it had
been milk!
So long as we insist "There is no
place for Intolerance in human
thinking!’’ w'e are going to have
Bootleg Intolerance — uncontrolled
distribution, badly organized intoler-
ance, poisonous intolerance. I have a
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hunch that if wc tried that demeaned
viewpoint, wc might accept that In-
tolerance is a tine and necessary tiling
— and wind up with a lot less, much
more sanely distributed.
Of course, the powerful and
sweeping condemnation of Intoler-
ance that is standard in our culture
is an excellent example of a type of
thinking that our culture sweepingly
condemns — thinking in terms of
categories and sweeping generaliza-
tions. Inasmuch as the culture itself
teaches that we should think in
those terms, and does so by example,
while teaching that we should not do
so in terms of preachments. I’m a
little confused as to what the culture
does believe. The culture preaches
that you should not think in sw'cep-
ing generalities — but the culture does
think in precisely that manner. It’s
a "Don't do what I do; do w'hat I
say!” problem.
Possibly thinking in generaliza-
tions is another of those demeaned
and suppressed concepts that need to
be brought out of the Bootleg class.
Since Mankind docs, and has for a
long, long time thought in those
terms, and has, somehow, managed
to survive, maybe there is a modicum
of validity to it that needs to be
found. You can’t get a man to give
up an idea when it’s sound and valid;
you’ve got to find the area of its
validity, aeknow'ledge it belongs
there — and then he’ll be able to
agree there are places it doesn’t be-
long. But .saying it doesn’t belong
anywhere-, under any circumstances,
doesn’t get you far. So long as you
insist on that attitude, you can’t regu-
late it, channel it, or apply it where
it docs fit.
Let’s try taking the demeaned
viewpoint; assume that thinking in
categorical terms is valid, and see how
it could be used.
1. Juvenile delinquents tend to
grow up and become crim-
inals.
“'Why, that’s no way to judge a
man! I have a neighbor w'ho was a
juvenile delinquent, arrested seven
times, and almost sent to reform
school. But he’s a fine man — an en-
gineer with a big job in an important
construction company. You’re think-
ing in categories, and you know
that’s not sound.”
THE DEMEANED VIEWPOINT
161
2. Individuals who have no fixed
address, no family, and no
fixed associations in any busi-
ness tend to be untrust-
worthy.
"That’s nonsense! I know a man
who’s a business organization con-
sultant. He’s a bachelor, and he has
no fixed address, and naturally, in
his work, changes from one business
association to another rapidly. That
doesn’t mean a thing; it’s just sloppy
thinking.”
3. Individuals who carry concealed
guns are usually open to con-
siderable suspicion.
"Oh . . . nonsense! I suppose
you’d say that a detective was a crook
because he carries a concealed gun!”
4. There is a tendency for social
deviants such as criminals to
take to flashy and extreme
styles of dress.
"That would make most of the
teen-agers I know criminals! You
can’t judge a man’s character by his
clothes, and you know it.”
5. This individual was a juvenile
delinquent; he has no family,
no fixed address, no business
associations, is carrying a con-
cealed gun, and is flashily
dressed. I suspect he may be
a professional criminal, and
will take precautionary meas-
ures on that basis.
Perhaps the major trouble with the
use of thinking-in-categories is th.at
most people do too little of it — they
don’t use enough categories. Senator
McCarthy evidently feels that one-
time interest in a Communist-associ.it-
162
ed organization is adequate proof
that a man is untrustworthy — though
it happens that his other category-
associations include twenty or thirty
conservative political, economic and
religious organizations. It isn’t that
categorical thinking is itself wrong —
but that, like any good thing, it can
be used wrongly.
If you have a piece of glass, and
put a streak of lacquer on it that
absorbs ten per cent of the trans-
mitted light, you can’t blacken it
with that. But if you put thirty such
streaks across the glass, and they all
intersect at one point ... it won’t be
black, of course, but it’ll be awful
darned dark looking.
Maybe the human race would get
along a bit better if it didn’t try to
totally suppress things that Man,
over the megayears, has learned the
hard way — by evolution. Not all ani-
mals with big teeth are carnivores.
Not all animals with claws are carni-
vores. Not all big animals are
carnivores. But if you enter a region
that is totally strange to you, and
you see a large animal, with large
pointed teeth, that has claws rather
than hoofs, and does not have horns
— you have no logical data, of course,
about the nature of this individual,
it’s just pure suspicion, but you’re
rather apt to live longer if you sus-
pect it of being a hunting carnivore.
On the other hand, as Couvier, the
great Zoologist pointed out, the tra-
ditional Devil is obviously herbivor-
ous; he has horns and hoofs.
The Editor.
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