To the memory of
John Wood CampbeU, Jr. (1910-71)
for reasons that this book will make amply obvious

Although I have written over a hundred and twenty books, on
almost every subject from astronomy to Shakespeare and from
mathematics to satire, it is probably as a science fiction writer
that I am best known.

I began as a science fiction writer, and for the first eleven
years of my literary career I wrote nothing but science fiction
stories, for magazine publication only—and for minute pay-
ment. The thought of actually publishing honest-to-goodness
books never entered my essentially humble mind.

But the time came when I did begin to produce books, and
then I began to gather together the material I had earlier
written for magazines. Between 1950 and 1969, ten collec-
tions appeared (all of which were published by Doubleday).
These contained eighty-five stories (plus four pieces of comic
verse) originally intended for, and published in, the science
fiction magazines. Nearly a quarter of them came from those
first eleven years.

For the record, these books are:

i, ROBOT (1950)

FOUNDATION (1951)

FOUNDATION AND EMPIRE (1952)

SECOND FOUNDATION (1953)

THE MARTIAN WAY AND OTHER STORIES (1955)

EARTH IS ROOM ENOUGH (1957)

NINE TOMORROWS (1959)

THE REST OF THE ROBOTS (1964)

ASIMOV'S MYSTERIES (1968)

NIGHTFALL AND OTHER STORIES (1969)

THE EARLY ASIMOV

It might be argued that this was quite enough, but in argu-
ing so, one is omitting the ravenous appetites of my readers
(bless them!). I am constantly getting letters requesting lists
of ancient stories out of me so that the letter writers can haunt
secondhand shops for old magazines. There are people who
prepare bibliographies of my science fiction (don't ask me
why) and who want to know all sorts of half-forgotten details
concerning them. They even grow distinctly angry when they
find that some early stories were never sold and no longer
exist. They want those, too, apparently, and seem to think I
have negligently destroyed a natural resource.

So when Panther Books, in England, and Doubleday sug-
gested that I make a collection of those of my early stories
not already collected in the ten books listed above, with the
literary history'of each, I could resist no further. Everyone
who has ever met me knows just how amenable to flattery I
am, and if you think I can withstand this kind of flattery for
more than half a second (as a rough estimate), you are quite
wrong.

Fortunately I have a diary, which I have been keeping since
January 1, 1938 (the day before my eighteenth birthday); it
can give me dates and details.*

I began to write when I was very young—eleven, I think.
The reasons are obscure, I might say it was the result of an
unreasoning urge, but that would just indicate I could think
of no reason.

Perhaps it was because I was an avid reader in a family
that was too poor to afford books, even the cheapest, and
besides, a family that considered cheap books unfit reading. I
had to go to the library (my first library card was obtained
for me by my father when I was six years old) and make do
with two books per week.

This was simply not enough, and my craving drove me to
extremes. The diary began as the sort of thing a teen-ager would write,
but it quickly degenerated to a simple kind of literary record. It
is, to anyone but myself, utterly boring—so boring, in fact, that
1 leave it around for anyone who wishes, to read. No one ever
reads more than two pages. Occasionally someone asks me if I
have never felt that my diary ought to record my innermost
feelings and emotions, and my answer is always, "No. Never!"
After all, what's the point of being a writer if I have to waste my
innermost feelings and emotions on a mere diary?

At the beginning of each school term, I eagerly read
through every schoolbook I was assigned, going from cover
to cover like a personified conflagration. Since I was blessed
with a tenacious memory and with instant recall, that was all
the studying I had to do for that school term, but I was
through before the week was over, and then what?

So, when I was eleven, it occurred to me that if I wrote my
own books, I could then reread them at my leisure. I never
really wrote a complete book, of course. I would start one
and keep rambling on with it till I outgrew it and then I would
start another. All these early writings are forever gone,
though I remember some of the details quite clearly.

In the spring of 1934 I took a special English course given
at my high school (Boys' High School in Brooklyn) that
placed the accent on writing. The teacher was also faculty
adviser for the semiannual literary magazine put out by the
students, and it was his intention to gather material. I took
that course.

It was a humiliating experience. I was fourteen at the time,
and a rather green and innocent fourteen. I wrote trifles, while
everyone else in the class (who were sixteen apiece) wrote
sophisticated, tragic mood pieces. All of them made no par-
ticular secret of their scorn for me, and though I resented it
bitterly there was nothing I could do about it.

For a moment I thought I had them when one of my
products was accepted for the semiannual literary magazine
while many of theirs were rejected. Unfortunately the teacher
told me, with callous insensitivity, that mine was the only item
submitted that was humorous and that since he had to have
one non-tragic piece he was forced to take it.

It was called "Little Brothers," dealt with the arrival of my
own little brother five years earlier, and was my first piece of
published material of any kind. I suppose it can be located in
the records at Boys' High, but I don't have it

Sometimes I wonder what happened to all those great
tragic writers in the class. I don't remember a single name
and I have no intention of ever trying to find out—but I
sometimes wonder.

It was not until May 29, 1937 (according to a date I once
jotted down—though that was before I began my diary, so I
won't swear to it), that the vague thought occurred to me that
I ought to write something for professional publication; some-
thing that would be paid for! Naturally it would have to be a
science fiction story, for I had been an avid science fiction
fan since 1929 and I recognized no other form of literature
as in any way worthy of my efforts.

The story I began to compose for the purpose, the first story
I ever wrote with a view to becoming a "writer," was en-
titled "Cosmic Corkscrew."

In it I viewed time as a helix (that is, something like a bed-
spring). Someone could cut across from one turn directly to
the next, thus moving into the future by some exact interval
but being incapable of traveling one day less into the future.
My protagonist made the cut across time and found the Earth
deserted. All animal life was gone; yet there was every sign
that life had existed until very shortly before—and no indica-
tion at all of what had brought about the disappearance. It
was told in the first person from a lunatic asylum, because the
narrator had, of course, been placed in a madhouse after he
returned and tried to tell his tale.

I wrote only a few pages in 1937, then lost interest. The
mere fact that I had publication in mind must have paralyzed
me. As long as something I wrote was intended for my own
eyes only, I could be carefree enough. The thought of possible
other readers weighed down heavily upon my every word.
—So I abandoned it.

Then, in May 1938, the most important magazine in the
field. Astounding Science Fiction, changed its publication
schedule from the third Wednesday of the month to the fourth
Friday. When the June issue did not arrive on its accustomed
day, I went into a decline.

By May 17, I could stand it no more and took the subway
to 79 Seventh Avenue, where the publishing house. Street &
Smith Publications, Inc., was then located. There, an official
of the firm informed me of the changed schedule, and on
May 19, the June issue arrived. -

The near brush with doom, and the ecstatic relief that fol-
lowed, reactivated my desire to write and publish. I returned
to "Cosmic Corkscrew" and by June 19 it was finished.

I told this story in some detail in an article entitled "Portrait
of the Writer as a Boy," which was included as Chapter 17 of
my book of essays Science, Numbers and 1 (Doubleday, 1968).
In it, relying on memory alone, I said that I had called Street &
Smith on the phone. When I went back to my diary to check
actual dates for this book, I was astonished to discover that I
had actually made the subway trip—an utterly daring venture
for me in those days, and a measure of my desperation.

The next question was what to do with it. I had absolutely
no idea what one did with a manuscript intended for pub-
lication, and no one I knew had any idea either. I discussed
it with my father, whose knowledge of the real world was
scarcely greater than my own, and he had no idea either.

But then it occurred to me that, the month before, I had
gone to 79 Seventh Avenue merely to inquire about the non-
appearance of Astounding. I had not been struck by lightning
for doing so. Why not repeat the trip, then, and hand in the
manuscript in person?

The thought was a frightening one. It became even more
frightening when my father further suggested that necessary
preliminaries included a shave and my best suit. That meant I
would have to take additional time, and the day was already
wearing on and I would have to be back in time to make the
afternoon newspaper delivery. (My father had a candy store
and newsstand, and life was very complicated in those days
for a creative writer of artistic and sensitive bent such as my-
self. For instance, we lived in an apartment in which all the
rooms were in a line and the only way of getting from the
living room to the bedroom of my parents, or of my sister, or
of my brother, was by going through my bedroom. My bed-
room was therefore frequently gone through, and the fact that
I might be in the throes of creation meant nothing to anyone.)

I compromised. I shaved, but did not bother changing suits,
and off I went. The date was June 21, 1938.

I was convinced that, for daring to ask to see the editor of
Astounding Science Fiction, I would be thrown out of the
building bodily, and that my manuscript would be torn up and
thrown out after me in a shower of confetti. My father, how-
ever (who had lofty notions) was convinced that a writer—by
which he meant anyone with a manuscript—would be treated
with the respect due an intellectual. He had no fears at all—
but I was the one who had to go into the building.

Trying to mask panic, I asked to see the editor. The girl
behind the desk (I can see the scene in my mind's eye right
now exactly as it was) spoke briefly on the phone and said,
"Mr. Campbell will see you."

She directed me through a large, loftlike room filled with
huge rolls of paper and enormous piles of magazines and
permeated with the heavenly smell of pulp (a smell that, to
this day, will recall my youth in aching detail and reduce me
to tears of nostalgia). And there, in a small room on the
other side, was Mr. Campbell.

John Wood Campbell, Jr., had been working for Street &
Smith for a year and had taken over sole command of
Astounding Stories (which he had promptly renamed Astound-
ing Science Fiction) a couple of months earlier. He was only
twenty-eight years old then. Under his own name and under
his pen name, Don A. Stuart, he was one of the most famous
and highly regarded authors of science fiction, but he was
about to bury his writing reputation forever under the far
greater renown he was to gain as editor.

He was to remain editor of Astounding Science Fiction and
of its successor, Analog Science Fact—Science Fiction, for a
third of a century. During all that time, he and I were to
remain friends, but however old I grew and however venerable
and respected a star of our mutual field I was to become, I
never approached him with anything but that awe he inspired
in me on the occasion of our first meeting.

He was a large man, an opinionated man, who smoked and
talked constantly, and who enjoyed, above anything else, the
production of outrageous ideas, which he bounced off his
listener and dared him to refute. It was difficult to refute
Campbell even when his ideas were absolutely and madly
illogical.

We talked for over an hour that first time. He showed me
forthcoming issues of the magazine (actual future issues in
the cellulose-flesh). I found he had printed a 'fan letter of
mine in the issue about to be published, and another in the
next—so he knew the genuineness of my interest.

He told me about himself, about his pen name and about
his opinions. He told me that his father had sent in one of
his manuscripts to Amazing Stories when he was seventeen
and that it would have been published but the magazine lost
it and he had no carbon. (I was ahead of him there. I had
brought in the story myself and I had a carbon.) He also
promised to read my story that night and to send a letter,
whether acceptance or rejection, the next day. He promised
also that in case of rejection he would tell me what was wrong
with it so I could improve.

He lived up to every promise. Two days later, on June 23,

I heard from him. It was a rejection. (Since this book deals
with real events and is not a fantasy—you can't be surprised
that my first story was instantly rejected.)

Here is what I said in my diary about the rejection:

"At 9:30 I received back 'Cosmic Corkscrew' with a polite
letter of rejection. He didn't like the slow beginning, the
suicide at the end."

Campbell also didn't like the first-person narration and the
stiff dialog, and further pointed out that the length (nine
thousand words) was inconvenient—too long for a short
story, too short for a novelette. Magazines had to be put
together like jigsaw puzzles, you see, and certain lengths for
individual stories were more convenient than others.

By that time, though, I was off and running. The joy of
having spent an hour and more with John Campbell, the thrill
of talking face to face and on even terms with an idol, had
already filled me with the ambition to write another science
fiction story, better than the first, so that I could try him
again. The pleasant letter of rejection—two full pages—in
which he discussed my story seriously and with no trace of
patronization or contempt, reinforced my joy. Before June 23
was over, I was halfway through the first draft of another
story.

Many years later I asked Campbell (with whom I had by
then grown to be on the closest terms) why he had bothered
with me at all, since that first story was surely utterly im-
possible.

"It was," he said frankly, for he never flattered. "On the
other hand, I saw something in you. You were eager and you
listened and I knew you wouldn't quit no matter how many
rejections I handed you. As long as you were willing to work
hard at improving, I was willing to work with you."

That was John. I wasn't the only writer, whether newcomer
or oldtimer, that he was to work with in this fashion. Pa-
tiently, and out of his own enormous vitality and talent, he
built up a stable of the best s.f. writers the world had, till then,
ever seen.

What happened to "Cosmic Corkscrew" after that I don't
really know. I abandoned it and never submitted it anywhere
else. I didn't actually tear it up and throw it away; it simply
languished in some desk drawer until eventually I lost track
of it. In any case, it no longer exists.

This seems to be one of the main sources of discomfort
among the archivists—they seem to think the first story I
ever wrote for publication, however bad it might have been,
was an important document. All I can say, fellows, is that I'm
sorry but there was no way of my telling in 1938 that my
first try might have historic interest someday. I may be a
monster of vanity and arrogance, but I'm not that much a
monster of vanity and arrogance.

Besides, before the month was out I had finished my second
story, "Stowaway," and I was concentrating on that. I brought
it to Campbell's office on July 18, 1938, and he was just a
trifle slower in returning it, but the rejection came on July 22.
I said in my diary concerning the letter that accompanied it:

". . . it was the nicest possible rejection you could imagine.
Indeed, the next best thing to an acceptance. He told me the
idea was good and the plot passable. The dialog and handling,
he continued, were neither stiff nor wooden (this was rather a
delightful surprise to me) and that there was no one particu-
lar fault but merely a general air of amateurishness, con-
straint, forcing. The story did not go smoothly. This, he said,
I would grow out of as soon as I had had sufficient experience.
He assured me that I would probably be able to sell my
stories but it meant perhaps a year's work and a dozen stories
before I could click. . . ."

It is no wonder that such a "rejection letter" kept me hotly
charged with enormous enthusiasm to write, and I got
promptly to work on a third story.

What's more, I was sufficiently encouraged to try to sub-
mit "Stowaway" elsewhere. In those days there were three
science fiction magazines on the stands. Astounding was the
aristocrat of the lot, a monthly with smooth edges and an
appearance of class. The other two. Amazing Stories and
Thrilling Wonder Stories, were somewhat more primitive in
appearance and printed stories, with more action and less-
sophisticated plots. I sent "Stowaway" to Thrilling Wonder
Stories, which, however, also rejected it promptly on August
9, 1938 (with a form letter).

By then, though, I was deeply engaged with my third story,
which, as it happened, was fated to do better—and do it
faster. In this book, however, I am including my stories not
in the order of publication but in order of writing—which I
presume is more significant from the standpoint of literary
development. Let me stay with "Stowaway," therefore.

In the summer of 1939, by which time I had gained my
first few successes, I returned to "Stowaway," refurbished it
somewhat, and tried Thrilling Wonder Stories again. Un-
doubtedly I had a small suspicion that the new luster of my
name would cause them to read it with a different attitude
than had been the case when I was a complete unknown. I
was quite wrong. It was rejected again.

Then I tried Amazing, and again it was rejected.

That meant the story was dead, or would have meant so
were it not for the fact that science fiction was entering a
small "boom" as the 1930s approached their end. New maga-
zines were being founded, and toward the end of 1939, plans
were made to publish a magazine to be called Astonishing
Stories, which would retail for the price of ten cents.
(Astounding cost twenty cents an issue.)

The new magazine, together with a sister magazine. Super
Science Stories, were to be edited on a shoestring by a young
science fiction fan, Frederik Pohl, who was then just turning
twenty (he was about a month older than myself), and who,
in this way, made his entry into what was to be a distinguished
professional career in science fiction.

Pohl was a thin, soft-spoken young man, with hair that was
already thinning, a solemn face, and a pronounced overbite
that gave him a rabbity look when he smiled. The economic
facts of his life kept him out of college, but he was far
brighter (and knew more) than almost any college graduate
I've ever met.

Pohl was a friend of mine (and still is) and perhaps did
more to help me start my literary career than anyone except,
of course, Campbell himself. We had attended fan-club meet-
ings together. He had read my manuscripts and praised them
—and now he needed stories in a hurry, and at low rates, for
his new magazines.

He asked to look through my manuscripts again. He began
by choosing one of my stories for his first issue. On November
17, 1939, nearly a year and a half after "Stowaway" was first
written, Pohl selected it for inclusion in his second issue of
Astonishing. He was an inveterate title changer, however, and
he plastered "The Callistan Menace" on the story and that
was how it was published.

So here it is, the second story I ever wrote and the earliest
story to see professional publication. The reader can judge for
himself whether Campbell's critique, given above, was overly
kind and whether he was justified in foreseeing a professional
writing career for me on the basis of this story.

"The Callistan Menace" appears here (as will all the stories
in this volume) exactly as it appeared in the magazine with
^nly the editing and adjustment required to correct typo-
graphical errors.

The Callistan Menace

"Damn Jupiter!" growled Ambrose Whitefield viciously, and
I nodded agreement.

"I've been on the Jovian satellite run," I said, "for fifteen
years and I've heard those two words spoken maybe a million
times. It's probably the most sincere curse in the Solar
System."

Our watch at the controls of the scoutship Ceres had just
been relieved and we descended the two levels to our room
with dragging steps.

"Damn Jupiter—and damn it again," insisted Whitefield
morosely. "It's too big for the System. It stays out there be-
hind us and pulls and pulls and pulls! We've got to keep the
Atomos firing all the way. We've got to check our course—
completely-—every hour. No relaxation, no coasting, no taking
it easy! nothing but the rottenest kind of work."

There were tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead and
he swabbed at them with the back of his hand. He was a
young fellow, scarcely thirty, and you could see in his eyes
that he was nervous, and even a little frightened.

And it wasn't Jupiter that was bothering him, in spite of
his profanity. Jupiter was the least of our worries. It was
Callisto! It was that little moon which gleamed a pale blue
upon our visiplates that made Whitefield sweat and that had
spoiled four nights' sleep for me already. Callisto! Our des-
tination!

Astonishing Stories, April 1940
Copyright © 1940 by Fictioneers, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1967 by Isaac Asimov

THE CALLISTAN MENACE

Even old Mac Steeden, gray mustachioed veteran who, in
his youth, had sailed with the great Peewee Wilson himself,
went about his duties with an absent stare. Four days out—
and ten days more ahead of us—and panic was reaching out
with clammy fingers.

We were all brave enough in the ordinary course of events.

The eight of us on the Ceres had faced the purple Lectronics
and stabbing Disintos of pirates and rebels and the alien en-
vironments of half a dozen worlds. But it takes more than
run-of-the-mill bravery to face the unknown; to face Callisto,
the "mystery world" of the Solar System.

One fact was known about Callisto—one grim, bare fact.
Over a period of twenty-five years, seven ships, progressively
better equipped, had landed—and never been heard from
again. The Sunday supplements peopled the satellite with any-
thing from super-dinosaurs to invisible ghosts of the fourth
dimension, but that did not solve the mystery.

We were the eighth. We had a better ship than any of those
preceding. We were the first to sport the newly-developed
beryl-tungsten hull, twice as strong as the old steel shells. We
possessed super-heavy armaments and the very latest Atomic
Drive engines.

Still—we were only the eighth, and every man jack of us
knew it.

Whitefield entered our quarters silently and flopped down
upon his bunk. His fists were clenched under his chin and
showed white at the knuckles. It seemed to me that he wasn't
far frem the breaking point. It was a case for careful
diplomacy.

"What we need," said I, "is a good, stiff drink."
"What we need," he answered harshly, "is a hell of a lot of
good, stiff drinks."

"Well, what's stopping us?"
He looked at me suspiciously, "You know there isn't a
drop of liquor aboard ship. It's against Navy regulations!"
"Sparkling green Jabra water," I said slowly, letting the
words drip from my mouth. "Aged beneath the Martian
deserts. Melted emerald juice. Bottles of iti Cases of it!"

"Where?"

"I know where. What do you say? A few drinks—just a
few—will cheer us both up."

For a moment, his eyes sparkled, and then they dulled
again, "What if the Captain finds out? He's a stickler for
discipline, and on a trip like this, it's liable to cost us our
rating."

I winked and grinned, "It's the Captain's own cache. He
can't discipline us without cutting his own throat—the old
hypocrite. He's the best damn Captain there ever was, but
he likes his emerald water."

Whitefield stared at me long and hard, "All right. Lead me
to it."

We slipped down to the supply room, which was deserted,
of course. The Captain and Steeden were at the controls;

Brock and Charney were at the engines; and Harrigan and
Tuley were snoring their fool heads off in their own room.

Moving as quietly as I could, through sheer habit, I pushed
aside several crates of food tabs and slid open a hidden panel
near the floor. I reached in and drew out a dusty bottle, which,
in the dim light, sparkled a dull sea-green.

"Sit down," I said, "and make yourself comfortable." I pro-
duced two tiny cups and filled them.

Whitefield sipped slowly and with every evidence of satis-
faction. He downed his second at one gulp.

"How come you volunteered for this trip, anyway, Whitey?"
I asked, "You're a little green for a thing like this."

He waved his hand, "You know how it is. Things get dull
after a while. I went in for zoology after getting out of
college—big field since interplanetary travel—and had a nice
comfortable position back on Ganymede. It was dull, though;

I was bored blue. So I joined the Navy on an impulse, and on
another I volunteered for this trip." He sighed ruefully, "I'm
a little sorry I did."

"That's not the way to take it, kid. I'm experienced and I
know. When you're panicky, you're as good as licked. Why,
two months from now, we'll be back on Ganymede."

"I'm not scared, if that's what you're thinking," he ex-
claimed angrily. "It's—it's," there was a long pause in which
he frowned at his third cupful. "Well, I'm just worn out try-
ing to imagine what the hell to expect. My imagination is
working overtime and my nerves are rubbing raw."

"Sure, sure," I soothed, "I'm not blaming you. It's that way
with all of us, I guess. But you have to be careful. Why, I
remember once on a Mars-Titan trip, we had—"

Whitefield interrupted what was one of my favorite yarns—
and I could spin them as well as anyone in the service—with
a jab in the ribs that knocked the breath out of me.

He put down his Jabra gingerly.

"Say, Jenkins," he stuttered, "I haven't downed enough
liquor to be imagining things, have I?"

"That depends on what you imagined."

"I could swear I saw something move somewhere in the
pile of empty crates in the far corner."

"That's a bad sign," and I took another swig as I said it.
"Your nerves are going to your eyes and now they're going
back on you. Ghosts, I suppose, or the Callistan menace look-
ing us over in advance."

"I saw it, I tell you. There's something alive there." He
edged towards me—his nerves were plenty shot—and for a
moment, in the dim, shadowy light even I felt a bit choked up.

"You're crazy," I said in a loud voice, and the echoes
calmed me down a bit. I put down my empty cup and got
up just a wee bit unsteadily. "Let's go over and poke through
the crates."

Whitefield followed me and together we started shoving
the light aluminum cubicles this way and that. Neither of us
was quite one hundred per cent sober and we made a fair
amount of noise. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see
Whitefield trying to move the case nearest the wall.

"This one isn't empty," he grunted, as it lifted very slightly
off the floor.

Muttering under his breath, he knocked off the cover and
looked in. For a half second he just stared and then he backed
away slowly. He tripped over something and fell into a sitting
position, still gaping at the case.

I watched his actions with raised eyebrows, then glanced
hastily at the case in question. The glance froze into a
steady glare, and I emitted a hoarse yell that rattled off each
of the four walls.

A boy was sticking his head out of the case—a red-haired
dirty-faced kid of thirteen or thereabouts.

"Hello," said the boy as he clambered out into the open.
Neither of us found the strength to answer him, so he con-
tinued, "I'm glad you found me. I was getting a cramp in my
shoulder trying to curl up in there."

Whitefield gulped audibly, "Good God! A kid stowaway!
And on a voyage to Callisto!"

"And we can't turn back," I reminded in a stricken voice,
"without wrecking ourselves. The Jovian satellite run is
poison."

"Look here," Whitefield turned on the kid in a sudden
belligerence. "Who are you, you young nut, and what are you
doing here?"

The kid flinched. "I'm Stanley Fields," he answered, a bit
scared. "I'm from New Chicago on Ganymede. I—I ran away
to space, like they do in books." He paused and then asked
brightly, "Do you think we'll have a fight with pirates on this
trip, mister?"

There was no doubt that the kid was filled to the brim with
"Dime Spacers." I used to read them myself as a youngster.

"How about your parents?" asked Whitefield, grimly.

"Oh, all I got's an uncle. He won't care much, I guess." He
had gotten over his first uneasiness and stood grinning at us.

"Well, what's to be done?" said Whitefield, looking at me
in complete helplessness.

I shrugged, "Take him to the Captain. Let him worry."
"And how will he take it?"

"Anyway he wants. It's not our fault. Besides, there's ab-
solutely nothing to be done about the mess."

And grabbing an arm apiece, we walked away, dragging
the kid between us.

Captain Bartlett is a capable officer and one of the deadpan
type that very rarely displays emotion. Consequently, on those
few occasions when he does, it's like a Mercurian volcano in
full eruption—and you haven't lived until you've seen one
of those.

It was a case of the final straw. A satellite run is always
wearing. The image of Callisto up ahead was harder on him
than on any member of the crew. And now there was this kid
stowaway.

It wasn't to be endured! For half an hour, the Captain shot
off salvo after salvo of the very worst sort of profanity. He
started with the sun and ran down the list of planets, satellites,
asteroids, comets, to the very meteors themselves. He was
starting on the nearer fixed stars, when he collapsed from
sheer nervous exhaustion. He was so excited that he never
thought to ask us what we were doing in the storeroom in the
first place, and for that Whitefield and I were duly grateful.
But Captain Bartlett is no fool. Having purged his system
of its nervous tension, he saw clearly that that which cannot
be cured must be endured.

"Someone take him and wash him up," he growled wearily,
"and keep him out of my sight for a while." Then, softening a
bit, he drew me towards him, "Don't scare him by telling him
where we're going. He's in a bad spot, the poor kid."

When we left, the old soft-hearted fraud was sending
through an emergency message to Ganymede trying to get in
touch with the kid's uncle.

Of course, we didn't know it at the time, but that kid was
a Godsend—a genuine stroke of Old Man Luck. He took our
minds off Callisto. He gave us something else to think about.
The tension, which at the end of four days had almost
reached the breaking point, eased completely.

There was something refreshing in the kid's natural gayety;
in his bright ingenuousness. He would meander about the ship
asking the silliest kind of questions. He insisted on expecting
pirates at any moment. And, most of all, he persisted in re-
garding each and every one of us as "Dime Spacer" heroes.

That last nattered our egos, of course, and put us on our
mettle. We vied with each other in chest-puffing and tale-
telling, and old Mac Steeden, who in Stanley's eyes was a
demi-god, broke the all-time record for plain and fancy lying.

I remember, particularly, the talk-fest we had on the seventh
day out. We were just past the midpoint of the trip and were
set to begin a cautious deceleration. All of us (except Harri-
gan and Tuley, who were at the engines) were sitting in the
control room. Whitefield, with half an eye on the Mathematico,
led off, and, as usual, talked zoology.

"It's a little slug-like thing," he was saying, "found only on
Europa. It's called the Carolus Europis but we always re-
ferred to it as the Magnet Worm. It's about six inches long
and has a sort of a slate-grey color—most disgusting thing
you could imagine.

"We spent six months studying that worm, though, and I
never saw old Mornikoff so excited about anything before.
You see, it killed by some sort of magnetic field. You put the
Magnet Worm at one end of the room and a caterpillar, say,
at the other. You wait about five minutes and the caterpillar
just curls up and dies.

"And the funny thing is this. It won't touch a frog—too
big; but if you take that frog and put some sort of iron band
about it, that Magnet Worm kills it just like that. That's why
we know it's some type of magnetic field that does it—the
presence of iron more than quadruples its strength."

His story made quite an impression on us. Joe Brock's
deep bass voice sounded, "I'm damn glad those things are
only four inches long, if what you say is right."

Mac Steeden stretched and then pulled at his grey mus-
tachios with exaggerated indifference, "You call that worm
unusual. It isn't a patch on some of the things I've seen in my
day—." He shook his head slowly and reminiscently, and we
knew we were in for a long and gruesome tale. Someone
groaned hollowly, but Stanley brightened up the minute he
saw the old veteran was in a story-telling mood.

Steeden noticed the kid's sparkling eyes, and addressed him-
self to the little fellow, "I was with Peewee Wilson when it
happened—you've heard of Peewee Wilson, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes," Stanley's eyes fairly exuded hero-worship. "I've
read books about him. He was the greatest spacer there ever
was."

"You bet all the radium on Titan he was, kid. He wasn't
any taller than you, and didn't scale much more than a hun-
dred pounds, but he was worth five times his weight in
Venusian Devils in any fight. And me and him were just like
that. He never went anyplace but what I was with him. When
the going was toughest it was always me that he turned to."

He sighed lugubriously, "I was with him to the very end. It
was only a broken leg that kept me from going with him on
his last voyage—"

He choked off suddenly and a chilly silence swept over all
of us. Whitefield's face went gray, the Captain's mouth twisted
in a funny sort of way, and I felt my heart skid all the way
down to the soles of my feet.

No one spoke, but there was only one thought among the
six of us. Peewee Wilson's last trip had been to Callisto. He
had been the second—and had never returned. We were the
eighth.

Stanley stared from one to the other of us in astonishment,
but we all avoided his eyes.

It was Captain Bartlett that recovered first.

"Say, Steeden, you've got an old spacesiiit of Peewee Wil-
son's, haven't you?" His voice was calm and steady but I
could see that it took a great deal of effort to keep it so.

Steeden brightened and looked up. He had been chewing
at the tips of his mustachios (he always did when nervous)
and now they hung downwards in a bedraggled fashion.

"Sure thing. Captain. He gave it to me with his own hand,
he did. It was back in '23 when the new steel suits were just
being put out. Peewee didn't have any more use for his old
vitri-rubber contraption, so he let me have it—and I've kept
it ever since. It's good luck for me."

"Well, I was thinking that we might fix up that old suit for
the boy here. No other suit'll fit him, and he needs one bad."

The veteran's faded eyes hardened and he shook his head
vigorously, "No sir. Captain. No one touches that old suit
Peewee gave it to me himself. With his own hand! It's—it's
sacred, that's what it is."

The rest of us chimed in immediately upon the Captain's
side but Steeden's obstinacy grew and hardened. Again and
again he would repeat tonelessly, "That old suit stays where
it is." And he would emphasize the statement with a blow of
his gnarled fist.

We were about to give up, when Stanley, hitherto discreetly
silent, took a hand.

"Please, Mr. Steeden," there was just the suspicion of a
quaver in his voice. "Please let me have it. I'll take good care
of it. I'll bet if Peewee Wilson were alive today he'd say I
could have it." His blue eyes misted up and his lower lip
trembled a bit. The kid was a perfect actor.

Steeden looked irresolute and took to biting his mustachio
again, "Well—oh, hell, you've all got it in for me. The kid
can have it but don't expect me to fix it up! The rest of you
can lose sleep—I wash my hands of it."

And so Captain Bartlett killed two birds with one stone.
He took our minds off Callisto at a time when the morale
of the crew hung in the balance and he gave us something to
think about for the remainder of the trip—for renovating that
ancient relic of a suit was almost a week's job.

We worked over that antique with a concentration out of all
proportion to the importance of the job. In its pettiness, we
forgot the steadily growing orb of Callisto. We soldered every   |
last crack and blister in that venerable suit. We patched the   !
inside with close-meshed aluminum wire. We refurbished the
tiny heating unit and installed new tungsten oxygen-containers.

Even the Captain was not above giving us a hand with the
suit, and Steeden, after the first day, in spite of his tirade at
the beginning, threw himself into the job with a will.

We finished it the day before the scheduled landing, and
Stanley, when he tried it on, glowed with pride, while Steeden
stood by, grinning and twirling his mustachio.

And as the days passed, the pale blue circle that was Callisto
grew upon the visiplate until it took up most of the sky. The
last day was an uneasy one. We went about our tasks ab-
stractedly, and studiously avoided the sight of the hard, emo-
tionless satellite ahead.

We dived—in a long, gradually contracting spiral. By this
maneuvre, the Captain had hoped to gain some preliminary
knowledge of the nature of the planet and its inhabitants, but
the information gained was almost entirely negative. The large
percentage of carbon dioxide present in the thin, cold atmo-
sphere was congenial to plant life, so that vegetation was
plentiful and diversified. However, the three per cent oxygen
content seemed to preclude the possibility of any animal life,
other than the simplest and most sluggish species. Nor was
there any evidence at all of cities or artificial structures of
any kind.

Five times we circled Callisto before sighting a large lake,
shaped something like a horse's head. It was towards that lake
that we gently lowered ourselves, for the last message of the
second expedition—Peewee Wilson's expedition—spoke of
landing near such a lake.

We were still half a mile in the air, when we located the
gleaming metal ovoid that was the Phobos, and when we
finally thumped softly on to the green stubble of vegetation,
we were scarcely five hundred yards from the unfortunate
craft.

"Strange," muttered the Captain, after we had all congre-
gated in the control room, waiting for further orders, "there
seems to be no evidence of any violence at all."

It was true! The Phobos lay quietly, seemingly unharmed.
Its old-fashioned steel hull glistened brightly in the yellow
light of a gibbous Jupiter, for the scant oxygen of the atmo-
sphere could make no rusty inroads upon its resistant exterior.

The Captain came out of a brown study and turned to
Charney at the radio.

"Ganymede has answered?"

"Yes, sir. They wish us luck." He said it simply, but a
cold shiver ran down my spine.

Not a muscle of the Captain's face flickered. "Have you
tried to communicate with the Phobos?"

"No answer, sir."

"Three of us will investigate the Phobos. Some of the an-
swers, at least, should be there."

"Matchstickst" grunted Brock, stolidly.

-The Captain nodded gravely.

He palmed eight matches, breaking three in half, and ex-
tended his arm towards us, without saying a word.

Chamey stepped forward and drew first. It was broken
and he stepped quietly towards the space-suit rack. Tuley fol-
lowed and after him Harrigan and Whitefield. Then I, and I
drew the second broken match. I grinned and followed
Charney, and in thirty seconds, old Steeden himself joined us.

"The ship will be backing you fellows," said the Captain
quietly, as he shook our hands. "If anything dangerous turns
up, run for it No heroics now, for we can't afford to lose
men."

We inspected our pocket Lectronics and left. We didn't
know exactly what to expect and weren't sure but that our
first steps on Callistan soil might not be our last, but none of
us hesitated an instant. In the "Dime Spacers," courage is a
very cheap commodity, but it is rather more expensive in real
life. And it is with considerable pride that I recall the firm
steps with which we three left the protection of the Ceres.

I looked back only once and caught a glimpse of Stanley's
face pressed white against the thick glass of the porthole.
Even from a distance, his excitement was only too apparent.
Poor kid! For the last two days he had been convinced we
were on our way to clean up a pirate stronghold and was
almost dying with impatience for the fighting to begin. Of
course, none of us cared to disillusion him.

The outer hull of the Phobos rose before us and overshad-
owed us with its might. The giant vessel lay in the dark green
stubble, silent as death. One of the seven that had attempted
and failed. And we were the eighth.
Charney broke the uneasy silence, "What are these white
smears on the hull?"

He put up a metal-encased finger and rubbed it along the
steel plate. He withdrew it and gazed at the soft white pulp
upon it. With an involuntary shudder of disgust, he scraped it
off upon the coarse grass beneath.

"What do you think it is?"

The entire ship as far as we could see—except for that por-
tion immediately next the ground—was besmeared by a thin
layer of the pulpy substance. It looked like dried foam—like—
I said: "It looks like slime left after a giant slug had come
out of the lake and slithered over the ship."

I wasn't serious in my statement, of course, but the other
two cast hasty looks at the mirror-smooth lake in which
Jupiter's image lay unruffled. Charney drew his hand Lec-
tronic.

"Here!" cried Steeden, suddenly, his voice harsh and metal-
lic as it came over the radio, "that's no way to be talking.
We've got to find some way of getting into the ship; there
must be some break in its hull somewhere. You go around to
the right, Charney, and you, Jenkins, to the left. I'll see if I
can't get atop of this thing somehow."

Eyeing the smoothly-round hull carefully, he drew back and
jumped. On Callisto; of course, he weighed only twenty
pounds or less, suit and all, so he rose upwards some thirty or
forty feet. He slammed against the hull lightly, and as he
started sliding downwards, he grabbed a rivet-head and
scrambled to the top.

Waving a parting to Chamey at this point, I left.

"Everything all right?" the Captain's voice sounded thinly
in my ear.

"All O.K.," I replied gruffly, "so far." And as I said so, the
Ceres disappeared behind the convex bulge of the dead Phobos
and I was entirely alone upon the mysterious moon.

I pursued my round silently thereafter. The spaceship's
"skin" was entirely unbroken except for the dark, staring
portholes, the lowest of which were still well above my head.
Once or twice I thought I could see Steeden scrambling
monkey-like on top of the smooth hulk, but perhaps that was
only fancy.

I reached the prow at last which was bathed in the full
light of Jupiter. There, the lowest row of portholes were low
enough to see into and as I passed from one to the other, I
felt as if I were gazing into a shipful of spectres, for in the
ghostly light all objects appeared only as flickering shadows.

It was the last window in the line that proved to be of
sudden, overpowering interest. In the yellow rectangle of
Jupiter-light stamped upon the floor, there sprawled what re-
mained of a man. His clothes were draped about him loosely
and his shirt was ridged as if the ribs below had moulded it
into position. In the space between the open shirt collar and
engineer's cap, there showed a grinning, eyeless skull. The cap,
resting askew upon the smooth skullcase, seemed to add the
last refinement of horror to the sight.

A shout in my ears caused my heart to leap. It was Steeden,
exclaiming profanely somewhere above the ship. Almost at
once, I caught sight of his ungainly steel-clad body slipping
and sliding down the side of the ship.

We raced towards him in long, floating leaps and he waved
us on, running ahead of us, towards the lake. At its very
shores, he stopped and bent over some half-buried object Two
bounds brought us to him, and we saw that the object was a
space-suited human, lying face downward. Over it was a thick
layer of the same slimy smear that covered the Phobos.

"I caught sight of it from the heights of the ship," said
Steeden, somewhat breathlessly, as he turned the suited figure
over.

What we saw caused all three of us to explode in a simul-
taneous cry. Through the glassy visor, there appeared a
leprous countenance. The features were putrescent, fallen
apart, as if decay had set in and ceased because of the limited
air supply. Here and there a bit of gray bone showed through.
It was the most repulsive sight I have ever witnessed, though
I have seen many almost as bad.

"My God!" Chamey's voice was half a sob. 'They simply
die and decay." I told Steeden of the clothed skeleton I had
seen through the porthole.

"Damn it, it's a puzzle," growled Steeden, "and the answer
must be inside the Phobos." There was a momentary silence,
"I tell you what. One of us can go back and get the Captain
to dismount the Disintegrator. It ought to be light enough to
handle on Callisto, and at low power, we can draw it fine
enough to cut a hole without blowing the entire ship to king-
dom come. You go, Jenkins. Charney and I will see if we
can't find any more of the poor devils."

I set off for the Ceres without further urging, covering the
ground in space-devouring leaps. Three-quarters of the dis-
tance had been covered when a loud shout, ringing me-
tallically in my ear, brought me to a skidding halt. I wheeled
. in dismay and remained petrified at the sight before my eyes.

The surface of the lake was broken into boiling foam, and
from it there reared the fore-parts of what appeared to be
giant caterpillars. They squirmed out upon land, dirty-grey
bodies dripping slime and water. They were some four feet
long, about one foot in thickness, and their method of loco-
motion was the slowest of oxygen-conserving crawls. Except
for one stalky growth upon their forward end, the tip of
which glowed a faint red, they were absolutely featureless.

Even as I watched, their numbers increased, until the shore
became one heaving mass of sickly gray flesh.

Charney and Steeden were running towards the Ceres, but
less than half the distance had been covered when they stum-
bled, their run slowing to a blind stagger. Even that ceased,
and almost together they fell to their knees.

Charney's voice sounded faintly in my ear, "Get help! My
head is splitting. I can't move! I—" Both lay still now.

I started towards them automatically, but a sudden sharp
pang just over my temples staggered me, and for a moment I
stood confused.

Then I heard a sudden unearthly shout from Whitefield,
"Get back to the ship, Jenkins! Get back! Get back!"

I turned to obey, for the pain had increased into a contin-
uous tearing pain. I weaved and reeled as I approached the
yawning airlock, and I believe that I was at the point of col-
lapse when I finally fell into it. After that, I can recall only a
jumble for quite a period.

My next clear impression was of the control-room of the
Ceres. Someone had dragged the suit off me, and I gazed
about me in dismay at a scene of the utmost confusion. My
brain was still somewhat addled and Captain Bartlett as he
leant over me appeared double.

"Do you know what those damnable creatures are?" He
pointed outwards at the giant caterpillars.

I shook my head mutely.

"They're the great grand-daddies of the Magnet Worm
Whitefield was telling us of once. Do you remember the
Magnet Worm?"

I nodded, "The one that kills by a magnetic field which is
strengthened by surrounding iron."

"Damn it, yes," cried Whitefield, interrupting suddenly.
"I'll swear to it. If it wasn't for the lucky chance that our
hull is beryl-tungsten and not steel—like the Phobos and the
rest—every last one of us would be unconscious by now and
dead before long."

"Then that's the Call'istan menace." My voice rose in sud-
den dismay, "But what of Charney and Steeden?"

"They're sunk," muttered the Captain grimly. "Unconscious
—maybe dead. Those filthy worms are crawling towards them
and there's nothing we can do about it." He ticked off the
points on his fingers. "We can't go after them in a spacesuit
without signing our own death warrant—spacesuits are steel.
No one can last there and back without one. We have no
weapons with a beam fine enough to blast the Worms without
scorching Charney and Steeden as well. I've thought of ma-
neuvering the Ceres nearer and making a dash for it, but one
can't handle a spaceship on planetary surfaces like that—not
without cracking up. We—"

"In short," I interrupted hollowly, "we've got to stand here
and watch them die." He nodded and I turned away bitterly.

I felt a slight twitch upon my sleeve, and when I turned, it
was to find Stanley's wide blue eyes staring up at me. In the
excitement, I had forgotten about him, and now I regarded
him bad-temperedly.

"What is it?" I snapped.

"Mr. Jenkins," his eyes were red, and I think he would
have preferred pirates to Magnet Worms by a good deal, "Mr.
Jenkins, maybe / could go and get Mr. Cbarney and Mr.
Steeden."

I sighed, and turned away.
"But, Mr. Jenkins, I could. I heard what Mr. Whitefield
said, and my spacesuit isn't steel. It's vitri-rubber."

"The kid's right," whispered Whitefield slowly, when
Stanley repeated his offer to the assembled men. "The un-
strengthened field doesn't harm us, that's evident. He'd be
safe in a vitri-rubber suit."

"But it's a wreck, that suit!" objected the Captain. "I
never really intended having the kid use it." He ended rag-
gedly and his manner was evidently irresolute.

"We can't leave Neal and Mac out there without trying,
Captain," said Brock stolidly.

The Captain made up his mind suddenly and became a
whirlwind of action. He dived into the space-suit rack for the
battered relic himself, and helped Stanley into it.

"Get Steeden first," said the Captain, as he clipped shut the
last bolt. "He's older and has less resistance to the field.
—Good luck to you, kid, and if you can't make it, come
back right away. Right away, do you hear me?"

Stanley sprawled at the first step, but life on Ganymede had
inured him to below-normal gravities and he recovered
quickly. There was no sign of hesitation, as he leaped to-
wards the two prone figures, and we breathed easier. Evidently,
the magnetic field was not affecting him yet.

He had one of the suited figures over his shoulders now
and was proceeding back to the ship at an only slightly slower
pace. As he dropped his burden inside the airlock, he waved
an arm to us at the window and we waved back.

He had scarcely left, when we had Steeden inside. We
ripped the spacesuit off him and laid him out, a gaunt pale
figure, on the couch.

The Captain bent an ear to his chest and suddenly laughed
aloud in sudden relief, "The old geezer's still going strong."

We crowded about happily at hearing that, all eager to
place a finger upon his wrist and so assure ourselves of the
life within him. His face twitched, and when a low, blurred
voice suddenly whispered, "So I said to Peewee, I said—" our
last doubts were put to rest.

It was a sudden, sharp cry from Whitefield that drew us
back to the window again, "Something's wrong with the kid."

Stanley was half way back to the ship with his second
burden, but he was staggering now—progressing erratically.

"It can't be," whispered Whitefield, hoarsely, "it can't be.
The field can't be getting him!"

"God!" the Captain tore at his hair wildly, "that damned
antique has no radio. He can't tell us what's wrong." He
wrenched away suddenly. "I'm going after him. Field or no
field, I'm going to get him."

"Hold on. Captain," said Tuley, grabbing him by the arm,
"he may make it."

Stanley was running again, but in a curious weaving fashion
that made it quite plain, he didn't see where he was going.
Two or three times he slipped and fell but each time he man-
aged to scramble up again. He fell against the hull of the
ship, at last, and felt wildly about for the yawning airlock. We
shouted and prayed and sweated, but could help in no way.

And then he simply disappeared. He had come up against
the lock and fallen inside.

We had them both inside in record time, and divested them
of their suits. Charney was alive, we saw that at a glance, and
after that we deserted him unceremoniously for Stanley. The
blue of his face, his swollen tongue, the line of fresh "blood
running from nose to chin told its own story.

'The suit sprung a leak," said Harrigan.

"Get away from him," ordered the Captain, "give him air."

We waited. Finally, a soft moan from the kid betokened
returning consciousness and we all grinned in concert.

"Spunky little kid," said the Captain. "He travelled that last
hundred yards on nerve and nothing else." Then, again.
"Spunky little kid. He's going to get a Naval Medal for this,
if I have to give him my own."

Callisto was a shrinking blue ball on the televisor—an
ordinary unmysterious world. Stanley Fields, honorary Cap-
tain of the good ship Ceres, thumbed his nose at it, protruding
his tongue at the same time. An inelegant gesture, but the
symbol of Man's triumph over a hostile Solar System.

THE END

As 1 reread the story now (it's the first time I've reread it
since it was published) I am amused to see that my stow-
away youngster's name is Stanley. That is the name of my
younger brother, who was only nine when I wrote the story
(the same younger brother who was the subject of my Boys'
High essay, and who is now Assistant Publisher of the Long
Island Newsday). Why it is necessary to use "real names"
I don't know, but almost every beginning writer does so,
I suspect.

You will notice that there are no girls in the story. This
is not really surprising. At eighteen I was busy finishing
college and working in my father's candy store and handling
a paper delivery route morning and evening, and I had
actually never had time to have a date. I didn't know any-
thing at all about girls (except for such biology as I got out
of books and from other, more knowledgeable, boys).

I eventually had dates and I eventually introduced girls
into my stories, but the early imprinting had its effect. To
this very day, the romantic element in my stories is minor
and the sexual element virtually nil.

On the other hand, I wonder if the above explanation for
the lack of sex in my stories is not an oversimplification.
After all, I am also a teetotaler and yet I notice that my
characters drink Martian jabra water (whatever that is).

My knowledge of astronomy was quite respectable but I
let myself be overinfluenced by the conventions common in
the science fiction of that era. All worlds were Earthlike and
inhabited in those days, so I gave Callisto an atmosphere
containing a small quantity of free oxygen. I also gave it
running water, and both plant and animal life. All of this is,
of course, unlikely in the extreme, and what evidence we
have seems to make of Callisto an airless, waterless world
like our Moon (and, of course, I really knew this even back
then).

Back to my third story, now—

THE CALLISTAN MENACE

On July 30, 1938, only eight days after Campbell's second
rejection, I had finished my third story, "Marooned off
Vesta." I did not think it politic to see Campbell oftener
than once a month, however, since I suspected that I might
easily wear out my welcome if I did. 1 put "Marooned off
Vesta" to one side, therefore, and began to write other
stories. By the end of the month I had two more: "This
Irrational Planet" and "Ring Around the Sun."

My first three stories, including "Marooned off Vesta,"
had been typed on a very old, but completely serviceable
Underwood No. 5 typewriter, which my father had obtained
for me in 1936 for ten dollars. After I had submitted my
second story to Campbell, however, my father decided that
I was in earnest about a writing career, and feeling that my
failure to sell was irrelevant and, in any case, temporary,
he set about getting me a brand-new typewriter.

On August 10, 1938, a Smith-Corona portable entered
the house and it was on the new typewriter that my fourth
and fifth stories were written.

Of the three, I felt "This Irrational Planet" to be the
weakest, so I did not submit it to Campbell. I submitted it
directly to Thrilling Wonder Stories on August 26, and it was
not rejected till September 24. Campbell had spoiled me,
and the four-week interval between submission and rejection
appalled me. I even called during that interval to make an
indignant inquiry—not knowing that a mere four-week wait
was brief indeed for anyone but Campbell.

But at least the rejection, when it came, was typewritten '
and was not a printed form. What's more, it contained
the sentence, "Try us again, won't you?" That encouraged
me. Perhaps I underestimated the story. Buoyantly, I tried
Campbell, and he rejected it in six days. Five other maga-
zines rejected it afterward. I never did sell it, and "This
Irrational Planet" is also nonexistent now. I don't even
remember the plot, except that I'm pretty certain that the
planet of the title was Earth itself. (The only other informa-
tion I have about it is that it was quite short, only three
thousand words long. Actually, most of the stories of those
early years that I never sold, and no longer exist, were
short. The longest was the first, "Cosmic Corkscrew.")

The other two stories written in the same month were
reserved for a better fate, but it didn't seem so at first On
August 30, 1938, I visited Campbell for the third time and
submitted both "Marooned off Vesta" and "Ring Around
the Sun"—and both were returned to me on September 8.

The very next day I shipped off "Marooned off Vesta,"
which I felt to be the better of the two, to Amazing Stories.
It took a month and a half to hear from them, but this
time the wait was worth it. On October 21, 1938, there
came a letter of acceptance from Raymond A. Palmer, who
was then editor of Amazing and who has since achieved his
greatest fame as a leading figure in the flying saucers
craze and in other forms of occultism. To this day I have
never met Mr. Palmer personally.

It was my first acceptance, four months to the day after
my first visit to John Campbell. By that time I had written
six stories and had collected nine rejections from Various
magazines. The check, for $64 (one cent a word), followed
on October 31, and that was the first money I ever earned
as a professional writer.*

For a number of years I kept that first acceptance letter,
from Palmer, framed on my bedroom wall. But in the vis-
cissitudes of life, it, too, has disappeared and, yes, I'm
sorry.

The story appeared in the March 1939 issue of Amazing
Stories, which reached the newsstands on January 10, 1939,
just eight days after my nineteenth birthday. It was the
first occasion on which I ever appeared professionally, and I
still have an intact copy of that issue of the magazine. I
did not save one at the time (my sense of historical im-
portance, as I have already explained, is deficient) but even-
tually removed my story for binding and discarded the rest.
Ordinarily, I don't mind doing this and have done it ruth-
lessly through all the years (space is limited even in the best
of apartments when one is as prolific as 1 have been), but
the time came when I was sorry I hadn't saved that first one
intact. The well-known science fiction fan Forrest J Ackerman
heard me express regret and kindly sent me a copy in
excellent condition.

In this book, I am going to pay considerable attention to the
money I received for my stories. This is not because I write
primarily for money or regarded money as particularly important
either then or now (my publishers will gladly bear witness to
this). The money I received, however, was crucial in determining
my career. It paid enough to put me through school and not so
much as to lure me out of it. You'll see as we go along.

That copy, by the way, contains a little autobiographical
squib in the rear, written by my teen-age self. On rereading,
years later, it turned out to be exquisitely embarrassing.

"Marooned off Vesta" is not included here, since it
appeared in Asimov's Mysteries. (This doesn't mean it was
a mystery. The reason for its inclusion in that particular
collection is explained there. —Well, go ahead, buy the
book and satisfy your curiosity.)

As for "Ring Around the Sun," it was rejected by Thrill-
ing Wonder Stories, but then, on February 5, 1939, it was
accepted by Future Fiction, one of the new science fiction
magazines that were springing up.

It appeared in the second issue of that magazine, which
did not, however, reach the stands until nearly a year after
the sale. The payment (theoretically on publication, rather
than on acceptance as was Campbell's more civilized pro-
cedure) was even more delayed. What's more, it was at the
rate of only half a cent a word, so the check came to a mere
twenty-five dollars. Astonishing Stories also paid only half
a cent a word at that time, but "The Callistan Menace"
was the longer story—6,500 words—so it netted me
$32.50.

I didn't feel put upon, however. I well knew by that time
that in the still earlier history of science fiction magazines,
payment of a quarter of a cent a word was common, and
that not on publication but (the saying went) on lawsuit.
Besides, those were lean times, and twenty-five dollars repre-
sented something like five months' pocket money to me (no
kidding).

The editor of Future Fiction was, at that time, Charles D.
Hornig. I occasionally visited his office to inquire when a
story might appear, or when a check might, but 1 don't
recall ever having found him in. In fact, to this day I have
never, to my knowledge, met him.

Ring Around the Sun

Jimmy Turner was humming merrily, if a bit raucously, when
he entered the reception room.

"Is Old Sourpuss in?" he asked, accompanying the question
with a wink at which the pretty secretary blushed gratefully.

"He is; and waiting for you." She motioned him towards
the door on which was written in fat, black letters, "Frank
McCutcheon, General Manager, United Space Mail."

Jim entered. "Hello, Skipper, what now?"

"Oh, it's you, is it?" McCutcheon looked up from his desk,
champing a foul-smelling stogie. "Sit down."

McCutcheon stared at him from under bushy gray eyebrows.
"Old Sourpuss," as he was euphoniously known to all mem- 
bers of United Space Mail, had never been known to laugh
within the memory of the oldest inmate, though rumor did 
have it that when a child he had smiled at the sight of his 
father falling out of an apple-tree. Right now his expression 
made the rumor appear exaggerated.

"Now, listen. Turner," he barked, "United Space Mail is
inaugurating a new service and you're elected to blaze the
trail." Disregarding Jimmy's grimace, he continued, "From
now on the Venerian mail is on an all-year-round basis."

"What! I've always thought that it was ruinous from a fi-
nancial standpoint to deliver the Venerian. mail except when
it was this side of the Sun."

"Sure," admitted McCuteheon, "if we follow the ordinary
routes. But we might cut straight across the system if we
could only get near enough to the sun. That's where you
come in! They've put out a new ship equipped to approach
within twenty million miles of the sun and which will be able
to remain at that distance indefinitely."

Jimmy interrupted nervously, "Wait a while, S—Mr. Mc-
Cutcheon, I don't quite follow. What kind of a ship is this?"

"How do you expect me to know? I'm no fugitive from a
laboratory. From what they tell me, it emits some kind of a
field that bends the radiations of the sun around the ship. Get
it? It's all deflected. No heat reaches you. You can stay there
forever and be cooler than in New York."

"Oh, is that so?" Jimmy was skeptical. "Has it been tested,
or is that a little detail that has been left for me?"

"It's been tested, of course, but not under actual solar con-
ditions."

'Then it's out. I've done plenty for United, but this is the
limit. I'm not crazy, yet."

McCutcheon stiffened. "Must I recall the oath you took
upon entering the service. Turner? 'Our flight through
space—' "

"'—must ne'er be stopped by anything save death,'" fin-
ished Jimmy. "I know that as well as you do and I also
notice that it's very easy to quote that from a comfortable
armchair. If you're that idealistic, you can do it yourself. It's
still out, as far as I'm concerned. And if you want, you can
kick me out. I can get other jobs just like that," he snapped
his fingers airily.

McCutcheon's voice dropped to a silky whisper. "Now,
now. Turner, don't be hasty. You haven't heard all I have to
say yet. Roy Snead is to be your mate."

"Huh! Snead! Why, that four-flusher wouldn't have the guts
to take a job like this in a million years. Tell me some other
fairy tale."

"Well, as a matter of fact, he has already accepted. I
thought you might accompany him, but I guess he was right.
He insisted you'd back down. I thought at first you wouldn't."

McCutcheon waved him away and bent his eyes uncon-
cernedly on the report he had been scrutinizing at the time of
Jimmy's entrance. Jimmy wheeled, hesitated, then returned.

"Wait a while, Mr. McCutcheon; do you mean to say that
Roy is actually going?" McCutcheon nodded, still apparently
absorbed in other matters, and Jimmy exploded, "Why, that
low-down, spindle-shanked, dish-faced mug! So he thinks I'm
too yellow to go! Well, I'll show him. I'll take the job and I'll
put up ten dollars to a Venerian nickel that he gets sick at the
last minute."

"Good!" McCutcheon rose and shook hands, "I thought
you'd see reason. Major Wade has all the details. I think you
leave in about six weeks and as I'm leaving for Venus tomor-
row, you'll probably meet me there."

Jimmy left, still boiling, and McCutcheon buzzed for the
secretary. "Oh, Miss Wilson, get Roy Snead on the 'visor."

A few minutes' pause and then the red signal-light shone.
The 'visor was clicked on and the dark-haired, dapper Snead
appeared on the visi-plate.

"Hello, Snead," McCutcheon growled. "You lose that bet,
Turner accepted that job. I thought he'd laugh himself sick
when I told him you said he wouldn't go. Send over the
twenty dollars, please."

"Wait a while, Mr. McCutcheon," Snead's face was dark
with fury, "what's the idea of telling that punch-drunk imbe-
cile I'm not going? You must have, you double-crosser. I'll be
there all right, but you can put up another twenty and I'll bet
he changes his mind yet. But /'// be there." Roy Snead was still    
spluttering when McCutcheon clicked off.                       

The General Manager leaned back, threw away his mangled    
cigar, and lit a fresh one. His face remained sour, but there    
was a definite note of satisfaction in his tone when he said,    
"Ha! I thought that would get them."                

It was a tired and sweaty pair that blasted the good ship
Helios across Mercury's orbit. In spite of the perfunctory
friendship enforced upon them by the weeks alone in space,
Jimmy Turner and Roy Snead were scarcely on speaking
terms. Add to this hidden hostility, the heat of the bloated
sun and the torturing uncertainty of the final outcome of the
trip and you have a miserable pair indeed.

Jimmy peered tiredly at the maze of dials confronting him,
and, brushing a damp lock of hair from his eyes, grunted,
"What's the thermometer reading now, Roy?"

"One hundred twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit and still
climbing," was the growled response.

Jimmy cursed fluently, "The cooling system is on at max-
imum, the ship's hull reflects 95% of the solar radiation, and
it's still in the hundred twenties." He paused. "The gravo-
meter indicates that we're still some thirty-five million miles
from the Sun. Fifteen millions miles to go before the De-
flection Field becomes effective. The temperature will prob-
ably scale 150 yet. That's a sweet prospect! Check the
desiccators. If the air isn't kept absolutely dry, we're not
going to last long."

"Within Mercury's orbit, think of it!" Snead's voice was
husky. "No one has ever been this close to the sun before.
And we're going closer yet."

"There have been many this close and closer," reminded
Jimmy, "but they were out of control and landed in the sun.
Friedlander, Debuc, Anton—" His voice trailed into a brood-
ing silence,

Roy stirred uneasily. "How effective is this Deflection Field
anyway, Jimmy? Your cheerful thoughts aren't very soothing,
you know."

"Well, it's been tested under the harshest conditions lab-
oratory technicians could devise. I've watched them. It's been
bathed in radiation approximating the sun's at a distance of
twenty million. The Field worked like a charm. The light was
bent about it so that the ship became invisible. The men inside
the ship claimed that everything outside became invisible and
that no heat reached them. A funny thing, though, the Field
will work only under certain radiation strengths."

"Well, I wish it were over one way or the other," Roy
glowered. "If Old Sourpuss is thinking of making this my
regular run—, well, he'll lose his ace pilot."

"He'll lose his two ace pilots," Jimmy corrected.

The two lapsed into silence and the Helios blasted on.

The temperature climbed: 130, 135, 140. Then, three days
later, with the mercury quivering at 148, Roy announced that
they were approaching the critical belt, the belt where the
solar radiation reached sufficient intensity to energize the
Field.

The two waited, minds at feverish concentration, pulses
pounding.

"Will it happen suddenly?"

"I don't know. We'll have to wait."

From the portholes, only the stars were visible. The sun,
three times the size as seen from Earth, poured its blinding
rays upon opaque metal, for on this specially designed ship,
portholes closed automatically when struck by powerful radia-
tion.

And then the stars began disappearing. Slowly, at first, the
dimmest faded—then the brighter ones: Polaris, Regulus,
Arcturus, Sirius. Space was uniformly black.

"It's working," breathed Jimmy. The words were scarcely
out of his mouth, when the sunward portholes clicked open.
The sun was gone!

"Ha! I feel cooler already," Jimmy Turner was jubilant.
"Boy, it worked like a charm. You know, if they could adjust
this Deflection field to all radiation strengths, we would have
perfected invisibility. It would make a convenient war
weapon." He lit a cigarette and leaned back luxuriously.

"But meanwhile we're flying blind," Roy insisted.

Jimmy grinned patronizingly, "You needn't worry about
that, Dishface. I've taken care of everything. We're in an
orbit about the sun. In two weeks, we'll be on the opposite
side and then I'll let the rockets blast and out of this band we
go, zooming towards Venus." He was very self-satisfied indeed.

"Just leave it to Jimmy 'Brains' Turner. I'll have us through
in two months, instead of the regulation six. You're with
United's ace pilot, now."

Roy laughed nastily. "To listen to you, you'd think you
did all the work. All you're doing is to run the ship on the
course I've plotted. You're the mechanic; I'm the brains."

"Oh, is that so? Any damn pilot-school rookie can plot a
course. It takes a man to navigate one."

"Well, that's your opinion. Who's paid more, though, the
navigator or the course-plotter?"

Jimmy gulped on that one and Roy stalked triumphantly
out of the pilot room. Unmindful of all this, the Helios blasted
on.

For two days, all was serene; then, on the third day. Jimmy
inspected the thermometer, scratched his head and looked
worried. Roy entered, watched the proceedings and raised
his eyebrows in surprise.

"Is anything wrong?" He bent over and read the height of
the thin, red column. "Just 100 degrees. That's nothing to look
like a sick goat over. From your expression, I thought some-
thing had gone wrong with the Deflection Field and that it
was rising again," he turned away with an ostentatious yawn.

"Oh, shut up, you senseless ape," Jimmy's foot lifted in a
half-hearted attempt at a kick. "I'd feel a lot better if the
temperature were rising. This Deflection Field is working a lot
too good for my liking."

"Huh! What do you mean?"

"I'll explain, and if you listen carefully you may under-
stand me. This ship is built like a vacuum bottle. It gains
.40 heat only with the greatest of difficulty and loses it likewise."
He paused and let his words sink in. "At ordinary tempera-
tures this ship is not supposed to lose more than two degrees
a day if no outside sources of heat are supplied. Perhaps at
the temperature at which we were, the loss might amount to
five degrees a day. Do you get me?"

Roy's mouth was open wide and Jimmy continued. "Now
this blasted ship has lost fifty degrees in less than three days."

"But that's impossible."

"There it is." Jimmy pointed ironically. "I'll tell you what's
wrong. It's that damn Field. It acts as a repulsive agent to-
wards electromagnetic radiations and somehow is hastening
the loss of heat of our ship."

Roy sank into thought and did some rapid mental calcula-
tions. "If what you say is true," he said at length, "we'll hit
freezing point in five days and then spend a week in what
amounts to winter weather."

"That's right. Even allowing for the decrease in heat-loss
as the temperature is lowered, we'll probably end up with the
mercury anywhere between thirty and forty below."

Roy gulped unhappily. "And at twenty million miles away
from the sun!"

"That isn't the worst," Jimmy pointed out. "This ship, like
all others used for travel within the orbit of Mars, has no
heating system. With the sun shining like fury and no way to
lose heat except by ineffectual radiation, Mars and Venus
space-ships have always specialized in cooling systems. We,
for instance, have a very efficient refrigeration device."

"We're in a devil of a fix, then. The same applies to our
space suits."

In spite of the still roasting temperature, the two were be-
ginning to experience a few anticipatory chills.

"Say, I'm not going to stand this," Roy burst out. "I vote
we get out of here right now and head for Earth. They can't
expect more of us."

"Go ahead! You're the pilot. Can you plot a course at this
distance from the sun and guarantee that we won't fall into
the sun?"

"Hell! I hadn't thought of that."

The two were at their wits' end. Communication via radio
had been impossible ever since they had passed Mercury's
orbit. The sun was at sunspot maximum and static had
drowned out all attempts.

So they settled down to wait.

The next few days were taken up entirely with thermometer
watching, with a few minutes taken out here and there when
one of the two happened to think of an unused malediction
to hurl at the head of Mr. Frank McCutcheon. Eating and
sleeping were indulged in, but not enjoyed.

And meanwhile, the Helios, entirely unconcerned in the
plight of its occupants, blasted on.

As Roy had predicted, the temperature passed the red line
marked "Freezing" towards the end of their seventh day in
the Deflection Belt. The two were remarkably unhappy when
this happened even though they had expected it.

Jimmy had drawn off about a hundred gallons of water
from the tank. With this he had filled almost every vessel on
board.

"It might," he pointed out, "save the pipes from bursting
when the water freezes. And if they do, as is probable, it is
just as well that we supply ourselves with plenty of available
water. We have to stay here another week, you know."

And on the next day, the eighth, the water froze. There
were the buckets, overflowing with ice, standing chill and
bluecold. The two gazed at them forlornly. Jimmy broke one
open.

"Frozen solid," he said bleakly and wrapped another sheet
about himself.

It was hard to think of anything but the increasing cold
now. Roy and Jimmy had requisitioned every sheet and
blanket on the ship, after having put on three or four shirts
and a like number of pairs of pants.

They kept in bed for as long as they were able, and when
forced to move out, they huddled near the small oil-burner
for warmth. Even this doubtful pleasure was soon denied
them, for, as Jimmy remarked, "the oil supply is extremely
limited and we will need the burner to thaw out the water and
food."

Tempers were short and clashes frequent, but the com-
mon misery kept them from actually jumping on each other's
throats. It was on the tenth day, however, that the two, united
by a common hatred, suddenly became friends.

The temperature was hovering down near the zero point,
making up its mind to descend into the minus regions. Jimmy
was huddled in a comer thinking of the times back in New
York when he had complained of the August heat and won-
dered how he could have done so. Roy, meanwhile, had
manipulated numb fingers long enough to calculate that they
would have to endure the coldness for exactly 6354 minutes
more.

He regarded the figures with distaste and read them off to
Jimmy. The latter Scowled and grunted,"The way I feel, I'm
not going to last 54 minutes, let alone 6354." Then, impa-
tiently, "I wish you could manage to think of some way of
getting us out of this."

"If we weren't so near the sun," suggested Roy, "we might
start the rear blasts and hurry us up."

"Yes, and if we landed in the sun, we'd be nice and warm.
You're a big help!"

"Well, you're the one that calls himself 'Brains' Turner.
You think of something. The way you talk, you'd think all
this was my fault."

"It certainly is, you donkey in human clothing! My better
judgment told me all along not to go on this fool trip. When
McCutcheon proposed it, I refused pointblank. I know better."
Jimmy was very bitter. "So what happened? Like the fool
you are, you accept and rush in where sensible men fear to
tread. And then, of course. I naturally had to tag along.

"Why, do you know what I should have done," Jimmy's
voice ascended the scale, "I should have let you go alone and
freeze and then sat down by a roaring fire all by myself and
gloated. That is, if I had known what was going to happen."

A hurt and surprised look appeared on Roy's face. "Is that
so? So that's how it is! Well, all I can say is that you certainly
have a genius for twisting facts, if for nothing else. The fact
of the matter is that you were unutterably stupid enough to
accept and / the poor fellow raked in by the force of circum-
stances."

Jimmy's expression was one of the utmost disdain. "Evi-
dently the cold has driven you batty, though I admit it
wouldn't take much to knock the little sense you possess out
of you."

"Listen," Roy answered hotly. "On October 10th, Mc-
Cutcheon called me up on the 'visor and told me you had
accepted and laughed at me for a yellow-belly for refusing
to go. Do you deny that?"

"Yes, I do, and unconditionally. On October 10, Sourpass
told me that you had decided to go and had bet him that—"

Jimmy's voice faded away very suddenly and a shocked
look spread over his face. "Say—, are you sure McCutcheon
told you I had agreed to go?"

A chill, clammy feeling clutched at Roy's heart when he
caught Jimmy's drift, a feeling that drowned out the numb-
ness of the cold.

"Absolutely," he answered. "I'll swear to that. That's why I
went."

"But he told me you had accepted and that's why / went."
Jimmy felt very stupid all at once.

The two fell into a protracted and ominous silence which
was broken at length by Roy, who spoke in a voice that
quivered with emotion.

"Jimmy, we've been the victims of a contemptible, dirty,
lowdown, doublecrossing trick." His eyes dilated with fury.
"We've been cheated, robbed—," words failed him but he
kept on uttering meaningless sounds, indicative mainly of de-
vouring rage.

Jimmy was cooler, but none the less vindictive, "You're
right, Roy; McCutcheon has done us dirty. He has plumbed
the depths of human iniquity. But we'll get even. When we
get through in 6300 odd minutes, we will have a score to
settle with Mr. McCutcheon."

"What are we going to do?" Roy's eyes were filled with a
bloodthirsty joy.

"On the spur of the moment, I suggest that we simply tear
into him and rend him into tiny, little pieces."

"Not gruesome enough. How about boiling him in oil?"

'That's reasonable, yes; but it might take too long. Let's
give him a good old-fashioned beating—with brass knuckles."

Roy rubbed his hands. "We'll have lots of time to think up
some really adequate measures. The dirty. God-forsaken,
yellow-livered, leprous—" The rest verged fluently into the un-
printable.

And for four more days, the temperature dove. It was on
the fourteenth and last day that the mercury froze, the solid
red shaft pointed its congealed finger at forty below.

On this terrible last day, they had lit the oil-burner, using
their entire scanty supply of oil. Shivering and more than
half frozen, they crouched close, attempting to extract every
last drop of heat.

Jimmy had found a pair of ear-muffs several days before
in some obscure corner, and it now changed hands at the
end of every hour. Both sat buried under a small mountain
of blankets, chafing chilled hands and feet. With every pass-
ing minute, their conversation, concerning McCutcheon al-
most exclusively, grew more vitriolic.

"Always quoting that triply-damned slogan of the Space
Mail: 'Our flight through sp—' " Jimmy choked with impo-
tent fury.

"Yes, and always rubbing holes in chairs instead of coming
out here and doing something like a man's work, the rotten
so-and-so," agreed Roy.

"Well, we're due to pass out of the deflection zone in two
hours. Then three weeks and we'll be on Venus," said Jimmy,
sneezing.

"That can't be too soon for me," answered Sneed, who had
been sniffling for the last two days. "I'm never taking another
space trip except maybe the one that takes me back to
Earth. After this, I make my living growing bananas in Cen-
tral America. A fellow can be decently warm out there at
least."

"We might not get off Venus, after what we're going to do
to McCutcheon."

"No, you're right there. But that's all right. Venus is even
warmer than Central America and that's all I care about."

"We have no legal worries either," Jimmy sneezed again.
"On Venus, life imprisonment's the limit for first-degree
murder. A nice,-warm dry cell for the rest of my life. What
could be sweeter?"

The second hand on the chronometer whirled at its even
pace; the minutes ticked off. Roy's hands hovered lovingly
over the lever that would set off the right rear blasts which
would drive the Helios~but away from the sun and from that
terrible Deflection Zone.

And at last, "Go!" shouted Jimmy eagerly. "Let her blast!"

With a deep reverberating roar, the rockets fired. The
Helios trembled from stem to stern. The pilots felt the ac-
celeration press them back into their seats and were happy. In
a matter of minutes, the sun would shine again and they
would be warm, feel the blessed heat once more.

It happened before they were aware of it. There was a
momentary flash of light and then a grinding and a click, as
the sunward portholes closed.

"Look," cried Roy, "the stars! We're out of it!" He cast an
ecstatically happy glance at the thermometer. "Well, old boy,
from now on we go up again." He pulled the blankets about
him closer, for the cold still lingered.

There were two men in Frank McCutcheon's office at the
Venus branch of the United Space Mail: McCutcheon him-
self and the elderly, white-haired Zebulon Smith, inventor of
the Deflection Field. Smith was talking.

"But Mr. McCutcheon, it is reaily of great importance that
I learn exactly how my Deflection Field worked. Surely they
have transmitted all possible information to you."

McCutcheon's face was a study in dourness as he bit the
edge off one of his two-for-five cigars and lit it.

"That, my dear Mr. Smith," he said, "is exactly what they
did not do. Ever since they have receded far enough from the
sun to render communication possible, I have been sending
requests for information regarding the practicability of the
Field. They just refuse to answer. They say it worked and
that they're alive and that they'll give the details when they
reach Venus. That's all!"

Zebulon Smith sighed in disappointment. "Isn't that a bit
unusual; insubordination, so to speak? I thought they were
required to be complete in their reports and to give any re-
quested details."

"So they are. But these are my ace pilots and rather tem-
peramental. We have to extend some leeway. Besides, I
tricked them into going on this trip, a very hazardous one, as
you know, and so am inclined to be lenient."
"Well, then, I suppose I must wait."

"Oh, it won't be for long," McCutcheon assured him.
"They're due today, and I assure you that as soon as I get in
touch with them, I shall send you the full details. After all,
they survived for two weeks at a distance of twenty million
miles from the sun, so your invention is a success. That
should satisfy you."

Smith had scarcely left when McCutcheon's secretary en-
tered with a puzzled frown on her face.

"Something is wrong with the two pilots of the Helios, Mr.
McCutcheon," she informed him. "I have just received a
bulletin from Major Wade at Pallas City, where they landed.
They have refused to attend the celebration prepared for
them, but instead immediately chartered a rocket to come
here, refusing to state the reason. When Major Wade tried to
stop them, they became violent, he says." She laid the com-
munication down on his desk.

McCutcheon glanced at it perfunctorily. "Hmm! they do
seem confoundedly temperamental. Well, send them to me
when they come. I'll snap them out of it."

It was perhaps three hours later that the problem of the
two misbehaving pilots again forced itself upon his mind, this
time by a sudden commotion that had arisen in the reception
room. He heard the deep angry tones of two men and then
the shrill remonstrances of his secretary. Suddenly the door
burst open and Jim Turner and Roy Snead strode in.

Roy coolly closed the door and planted his back against it.

"Don't let anyone disturb me until I'm through," Jimmy
told him.

"No one's getting through this door for a while," Roy an-
swered grimly, "but remember, you promised to leave some
for me."

McCutcheon said nothing during all this, but when he saw
Turner casually draw a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket
and put them on with a determined air, he decided that it was
time to call a halt to the comedy.

"Hello, boys," he said, with a heartiness unusual in him.
"Glad to see you again. Take a seat."

Jimmy ignored the offer. "Have you anything to say, any
last request, before I start operations?" He gritted his teeth
with an unpleasant scraping noise.

"Well, if you put it that way," said McCutcheon, "I might
ask exactly what this is all about—if I'm not being too un-
reasonable. Perhaps the Deflector was inefficient and you had
a hot trip."

The only answer to that was a loud snort from Roy and a
cold stare on the part of Jimmy.

"First," said the latter, "what was the idea of that filthy,
disgusting cheat you pulled on us?"

McCutcheon's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Do you mean
the little white lies I told you in order to get you to go? Why,
that was nothing. Common business practice, that's all. Why,
I pull worse things than that every day and people consider it
just routine. Besides, what harm did it do you?"

"Tell him about our 'pleasant trip,' Jimmy," urged Roy.

"That's exactly what I'm going to do," was the response.
He turned to McCutcheon and assumed a martyr-like air.
"First, on this blasted trip, we fried in a temperature that
reached 150 but that was to be expected and we're not com-
plaining; we were half Mercury's distance from the sun.

"But after that, we entered this zone where the light bends
around us; incoming radiation sank to zero and we started
losing heat and not just a degree a day the way we learned it
in pilot school." He paused to breathe a few novel curses he
had just thought of, then continued.

'"In three days, we were down to a hundred and in a week
down to freezing. Then for one entire week, seven long days,
we drove through our course at sub-freezing temperature. It
was so cold the last day that the mercury froze." Turner's
voice rose till it cracked, and at the door, a fit of self-pity
caused Roy to catch his breath with an audible gulp. Mc-
Cutcheon remained inscrutable.

Jimmy continued. "There we were without a heating sys-
tem, in fact, no heat of any kind, not even any warm clothing.
We froze, damn it; we had to thaw out our food and melt our
water. We were stiff, couldn't move. It was hell, I tell you, in
reverse temperature." He paused, at a loss for words.

Roy Snead took up the burden. "We were twenty million
miles away from the sun and I had a case of frost-bitten ears.
Frost-bitten, I say." He shook his fist viciously under Mc-
Cutcheon's nose. "And it was your fault. You tricked us into
it! While we were freezing, we promised ourselves that we'd
come back and get you and we're going to keep that promise."
He turned to Jimmy. "Go ahead, start it, will you? We've
wasted enough time."

"Hold it, hoys," McCutcheon spoke at last. "Let me get
this straight. You mean to say that the Deflection Field
worked so well that it kept all the radiation away and
sucked out what heat there was in the ship in the first place?"
Jimmy grunted a curt assent.

"And you froze for a week because of that?" McCutcheon
continued.

Again the grunt.

And then a very strange and unusual thing happened. Mc-
Cutcheon, "Old, Sourpuss," the man without the "risus"
muscle, smiled. He actually bared his teeth in a grin. And
what's more, the grin grew wider and wider until finally a
rusty, long-unused chuckle was heard louder and louder, until
it developed into a full-fledged laugh, and the laugh into a
bellow. In one stentorian burst, McCutcheon made up for a
lifetime of sour gloom.

The walls reverberated, the windowpanes rattled, and still
the Homeric laughter continued. Roy and Jimmy stood open-
mouthed, entirely non-plussed. A puzzled bookkeeper thrust
his head inside the door in a fit of temerity and remained
frozen in his tracks. Others crowded about the door, con-
versing in awed whispers. McCutcheon had laughed!

Gradually, the risibilities of the old General Manager sub-
sided. He ended in a fit of choking and finally turned a purple
face towards his ace pilots, whose surprise had long since
given way to indignation.

   "Boys," he told them, "that was the best joke I ever heard.
You can consider your pay doubled, both of you." He was still
grinning away like clockwork and had developed a beautiful
case of hiccoughs.

The two pilots were left cold at the handsome proposal.
"What's so killingly funny?" Jimmy wanted to know, "I don't
see anything to laugh at, myself."

McClutcheon's voice dripped honey, "Now, fellows, before
I left I gave each of you several mimeographed sheets con-
taining special instructions. What happened to them?"

There was sudden embarrassment in the air.

"I don't know. I must have mislaid mine," gulped Roy.

"I never looked at mine; I forgot about it." Jimmy was
genuinely dismayed.

"You see," exclaimed McCutcheon triumphantly, "it was
all the fault of your own stupidity."

"How do you figure that out?" Jimmy wanted to know.
"Major Wade told us all we had to know about the ship, and
besides, I guess there's nothing you could tell us about run-
ning one."

"Oh, isn't there? Wade evidently forgot to inform you of
one minor point which you would have found on my instruc-
tions. The strength of the Deflection Field was adjustable. It
happened to be set at maximum strength when you started,
that's all." He was now beginning to chuckle faintly once
more. "Now, if you had taken the trouble to read the sheets,
you would have known that a simple movement of a small
lever," he made the appropriate gesture with his thumb,
"would have weakened the Field any desired amount and
allowed as much radiation to leak through as was wanted."

And now the chuckle was becoming louder. "And you
froze for a week because you didn't have the brains to pull a
lever. And then you ace pilots come here and blame me.
What a laugh!" and off he went again while a pair of very
sheepish young men glanced askance at each other.

When McCutcheon came around to normal, Jimmy and
Roy were gone.

Down in an alley adjoining the building, a little ten-year-
old boy watched, with open mouth and intense absorption,
two young men who were engaged in the strange and rather
startling occupation of kicking each other alternately. They
were vicious kicks, too.

THE END

When I wrote "Ring Around the Sun" I was much taken
by the two protagonists. Turner and Snead. It was in my
mind, I recall, to write other stories about the pair. This
was a natural thought, for in the late 1930s there were a
number of "series" of stories about a given character or
characters. Campbell himself had written some delightful
stories featuring two men named Penton and Blake, and I
longed to do a Penton-Blake imitation.

There was a practical value to writing a "series." For one
thing, you had a definite background that was carried on
from story to story, so that half your work was done for
you. Secondly, if the "series" became popular, it would be
difficult to reject new stories that fit into it.

I didn't make it with Turner and Snead. In fact, I never
tried. The time was to come, two years later, when I was
to have a pair of very similar characters, Powell and
Donovan, who were to be in four stories and who were to
be part of a very successful "series" indeed.

By the end of August 1938, then, I had written five
stories, of which three were eventually published. Not bad!

However, there followed a dry spell. I was finishing my
third year of college and was trying, without success, to get
admission into medical school. The situation in Europe was
disturbing. It was the time of the surrender at Munich, and
for a Jewish teen-ager there was something unsettling about
the rapid, sure-fire victories of Hitler.

The next three stories took not one month, as had the
previous three, but three months. And all were clearly well
below the limits of salability even in the most permissive
market. They were "The Weapon," "Paths of Destiny," and
"Knossos in Its Glory." Campbell rejected each one in very
short order, and all made the rounds without luck. There
came a time, nearly three years later, when Astonishing
seemed interested in "The Weapon," but that fell through
and the other two didn't even come that close.

All three stories are now gone forever. I remember
nothing at all about two of them, but "Knossos in Its
Glory" was an ambitious attempt to retell the Theseus
myth in science fiction terms. The minotaur was an extra-
terrestrial who landed in ancient Crete with only the kindliest
of intentions, and I remember writing terribly stilted prose
in an attempt to make my Cretans sound as I imagined
characters in Homer ought to sound. Campbell, always
kind, said in rejecting it that my work "was definitely im-
proving, especially where I was not straining for effect."

By the time I was writing "Knossos in Its Glory" I had
just received my check for "Marooned off Vesta" and I was
a professional. My spirits rose accordingly, and toward the
end of November I wrote "Ammonium," which was another
attempt (like "Ring Around the Sun") at humor.

I had a pretty good notion that Campbell wouldn't like
it, however, and I never showed it to him. I sent it to
Thrilling Wonder Stories instead. When they rejected it, I
lost heart and retired it. It was only after Future Fiction
had taken "Ring Around the Sun" that I thought I would
chance this other one, too.

On August 23, 1939, I sent it in to Future Fiction, which
took it, altering its name to "The Magnificent Possession."

The Magnificent Possession

Walter Sills reflected now, as he had reflected often before,
that life was hard and joyless. He surveyed his dingy chemical
laboratory and grinned cynically—working in a dirty hole of
a place, living on occasional ore analyses that barely paid for
absolutely indispensable equipment, while others, not half his
worth perhaps, were working for big industrial concerns and
taking life easy.

He looked out the window at the Hudson River, ruddied in
the flame of the dying sun, and wondered moodily whether
these last experiments would finally bring him the fame and
success he was after, or if they were merely some more false
alarms.

The unlocked door creaked open a crack and the cheerful
face of Eugene Taylor burst into view. Sills waved and Tay-
lor's body followed his head and entered the laboratory.

"Hello, old soak," came the loud and carefree hail. "How
go things?"

Sills shook his head at the other's exuberance. "I wish I
had your foolish outlook on life. Gene. For your information,
things are bad. I need money, and the more I need it, the less
I have."

"Well, I haven't any money either, have I?" demanded
Taylor. "But why worry about it? You're fifty, and worry
hasn't got you anything except a bald head. I'm thirty, and I
want to keep my beautiful brown hair."

The chemist grinned. "I'll get my money yet. Gene. Just
leave it to me."

"Your new ideas shaping out well?"

"Are they? I haven't told you much about it, have I? Well,
come here and I'll show you what progress I've made."

Taylor followed Sills to a small table, on which stood a
rack of test tubes, in one of which was about half an inch of

a shiny metallic substance.

"Sodium-mercury mixture, or sodium amalgam, as it is
called," explained Sills pointing to it.

He took a bottle labeled "Ammonium Chloride Sol." from
the shelf and poured a little into the tube. Immediately the
sodium amalgam began changing into a loosely-packed,
spongy substance.

"That," observed Sills, "is ammonium amalgam. The am-
monium radical (NHi) acts as a metal here and combines
with mercury." He waited for the action to go to completion
and then poured off the supernatant liquid.

"Ammonium amalgam isn't very stable," he informed Tay-
lor, "so I'll have to work fast." He grasped a flask of straw-
colored, pleasant-smelling liquid and filled the test-tube with
it. Upon shaking, the loosely-packed ammonium amalgam
vanished and in its stead a small drop of metallic liquid rolled

about the bottom.

Taylor gazed at the test-tube, open-mouthed. "What hap-
pened?"

"This liquid is a complex derivative of hydrazine which I've
discovered and named Ammonaline. I haven't worked out its
formula yet, but that doesn't matter. The point about it is
that it has the property of dissolving the ammonium out of
the amalgam. Those few drops at the bottom are pure mer-
cury; the ammonium is in solution."           

Taylor remained unresponsive and Sills waxed enthusiastic.
"Don't you see the implications? I've gone half way towards
isolating pure ammonium, a thing which has never been done
before! Once accomplished it means fame, success, the Nobel
Prize, and who knows what else."

"Wow!" Taylor's gaze became more respectful. "That yel-
low stuff doesn't look so important to me." He snatched for
it, but Sills withheld it.

"I haven't finished, by any means, Gene. I've got to get it in
its free metallic state, and I can't do that so far. Every time
I try to evaporate the Ammonaline, the ammonium breaks
down to everlasting ammonia and hydrogen. . . . But I'll get
it—I'll get it!"

Two weeks later, the epilogue to the previous scene was
enacted. Taylor received a hurried and emphatic call from
his chemist friend and appeared at the laboratory in a
flurry of anticipation.
"You've got it?"

"I've got it—and it's bigger than I thought! There's mil-
lions in it, really," Sills' eyes shone with rapture.

"I've been working from the wrong angle up to now," he
explained. "Heating the solvent always broke down the dis-
solved ammonium, so I separated it out by freezing. It works
the same way as brine, which, when frozen slowly, freezes
into fresh ice, the salt crystallizing out. Luckily, the Ammona-
line freezes at 18 degrees Centigrade and doesn't require
much cooling."

He pointed dramatically to a small beaker, inside a glass-
walled case. The beaker contained pale, straw-colored, needle-
like crystals and, covering the top of this, a thin layer of a
dullish, yellow substance.

"Why the case?" asked Taylor.

"I've got it filled with argon to keep the ammonium (which
is the yellow substance on top of the Ammonaline) pure. It is
so active that it will react with anything else but a helium-type
gas."

Taylor marveled and pounded his complacently-smiling
friend on the back.

"Wait, Gene, the best is yet to come."

Taylor was led to the other end of the room and Sills'
trembling finger pointed out another airtight case containing
a lump of metal of a gleaming, yellow that sparkled and
glistened.

"That, my friend, is ammonium oxide (NH4,0), formed
by passing absolutely dry air over free ammonium metal. It is
perfectly inert (the sealed case contains quite a bit of chlorine,
for instance, and yet there is no reaction). It can be made as
cheaply as aluminum, if not more so, and yet it looks more
like gold than gold does itself. Do you see the possibilities?"

"Do I?" exploded Taylor. "It will sweep the country. You
can have ammonium jewelry, and ammonium-plated table-
ware, and a million other things. Then again, who knows how
many countless industrial applications it may have? You're
rich, Walt—you're rich."

"We're rich," corrected Sills gently. He moved towards the
telephone, "The newspapers are going to hear of this. I'm
going to begin to cash in on fame right now."

Taylor frowned, "Maybe you'd better keep it a secret,
Walt."

"Oh, I'm not breathing a hint as to the process. I'll just
give them the general idea. Besides, we're safe; the patent
application is in Washington right now."

But Sills was wrong! The article in the paper ushered in a
very, very hectic two days for the two of them.

J. Throgmorton Bankhead is what is commonly known as a
"captain of industry." As head of the Acme Chromium and
Silver Plating Corporation he no doubt deserved the title; but
to his patient and long-suffering wife, he was merely a
dyspeptic and grouchy husband, especially at the breakfast
table . .. and he was at the breakfast table now.

Rustling his morning paper angrily, he sputtered between
bites of buttered toast, 'This man is ruining the country." He
pointed aghast at big, black headlines. "I said before and I'll
say again that the man is as crazy as a bedbug. He won't be
satisfied . . ."

"Joseph, please," pleaded his wife, "you're getting purple
in the face. Remember your high blood pressure. You know
the doctor told you to stop reading the news from Washing-
ton if it annoys you so. Now, listen dear, about the cook.
She's . . ."

"The doctor's a damn fool, and so are you," shouted J.
Throgmorton Bankhead. "I'll read all the news I please and
get purple in the face too, if I want to."

He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth and took a critical
sip. While he did so, his eyes fell upon a more insignificant
headline towards the bottom of the page: "Savant Discovers
Gold Substitute." The coffee cup remained in the air while
he scanned the article quickly. "This new metal," it ran in
part, "is claimed by its discoverer to be far superior to
chromium, nickel, or silver for cheap and beautiful jewelry.
The twenty-dollar-a-week clerk,' said Professor Sills, 'will eat
off ammonium plate more impressive in appearance than the
gold plate of the Indian Nabob.' There is no . .."

But J. Throgmorton Bankhead had stopped reading. Visions
of a ruined Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation
danced before his eyes; and as they danced, the cup of coffee
dropped from his hand, and splashed hot liquid over his
trousers.

His wife rose to her feet in alarm, "What is it, Joseph; what
is it?"

"Nothing," Bankhead shouted. "Nothing. For God's sake,
go away, will you?"

He strode angrily out of the room, leaving his wife to
search the paper for anything that could have disturbed him.

"Bob's Tavern" on Fifteenth Street is usually pretty well
filled at all times, but on the morning we are speaking of, it
was empty except for four or five rather poorly-dressed men
who clustered about the portly and dignified form of Peter
Q. Homswoggle, eminent ex-Congressman.

Peter Q. Homswoggle was, as usual, speaking fluently. His
subject, again as usual, concerned the life of a Congressman.

"I remember a case in point," he was saying, "when that
same argument was brought up in the House, and which I
answered as follows: The eminent gentleman from Nevada
in his statements overlooks one very important aspect of the
problem. He does not realize that it is to the interest of the
entire nation that the apple-parers of this country be attended
to promptly; for, gentlemen, on the welfare of the apple-
parers depends the future of the entire fruit industry and on
the fruit-industry is based the entire economy of this great
and glorious nation, the United States of America.' "

Homswoggle paused, swallowed half a pint of beer at once,
and then smiled in triumph, "I have no hesitation in saying,
gentlemen, that at that statement, the entire House burst into
wild and tumultuous applause."

One of the assembled listeners shook his head slowly and
marvelled. "It must be great to be able to spiel like that,
Senator. You musta been a sensation."

"Yeah," agreed the bartender, "it's a dirty shame you were
beat last election."

The ex-Congressman winced and in a very dignified tone
began, "I have been reliably informed that the use of bribery
in that campaign reached unprecedented prop . . ." His voice
died away suddenly as he caught sight of a certain article in
the newspaper of one of his listeners. He snatched at it and
read it through in silence and thereupon his eyes gleamed
with a sudden idea.

"My friends," he said turning to them again, "I find I must
leave you. There is pressing work that must be done im-
mediately at City Hall." He leant over to whisper to the bar-
keeper, "You haven't got twenty-five cents, have you? I find I
left my wallet in the Mayor's office by mistake. I will surely
repay you tomorrow."

Clutching the quarter, reluctantly given, Peter Q. Hom-
swoggle left

In a small and dimly lit room somewhere in the lower
reaches of First Avenue, Michael Maguire, known to the
police by the far more euphonious name of Mike the Slug,
cleaned his trusty revolver and hummed a tuneless song. The
door opened a crack and Mike looked up.

"That you, Slappy?"

"Yeh," a short, wizened person sidled in, "I brung ye de
evenin' sheet. De cops are still tinkin' Bragoni pulled de job."

"Yeh? That's good." He bent unconcernedly over the re-
volver. "Anything else doing?" "

"Naw! Some dippy dame killed herself, but dat's all."

He tossed the newspaper to Mike and left. Mike leaned
back and flipped the pages in a bored manner.

A headline attracted his eye and he read the short article
that followed. Having finished, he threw aside the paper, lit a
cigarette, and did some heavy thinking. Then he opened the
 door.

"Hey, Slappy, c'mere. There's a job that's got to be done."

Walter Sills was happy, deliriously so. He walked about his
laboratory king of all he surveyed, strutting like a peacock,
basking in his new-found glory. Eugene Taylor sat and
watched him, scarcely less happy himself.

"How does it feel to be famous?" Taylor wanted to know.

"Like a million dollars; and that's what I'm going to sell
the secret of ammonium metal for. It's the fat of the land for
me from now on."

"You leave the practical details to me, Walt. I'm getting in
touch with Staples of Eagle Steel today. You'll get a decent
price from him."

The bell rang, and Sills jumped. He ran to open the door.

"Is this the home of Walter Sills?" The large, scowling
visitor gazed about him superciliously.

"Yes, I'm Sills. Do you wish to see me?"

"Yes. My name is J. Throgmorton Bankhead and I repre-
sent the Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation. I
would like to have a moment's discussion with you."

"Come right in. Come right in! This is Eugene Taylor, my
associate. You may speak freely before him."

"Very well." Bankhead seated himself heavily. "I suppose
you surmise the reason for my visit."

"I take it that you have read of the new ammonium metal
in the papers."

"That's right. I have come to see whether there is any truth
in the story and to buy your process if there is."

"You can see for yourself, sir," Sills led the magnate to
where the argon-filled container of the few grams of pure
ammonium were. "That is the metal. Over here to the right,
I've got the oxide, an oxide which is more metallic than the
metal itself, strangely enough. It is the oxide that is what the
papers call 'substitute gold.' "

Bankhead's face showed not an atom of the sinking feeling
within him as he viewed the oxide with dismay. "Take it out
in the open," he said, "and let's see it."

Sills shook his head. "I can't, Mr. Bankhead. Those are the
first samples of ammonium and ammonium-oxide that ever
existed. They're museum pieces. I can easily make more for
you, if you wish."

"You'll have to, if you expect me to sink my money in it
You satisfy me and I'll be willing to buy your patent for as
much as—oh, say a thousand dollars."

"A thousand dollars!" exclaimed Sills and Taylor together.

"A very fair price, gentlemen."

"A million would be more like it," shouted Taylor in an
outraged tone. "This discovery is a goldmine."

"A million, indeed! You are dreaming, gentlemen. The fact
of the matter is that my company has been on the track of
ammonium for years now, and we are just at the point of
solving the problem. Unfortunately you beat us by a week or
so, and so I wish to buy up your patent in order to save my
company a great deal of annoyance. You realize, of course,
that if you refuse my price, I could just go ahead and manu-
facture the metal, using my own process."

"We'll sue if you do," said Taylor.

"Have you got the money for a long, protracted—and ex-
pensive—lawsuit?" Bankhead smiled nastily. "I have, you
know. To prove, however, that I am not unreasonable, I will
make the price two thousand."

"You've heard our price," answered Taylor stonily, "and
we have nothing further to say."

"All right, gentlemen," Bankhead walked towards the door,
"think it over. You'll see it my way, I'm sure."

He opened the door and revealed the symmetrical form of
Peter Q. Hornswoggle bent in rapt concentration at the key-
hole. Bankhead sneered audibly and the ex-Congressman
jumped to his feet in consternation, bowing rapidly two or
three times, for want of anything better to do.

The financier passed by disdainfully and Hornswoggle en-
tered, slammed the door behind him, and faced the two be-
wildered friends.

"That man, my dear sirs, is a malefactor of great wealth, an
economic royalist. He is the type of predatory interest that is
the ruination of this country. You did quite right in refusing
his offer." He placed his hand on his ample chest and smiled
at them benignantly.

"Who the devil are you?" rasped Taylor, suddenly recover-
ing from his initial surprise.

"I?" Hornswoggle was taken aback. "Why—er—I am Peter
Quintus Hornswoggle. Surely you know me. I was in the
House of Representatives last year."

"Never heard of you. What do you want?"

"Why, bless me! I read in the papers of your wonderful
discovery and have come to place my services at your feet."

"What services?"

"Well, after all, you two are not men of the world. With
your new invention, you are prey for every self-seeking un-
scrupulous person that comes along—like Bankhead, for in-
stance. Now, a practical man of affairs, such as I, one with
experience of the world, would be of inestimable use to you.
I could handle your affairs, attend to details, see that—"

"All for nothing, of course, eh?" Taylor asked, sardonically.

Hornswoggle coughed convulsively. "Well, naturally, I
thought that a small interest in your discovery might fittingly
be assigned to me."

Sills, who had remained silent during all this, rose to his
feet suddenly. "Get out of here! Did you hear me? Get out,
before I call the police."

"Now, Professor Sills, pray don't get excited," Hornswoggle
retreated towards the door which Taylor held open for him.
He passed out, still protesting, and swore softly to himself
when the^door slammed in his face.

Sills sank wearily into the nearest chair. "What are we to
do. Gene? He offers only two thousand. A week ago that
would have been beyond anything I could have hoped for,
but now—"

"Forget it. The fellow was only bluffing. Listen, I'm going
right now to call on Staples. We'll sell to him for what we can
get (it ought to be plenty) and then if there's any trouble with
Bankhead—well, that's Staples' worry." He patted the other
on the shoulder. "Our troubles are practically over."

Unfortunately, however, Taylor was wrong; their troubles
were only beginning.

Across the street, a furtive figure, with beady eyes peering
from upturned coat-collar, surveyed the house carefully. A
curious policeman might have identified him as "Slappy"
Egan if he had bothered to look, but no one did and "Slappy"
remained unmolested.

"Cripes," he muttered to himself, "dis is gonna be a cinch.
De whole woiks on 'the bottom floor, back window can be
jimmied wid a toot'pick, no alarms, no nuttin'." He chuckled
and walked away.

Nor was "Slappy" alone with his ideas. Peter Q. Horn-
swoggle, as he walked away, found strange thoughts wander-
ing through his massive cranium—thoughts which involved a
certain amount of unorthodox action.

And J. Throgmorton Bankhead was likewise active. Be-
longing to that virile class known as "go-getters" and being
not at all scrupulous as to how he "go-got," and certainly not
intending to pay a million dollars for the secret of Ammonium,
he found it necessary to call on a certain one of his acquaint-
ances.

This acquaintance, while a very useful one, was a bit un-
savory, and Bankhead found it advisable to be very careful
and cautious while visiting him. However, the conversation
that ensued ended in a pleasing manner for both of them.

Walter Sills snapped out of an uneasy sleep with startled
suddenness. He listened anxiously for a while and then
leaned over and nudged Taylor. He was rewarded by a few
incoherent snuffles.

"Gene, Gene, wake up! Come on, get up!"

"Eh? What is it? What are you bothering—"

"Shut up! Listen, do you hear it?"

"I don't hear anything. Leave me alone, will you?"

Sills put his finger on his lips, and the other quieted. There
was a distinct shuffling noise down below, in the laboratory.

Taylor's eyes widened and sleep left them entirely. "Bur-
glars!" he whispered.

The two crept out of bed, donned bathrobe and slippers,
and tiptoed to the door. Taylor had a revolver and took the
lead in descending the stairs.

They had traversed perhaps half the flight, when there was
a sudden, surprised shout from below, followed by a series
of loud, threshing noises. This continued for a few moments
and then there was a loud crash of glassware.

"My ammonium!" cried Sills in a stricken voice and rushed
head-long down the stairs evading Taylor's clutching arms.

The chemist burst into the laboratory, followed closely by
his cursing associate, and clicked the lights on. Two struggling
figures bunked owlishly in the sudden illumination, and sep-
arated.

Taylor's gun covered them. "Well, isn't this nice," he said.

One of the two lurched to his feet from amid a tangle of
broken beakers and flasks, and, nursing a cut on his wrist,
bent his portly body in a still dignified bow. It was Peter Q.
Homswoggle.

"No doubt," he said, eyeing the unwavering firearm ner-
vously, "the circumstances seem suspicious, but I can explain
very easily. You see, in spite of the very rough treatment I
received after having made my reasonable proposal, I still
felt a great deal of kindly interest in you two.

"Therefore, being a man of the world, and knowing the
iniquities of mankind, I just decided to keep an eye on your
house tonight, for I saw you had neglected to take precautions
against house-breakers. Judge my surprise to see this dastardly
creature," he pointed to the flat-nosed, plug-ugly, who still
remained on the floor in a daze, "creeping in at the back
window.

"Immediately, I risked life and limb in following the
criminal, attempting desperately to save your great discovery.
I really feel I deserve great credit for what I have done. I'm
sure you will feel that I am a valuable person to deal with
and reconsider your answers to my earlier proposals."

Taylor listened to all this with a cynical smile. "You can
certainly lie fluently, can't you P.Q.?"

He would have continued at greater length and with
greater forcefulness had not the other burglar suddenly raised
his voice in loud protest "Cripes, boss, dis fat slob here is
only tryin' to get me in bad. I'm just followin' orders, boss. A
fellow hired me to come in here and rifle the safe and I'm
just oinin' a bit o' honest money. Just plain safe-crackin', boss,
I ain't out to hurt no one.

"Den, just as I was gettin' down to de job—wannin' up, so
to say—in crawls dis little guy wid a chisel and blowtorch
and makes for de safe. Well, naturally, I don't like no compe-
tition, so I lays for him and then—"

But Homswoggle had drawn himself up in icy hauteur. "It
remains to be seen whether the word of a gangster is to be
taken before the word of one, who, I may truthfully say, was,
in his time, one of the most eminent members of the great—"

"Quiet, both of you," shouted Taylor, waving the gun
threateningly. "I'm calling the police and you can annoy them
with your stories. Say, Walt, is everything all right?"

"I think so!" Sills returned from his inspection of the
laboratory. "They only knocked over empty glassware. Every-
thing else is unharmed."

'That's good," Taylor began, and then choked in dismay.

From the hallway, a cool individual, hat drawn well over
his eyes, entered. A revolver; expertly handled, changed the
situation considerably.

"0. K.," he grunted at Taylor, "drop the gat!" The other's
weapon slipped from reluctant fingers and hit the floor with
a clank.

The new menace surveyed the four others with a sardonic
glance. "Well! So there were two others trying to beat me to
it This seems to be a very popular place."

Sills and Taylor stared stupidly, while Homswoggle's teeth
chattered energetically. The first mobster moved back un-
easily, muttering as he did so, "For Pete's sake, it's Mike the
Slug."

"Yeah," Mike rasped, "Mike the Slug. There's lots of guys
who know me and who know I ain't afraid to pull the trigger
anytime I feel like. Come on, Baldy, hand over the works.
You know—the stuff about your fake gold. Come on, before

I count five."

Sills moved slowly toward the old safe in the comer. Mike
stepped back carelessly to give him room, and in so doing, his
coat sleeve brushed against a shelf. A small vial of sodium
sulphate solution tottered and fell.

With sudden inspiration. Sills yelled, "My God, watch out!
It's nitroglycerine!"

The vial hit the floor with a smashing tinkle of broken glass,
and involuntarily, Mike yelled and jumped in wild dismay.

And as he did so, Taylor crashed into him with a beautiful
flying tackle. At the same time. Sills lunged for Taylor's fallen
weapon to cover the other two. For this, however, there was
no longer need. At the very beginning of the confusion, both
had faded hurriedly into the night from whence they came.

Taylor and Mike the Slug rolled round and round the lab-
oratory floor, locked in desperate struggle while Sills hopped
over and about them, praying for a moment of comparative
quiet that he might bring the revolver into sharp and sudden
contact with the gangster's skull.

But no such moment came. Suddenly Mike lunged, caught
Taylor stunningly under the chin, and jerked free. Sills yelled
in consternation and pulled the trigger at the fleeing figure.
The shot was wild and Mike escaped unharmed. Sills made no
attempt to follow.

A sluicing stream of cold water brought Taylor back to
his senses. He shook his head dazedly as he surveyed the sur-
rounding shambles.

"Whew!" he said, "what a night!"

Sills groaned, "What are we going to do now. Gene? Our
very lives are in danger. I never thought of the possibility of
thieves, or I would never have told of the discovery to the
newspapers."

"Oh, well, the harm's done; no use weeping over it Now,
listen, the first thing we have to do now is to get back to
sleep. They won't bother us again tonight Tomorrow you'll
go to the bank and put the papers outlining the details of the
process in the vault (which you should have done long ago).
Staples will be here at 3 p.m.; well close the deal, and then,
at least, we'll live happily ever after."

The chemist shook his head dolefully. "Ammonium has
certainly proved to be very upsetting so far. I almost wish I
had never heard of it I'd almost rather be back doing ore
analysis."

As Walter Sills rattled cross-town towards his bank, he
found no reason to change his wish. Even the comforting and
homely jiggling of his ancient and battered automobile failed
to cheer him. From a life characterized by peaceful monotony,
he had entered a period of bedlam, and he was not at all
satisfied with the change.

"Riches, like poverty, has its own peculiar problems," he
remarked sententiously to himself as he braked the car before
the two-story, marble edifice that was the bank. He stepped out
carefully, stretched his cramped legs, and headed for the
revolving door.

He didn't get there right away, though. Two husky speci-
mens of the human race stepped up, one at each side, and
Sills felt a very hard object pressing with painful intensity
against his ribs. He opened his mouth involuntarily, and was
rewarded by an icy voice in his ears, "Quiet, Baldy, or you'll
get what you deserve for the damn trick you pulled on me
last night."

Sills shivered and subsided. He recognized Mike the Slug's
voice very easily.

"Where's the details?" asked Mike, "and make it quick."
"Inside jacket pocket," croaked Sills tremulously.
Mike's companion passed his hand dexterously into the in-
dicated pocket and flicked out three or four folded sheets of
foolscap.

"Dat it, Mike?"

A hasty appraisal and a nod, "Yeh, we got it. All right,
Baldy, on your way!" A sudden shove and the two gangsters
jumped into their car and drove away rapidly, while the
chemist sprawled on the sidewalk. Kindly hands raised him
up.

"It's all right," he managed to gasp. "I just tripped, that's
all. I'm not hurt." He found himself alone again, passed into
the bank, and dropped into the nearest bench, in near-collapse.
There was no doubt about it; the new life was not for him.

But he should have been prepared for it. Taylor had fore-
seen a possibility of this sort of thing happening. He, himself,
had thought a car had been trailing him. Yet, in his surprise
and fright, he had almost ruined everything.

He shrugged his thin shoulders and, taking off his hat, ab-
stracted a few folded sheets of paper from the sweatband. It
was the work of five minutes to deposit them in a vault, and
see the immensely strong steel door swing shut. He felt re-
lieved.

"I wonder what they'll do," he muttered to himself on the
way home, "when they try to follow the instructions on the
paper they did get." He pursed his lips and shook his head. "If
they do, there's going to be one heck of an explosion."

Sills arrived home to find three policemen pacing leisurely
up and down the sidewalk in front of the house.

"Police guard," explained Taylor shortly, "so that we have
no more trouble like last night."

The chemist related the events at the bank and Taylor
nodded grimly. "Well, it's checkmate for them now. Staples
will be here in two hours, and until then the police will take
care of things. Afterwards," he shrugged, "it will be Staples'
affair."

"Listen, Gene," the chemist put in suddenly, "I'm worried
about the ammonium. I haven't tested its plating abilities and
those are the most important things, you know. What if
Staples comes, and we find that all we have is pigeon milk."

"Hmm," Taylor stroked his chin, "you're right there. But
I'll tell you what we can do. Before Staples comes, let's plate
something—a spoon, suppose—for our own satisfaction."

"It's really very annoying," Sills complained fretfully. "If
it weren't for these troublesome hooligans, we wouldn't have
to proceed in this slipshod and unscientific manner."

"Well, let's eat dinner first"

After the mid-day meal, they began. The apparatus was
set up in feverish haste. In a cubic vat, a foot each way, a sat-
urated solution of Ammonaline was poured. An old, battered
spoon was the cathode and a mass of ammonium amalgam
(separated from the rest of the solution by a perforated glass
partition) was the anode. Three batteries in series provided
the current.

Sills explained animatedly, "It works on the same principle
as ordinary copper plating. The ammonium ion, once the
electric current is run through, is attracted to the cathode,
which-is in the spoon. Ordinarily it would break up, being un-
stable, but this is not the case when it is dissolved in Am-
monaline. This Ammonaline is itself very slightly ionized and
oxygen is given off at the anode.

"This much I know from theory. Let us see what happens
in practice."

He closed the key while Taylor watched with breathless
interest. For a moment, no effect was visible. Taylor looked
disappointed.

Then Sills grasped his sleeve. "See!" he hissed. "Watch the
anode!"

Sure enough, bubbles of gas were slowly forming upon the
spongy ammonium amalgam. They shifted their attention to
the spoon.

Gradually, they noticed a change. The metallic appearance
became dulled, the silver color slowly losing its whiteness. A
layer of distinct, if dull, yellow was being built up. For fifteen
minutes, the current ran and then Sills broke the circuit with

a contented sigh.

"It plates perfectly," he said.

"Good! Take it out! Let's see it!"

"What?" Sills was aghast. 'Take it out! Why, that's pure
ammonium. If I were to expose it to ordinary air, the water
vapor would dissolve it to NBLOH in no time. We can't do
that."

He dragged a rather bulky piece of apparatus to the table.

"This," he said, "is a compressed-air container. I run it
through calcium chloride dryers and then bubble the per-
fectly dry oxygen (safely diluted with four times its own
volume of nitrogen) directly into the solvent."

He introduced the nozzle into the solution just beneath
the spoon and turned on a slow stream of air. It worked like
magic. With almost lightning speed, the yellow coating began
to glitter and gleam, to shine with almost ethereal beauty.

The two men watched it with beating heart and panting
breath. Sills shut the air off, and for a while they watched
the wonderful spoon and said nothing.

Then Taylor whispered hoarsely, "Take it out. Let me feel

it! My God!—it's beautiful!"

With reverent awe, Sills approached the spoon, grasped it
with forceps, and withdrew it from the surrounding liquid.

What followed immediately after that can never be fully
described. Later on, when excited newspaper reporters pressed
them unmercifully, neither Taylor nor Sills had the least re-
collection of the happenings of the next few minutes.

What happened was that the moment the ammonium-
plated spoon was exposed to open air, the most horrible odor
ever conceived assailed their nostrils!—an odor that cannot
be described, a terrible broth of Hell that plunged the room
into sheer, horrible nightmare.

With one strangled gasp. Sills dropped the spoon. Both were
coughing and retching, tearing wildly at their throats and
mouths, yelling, weeping, sneezing!

Taylor pounced upon the spoon and looked about wildly.
The odor grew steadily more powerful and their wild exer-
tions to escape it had already succeeded in wrecking the
laboratory and had upset the vat of Ammonaline. There was
only one thing to do, and Sills did it. The spoon went flying
out the open window in the middle of Twelfth Avenue. It hit
the sidewalk right at the feet of one of the policemen, but
Taylor didn't care.

"Take off your clothes. We'll have to burn them," Sills was
gasping. "Then spray something over the laboratory—any-
thing with a strong smell. Burn sulphur. Get some liquid
Bromine."

Both were tearing at their clothes in distraction when they
realized that someone had walked in through the unlocked
door. The bell had rung, but neither had heard it. It was
Staples, six-foot, lion-maned Steel King.

One step into the hall ruined his dignity utterly. He col-
lapsed in one tearing sob and Twelfth Avenue was treated to
the spectacle of an elderly, richly-dressed gentleman tearing
uptown as fast as his feet would carry him, shedding as
much of his clothes as he dared while doing so.

The spoon continued its deadly work. The three policemen
had long since retired in abject rout, and now to the numbed
and tortured senses of the two innocent and suffering causes
of the entire mess came a roaring and confused shouting
from the street

Men and women were pouring out of the neighboring
houses, horses were bolting. Fire engines clanged down the
street, only to be abandoned by their riders. Squadrons of
police came—and left.

Sills and Taylor finally gave up, and clad only in trousers,
ran pell-mell for the Hudson. They did not stop until they
found themselves neck-deep in water, with blessed, pure air
above them.

Taylor turned bewildered eyes to Sills. "But how could it
emit that horrible odor? You said it was stable and stable
solids have no odors. It takes vapor for that, doesn't it?"

"Have you ever smelled musk?" groaned Sills. "It will give
off an aroma for an indefinite period without losing any appre-
ciable weight. We've come up against something like that."

The two ruminated in silence for a while, wincing when-
ever the wind brought a vagrant waft of Ammonium vapor to
them, and then Taylor said in a low voice, "When they finally
trace the trouble to the spoon, and find out who made it, I'm
afraid we'll be sued—or maybe thrown in jail."

Sills' face lengthened. "I wish I'd never seen the damned
stuff! It's brought nothing but trouble." His tortured spirit
gave way and he sobbed loudly.

Taylor patted him on the back mournfully. "It's not as bad
as all that, of course. The discovery will make you famous
and you'll be able to demand your own price, working at any
industrial lab in the country. Then, too, you're a cinch to win
the Nobel Prize."

'That's right," Sills smiled again, "and I may find a way
to counteract the odor, too. I hope so."

"I hope so, too," said Taylor feelingly. "Let's go back. I
think they've managed to remove the spoon by now."

THE END

It should be quite obvious to anyone reading "The Mag-
nificent Possession" that I was majoring in chemistry in
college at the time. As supposed humor, it is much more
embarrassing on rereading than "Ring Around the Sun" is.
Imagine having a Congressman named "Hornswoggle" and
having gangsters speak in a ridiculous, misspelled version
of Brooklyn slang.

"The Magnificent Possession" was the only one of the
first nine stories I wrote that Campbell never saw, and I'm
glad of that.

In early December I wrote a story I called "Ad Astra," and
on December 21, 1938 (my father's forty-second birthday,
though I don't recall thinking of it as an omen one way or
the other), I went in to submit it to Campbell. It was my
seventh visit to his office, for 1 had not yet missed a month,
and it was the ninth story I submitted to him.

"Ad Astra" is the first story I wrote for which I remember,
even after all this time, the exact circumstances of the
initiating inspiration. That fall, I applied for and received a
National Youth Administration (NYA) job designed to help
me through college. I received fifteen dollars a month, if
memory serves me, in return for a few hours of typing. The
typing I did was for a sociologist who was writing a book
on the subject of social resistance to technological innova-
tion. This included everything from the resistance of the
early Mesopotamian priesthood to the dissemination of the
knowledge of reading and writing among the general popula-
tion, down to objections to the airplane by those who said
heavier-than-air flight was impossible.

Naturally it occurred to me that a story might be written
in which social resistance to space flight might play a small
part. It was because of that that I used "Ad Astra" as the
title. This was from the Latin proverb "Per aspera ad astra"
("Through difficulties to the stars").

For the first time, Campbell did more than simply send
a rejection. On December 29, I received a letter from him
asking me to come in for a conference to discuss the story
in detail.

On January 5, 1939, I went to see Campbell for the
eighth time—and for the first time at his specific request.
It turned out that what he liked in the story was the social
resistance to space flight—the space flight itself was, of
course, run of the mill.

Rather daunted, for I had never before had to revise a
story to meet editorial specification, I went to work. I brought
in the revised story on January 24, and on January 31 I
discovered the system used by Campbell in accepting
stories. Though his rejections were usually accompanied
by long and useful letters, his acceptances consisted of a
check only, without a single accompanying word. It was his
feeling that the check was eloquent enough. In this case
it was for sixty-nine dollars, since the story was 6,900
words long and Campbell paid one cent a word in those
days.

It was my first sale to Campbell, after seven months of
trying and after eight consecutive rejections. The story
appeared half a year later, and I then found that Campbell
had changed the title (on the whole justifiably, I think) to
"Trends."

Trends

John Harman was sitting at his desk, brooding, when I en-
tered the office that day. It had become a common sight, by
then, to see him staring out at the Hudson, head in hand, a
scowl contorting his face—all too common. It seemed unfair
for the little bantam to be eating his heart out like that day
after day, when by rights he should have been receiving the
praise and adulation of the world.

I flopped down into a chair. "Did you see the editorial in
today's Clarion, boss?"

He turned weary, bloodshot eyes to me. "No, I haven't.
What do they say? Are they calling the vengeance of God
down upon me again?" His voice dripped with bitter sarcasm.

"They're going a little farther now, boss," I answered.
"Listen to this:

" 'Tomorrow is the day of John Harman's attempt at pro-
faning the heavens. Tomorrow, in defiance of world opin-
ion and world conscience, this man will defy God.

" This is not given to man to go wheresoever ambition and
desire lead him. There are things forever denied him, and
aspiring to the stars is one of these. Like Eve, John Har-
man wishes to eat of the forbidden fruit, and like Eve he
will suffer due punishment therefor.

" 'But it is not enough, this mere talk. If we allow him
thus to brook the vengeance of God, the trespass is man-
kind's and not Harman's alone. In allowing him to carry
out his evil designs, we make ourselves accessory to the
crime, and Divine vengeance will fall on all alike.

" 'It is, therefore, essential that immediate steps be
taken to prevent Harman from taking off in his so-called
rocketship tomorrow. The government in refusing to take
such steps may force violent action. If it will make no move
to confiscate the rocketship, or to imprison Harman, our
enraged citizenry may have to take matters into their own
hands—'"

Harman sprang from his seat in a rage and, snatching the
paper from my hands, threw it into the comer furiously. "It's
an open call to a lynching," he raved. "Look at this!"

He cast five or six envelopes in my direction. One glance
sufficed to tell what they were.

"More death threats?" I 'asked.

"Yes, exactly that. I've had to arrange for another increase
in the police patrol outside the building and for motorcycle
police escort when I cross the river to the testing ground to-
morrow."

He marched up and down the room with agitated stride. "I
don't know what to do, Clifford. I've worked on the
Prometheus almost ten years. I've slaved, spent a fortune of
money, given up all that makes life worth while—and for
what? So that a bunch of fool revivalists can whip up public
sentiment against me until my very life isn't safe."

"You're in advance of the times, boss," I shrugged my
shoulders in a resigned gesture which made him whirl upon
me in a fury.

"What do you mean 'in advance of the times'? This is 1973.
The world has been ready for space travel for half a century
now. Fifty years ago, people were talking, dreaming of the
day when man could free himself of Earth and plumb the
depths of space. For fifty years, science has inched toward ,
this goal, and now . . . now I finally have it, and behold! you
say the world is not ready for me."

"The '20s and '30s were years of anarchy, decadence, and
misrule, if you remember your history," I reminded him
gently. "You cannot accept them as criteria."

"I know, I know. You're going to tell me of the First War
of 1914, and the Second of 1940. It's an old story to me; my
father fought in the Second and my grandfather in the First.

Nevertheless, those were the days when science flourished.
Men were not afraid then; somehow they dreamed and dared.
There was no such thing as conservatism when it came to
matters mechanical and scientific. No theory was too radical
to advance, no discovery too revolutionary to publish. Today,
dry rot has seized the world when a great vision, such as
space travel, is hailed as 'defiance of God.' "

His head sank slowly down, and he turned away to hide his
trembling lips and the tears in his eyes. Then he suddenly
straightened again, eyes blazing: "But I'll show them. I'm
going through with it, in spite of Hell, Heaven and Earth. I've
put too much into it to quit now."

"Take it easy, boss," I advised. "This isn't going to do you
any good tomorrow, when you get into that ship. Your
chances of coming out alive aren't too good now, so what will
they be if you start out worn to pieces with excitement and
worry?"

"You're right. Let's not think of it any more. Where's
Shelton?"

"Over at the Institute arranging for the special photographic
plates to be sent us."

"He's been gone a long time, hasn't he?"

"Not especially; but listen, boss, there's something wrong
with him. I don't like him."

"Poppycock! He's been with me two years, and I have no
complaints."

"All right." I spread my hands in resignation. "If you won't
listen to me, you won't. Just the same I caught him reading
one of those infernal pamphlets Otis Eldredge puts out. You
know the kind: 'Beware, 0 mankind, for judgment draws
near. Punishment for your sins is at hand. Repent and be
saved.' And all the rest of the time-honoured junk."

Harman snorted in disgust. "Cheap tub-thumping revivalist!
I suppose the world will never outgrow his type—not while
sufficient morons exist. Still you can't condemn Shelton just
because he reads it. I've read them myself on occasion."

"He says he picked it up on the sidewalk and read it in
'idle curiosity,' but I'm pretty sure that I saw him take it out
of his wallet. Besides, he goes to church every Sunday."

"Is that a crime? Everyone does, nowadays!"

"Yes, but not to the Twentieth Century Evangelical So-
ciety. That's Eldredge's."

That jolted Harman. Evidently, it was the first he had
heard of it. "Say, that is something, isn't it? We'll have to keep
an eye on him, then."

But after that, things started to happen, and we forgot all
about Shelton—until it was too late.

There was nothing much left to do that last day before the
test, and I wandered into the next room, where I went over
Harman's final report to the Institute. It was my job to cor-
rect any errors or mistakes that crept in, but I'm afraid I
wasn't very thorough. To tell the truth, I couldn't concen-
trate. Every few minutes, I'd fall into a brown study.

It seemed queer, all this fuss over a space travel. When
Harman had first announced the approaching perfection of
the Prometheus, some six months before, scientific circles had
been jubilant. Of course, they were cautious in their state-
ments and qualified everything they said, but there was real
enthusiasm.

However, the masses didn't take it that way. It seems
strange, perhaps, to you of the twenty-first century, but per-
haps we should have expected it in those days of '73. People
weren't very progressive then. For years there had been a
swing toward religion, and when the churches came out unan-
imously against Harman's rocket—well, there you were.

At first, the opposition confined itself to the churches and
we thought it might play itself out. But it didn't The papers
got hold of it, and literally spread the gospel. Poor Harman
became an anathema to the world in a remarkably short time,
and then his troubles began.

He received death threats, and warnings of divine vengeance
every day. He couldn't walk the streets in safety. Dozens of
sects, to none of which he belonged—he was one of the very
rare free-thinkers of the day, which was another count
against him—excommunicated him and placed him under
special interdict. And, worst of all, Otis Eldredge and his
Evangelical Society began stirring up the populace.

Eldredge was a queer character—one of those geniuses, in
their way, that arise every so often. Gifted with a golden
tongue and a sulphurous vocabulary, he could fairly hypnotize
a crowd. Twenty thousand people were so much putty in his
hands, could he only bring them within earshot And for four
months, he thundered against Harman; for four months, a
pouring stream of denunciation rolled forth in oratorical
frenzy. And for four months, the temper of the world rose.

But Harman was not to be daunted. In his tiny, flve-foot-
two body, he had enough spirit for five six-footers. The more
the wolves howled, the firmer he held his ground. With almost
divine—his enemies said, diabolical—obstinacy, he refused to
yield an inch. Yet his outward firmness was to me, who knew
him, but an imperfect concealment of the great sorrow and
bitter disappointment within.

The ring of the doorbell interrupted my thoughts at that
point and brought me to my feet in surprise. Visitors were
very few those days.

I looked out the window and saw a tall, portly figure talk-
ing with Police Sergeant Cassidy. I recognized him at once as
Howard Winstead, head of the Institute. Harman was hurry-
ing out to greet him, and after a short exchange of phrases,
the two entered the office. I followed them in, being rather
curious as to what could have brought Winstead, who was
more politician than scientist, here.

Winstead didn't seem very comfortable, at first; not his 
usual suave self. He avoided Harman's eyes in an embarrassed 
manner and mumbled a few conventionalities concerning the
weather. Then he came to the point with direct, undiplomatic
bluntness.

"John," he said, "how about postponing the trial for a
time?"

"You really mean abandoning it altogether, don't you? Well,
I won't, and that's final."

Winstead lifted his hand. "Wait now, John, don't get ex-
cited. Let me state my case. I know the Institute agreed to
give you a free hand, and I know that you paid at least half
the expenses out of your own pocket, but—you can't go
through with it."

"Oh, can't I, though?" Herman snorted derisively.
"Now listen, John, you know your science, but you don't
know your human nature, and I do. This is not the world of
the 'Mad Decades,' whether you realize it or not. There have
been profound changes since 1940." He swung into what was
evidently a carefully prepared speech.

"After the First World War, you know, the world as a
whole swung away from religion and toward freedom from
convention. People were disgusted and disillusioned, cynical
and sophisticated. Eldredge calls them 'wicked and sinful.' In
spite of that, science flourished—some say it always fares best
in such an unconventional period. From its standpoint it was
a 'Golden Age.'

"However, you know the political and economic history
of the period. It was a time of political chaos and international
anarchy; a suicidal, brainless, insane period—and it culmi-
nated in the Second World War. And just as the First War
led to a period of sophistication, so the Second initiated a
return to religion.

"People were disgusted with the 'Mad Decades." They had
had enough of it, and feared, beyond all else, a return to it
To remove that possibility, they put the ways of those dec-
ades behind them. Their motives, you see, were understandable
and laudable. All the freedom, all the sophistication, all the
lack of convention were gone—swept away clean. We are
living now in a second Victorian age; and naturally so, be-
cause human history goes by swings of the pendulum and this
is the swing toward religion and convention.

"One thing only is left over since those days of half a
century ago. That one thing is the respect of humanity for
science. We have prohibition; smoking for women is outlawed;
cosmetics are forbidden; low dresses and short skirts are un-
heard of; divorce is frowned upon. But science has not been
confined—as yet.

"It behoves science, then, to be circumspect, to refrain
from arousing the people. It will be very easy to make them
believe—and Otis Eldredge has come perilously close to doing
it in some of his speeches—that it was science that brought
about the horrors of the Second World War. Science out-
stripped culture, they will say, technology outstripped soci-
ology, and it was that unbalance that came so near to
destroying the world. Somehow, I am inclined to believe they
are not so far wrong, at that.

"But do you know what would happen, if it ever did come
to that? Scientific research may be forbidden; or, if they don't
go that far, it will certainly be so strictly regulated as to
stifle in its own decay. It will be a calamity from which hu-
manity would not recover for a millennium.

"And it is your trial flight that may precipitate all this. You
are arousing the public to a stage where it will be difficult to
calm them. I warn you, John. The consequences will be on
your head."

There was absolute silence for a moment and then Harman
forced a smile. "Come, Howard, you're letting yourself be
frightened by shadows on the wall. Are you trying to tell me
that it is your serious belief that the world as a whole is ready
to plunge into a second Dark Ages? After all, the intelligent
men are on the side of science, aren't they?"

"If they are, there aren't many of them left from what I
see." Winstead drew a pipe from his pocket and filled it slowly
with tobacco as he continued: "Eldredge formed a League of
the Righteous two months ago—they call it the L. R.—and it
has grown unbelievably. Twenty million is its membership in
the United States alone. Eldredge boasts that after the next
election Congress will be his; and there seems to be more
truth than bluff in that. Already there has been strenuous
lobbying in favour of a bill outlawing rocket experiments, and
laws of that type have been enacted in Poland, Portugal and
Rumania. Yes, John, we are perilously close to open persecu-
tion of science." He was smoking now in rapid, nervous puffs.

"But if I succeed, Howard, if I succeed! What then?"

"Bah! You know the chances for that. Your own estimate
gives you only one chance in ten of coming out alive."

"What does that signify? The next experimenter will learn
by my mistakes, and the odds will improve. That's the scien-
tific method."

"The mob doesn't know anything about the scientific
method; and they don't want to know. Well, what do you say?
Will you call it off?"

Harman sprang to his feet, his chair tumbling over with a
crash. "Do you know what you ask? Do you want me to give
up my life's work, my dream, just like that? Do you think I'm
going to sit back and wait for your dear public to become
benevolent? Do you think they'll change in my lifetime?

"Here's my answer: I have an inalienable right to pursue
knowledge. Science has an inalienable right to progress and
develop without interference. The world, in interfering with
me, is wrong; I am right. And it shall go hard; but I -will not
abandon my rights."

Winstead shook his head sorrowfully. "You're wrong, John,
when you speak of 'inalienable' rights. What you call a 'right'
is merely a privilege, generally agreed upon. What society ac-
cepts, is right; what it does not, is wrong."

"Would your friend, Eldredge, agree to such a definition of
his 'righteousness'?" questioned Harman bitterly.

"No, he would not, but that's irrelevant. Take the case of
those African tribes who used to be cannibals. They were
brought up as cannibals, have the long tradition of canni-
balism, and their society accepts the practice. To them,
cannibalism is right, and why shouldn't it be? So you see how
relative the whole notion is, and how inane your conception
of 'inalienable' rights to perform experiments is."

"You know, Howard, you missed your calling when you
didn't become a lawyer." Harman was really growing angry.
"You've been bringing out every moth-eaten argument you
can think of. For God's sake, man, are you trying to pretend
that it is a crime to refuse to run with the crowd? Do you
stand for absolute uniformity, ordinariness, orthodoxy, com-
monplaceness? Science would die far sooner under the pro-
gramme you outline than under governmental prohibition."

Harman stood up and pointed an accusing finger at the
other. "You're betraying science and the tradition of those
glorious rebels: Galileo, Darwin, Einstein and their kind. My
rocket leaves tomorrow on schedule in spite of you and every
other stuffed shirt in the United States. That's that, and I
refuse to listen to you any longer. So you can just get out."

The head of the Institute, red in the face, turned to me.
"You're my witness, young man, that I warned this obstinate
nitwit, this . . . this hare-brained fanatic." He spluttered a bit,
and then strode out, the picture of fiery indignation.

Harman turned to me when he had" gone: "Well, what do
you think? I suppose you agree with him."

There was only one possible answer and I made it: "You're
not paying me to do anything else but follow orders, boss. I'm
sticking with you."

Just then Shelton came in and Harman packed us both off
to go over the calculations of the orbit of flight for the ump-
teenth time, while he himself went off to bed.

The next day, July 15th, dawned in matchless splendour,
and Harman, Shelton, and myself were in an almost gay mood
as we crossed the Hudson to where the Prometheus—sur-
rounded by an adequate police guard—lay in gleaming
grandeur.

Around it, roped off at an apparently safe distance, rolled
a crowd of gigantic proportions. Most of them were hostile,
raucously so. In fact, for one fleeting moment, as our motor-
cycle police escort parted the crowds for us, the shouts and
imprecations that reached our ears almost convinced me that
we should have listened to Winstead.

But Harman paid no attention to them at all, after one
supercilious sneer at a shout of: "There goes John Harman,
son of Belial." Calmly, he directed us about our task of in-
spection. I tested the foot-thick outer walls and the air locks
for leaks, then made sure the air purifier worked. Shelton
checked up on the repellent screen and the fuel tanks. Finally,
Hal-man tried on the clumsy spacesuit, found it suitable, and
announced himself ready.

The crowd stirred. Upon a hastily erected platform of
wooden planks piled in confusion by some in the mob, there
rose up a striking figure. Tall and lean; with thin, ascetic
countenance; deep-set, burning eyes, peering and half closed;
a thick, white mane crowning all—it was Otis Eldredge. The
crowd recognized him at once and many cheered. Enthusiasm
waxed and soon the entire turbulent mass of people shouted
themselves hoarse over him.

He raised a hand for silence, turned to Harman, who re-
garded him with surprise and distaste, and pointed a long,
bony finger at him:

"John, Harman, son of the devil, spawn of Satan, you are
here for an evil purpose. You are about to set out upon a
blasphemous attempt to pierce the veil beyond which man is
forbidden to go. You are tasting of the forbidden fruit of
Eden and beware that you taste not of the fruits of sin."

The crowd cheered him to the echo and he continued: "The
finger of God is upon you, John Harman. He shall not allow
His works to be defiled. You die today, John Harman." His
voice rose in intensity and his last words were uttered in truly
prophetlike fervour.

Harman turned away in disdain. In a loud, clear voice, he
addressed the police sergeant: "Is there any way, officer, of
removing these spectators. The trial flight may be attended by
some destruction because of the rocket blasts, and they're
crowding too close."

The policeman answered in a crisp, unfriendly tone: "If
you're afraid of being mobbed, say so, Mr. Harman. You
don't have to worry, though, we'll hold them back. And as
for danger—from that contraption—" He sniffed loudly in
the direction of the Prometheus, evoking a torrent of jeers
and yells.

Harman said nothing further, but climbed into the ship in
silence. And when he did so, a queer sort of stillness fell over
the mob; a palpable tension. There was no attempt at rushing
the ship, an attempt I had thought inevitable. On the con-
trary, Otis Eldredge himself shouted to everyone to move
back.

"Leave the sinner to his sins," he shouted. " 'Vengeance is
mine,' saith the Lord."

As the moment approached, Shelton nudged me. "Let's get
out of here," he whispered in a strained voice. "Those rocket
blasts are poison." Saying this, he broke into a run, beckoning
anxiously for me to follow.

We had not yet reached the fringes of the crowd when
there was a terrific roar behind me. A wave of heated air
swept over me. There was the frightening hiss of some speed-
ing object past my ear, and I was thrown violently to the
ground. For a few moments I lay dazed, my ears ringing and
my head reeling.

When I staggered drunkenly to my feet again, it was to view
a dreadful sight. Evidently, the entire fuel supply of the
Prometheus had exploded at once, and where it had lain a
moment ago there was now only a yawning hole. The ground
was strewn with wreckage. The cries of the hurt were heart-
rending, and the mangled bodies—but I won't try to describe
those.

A weak groan at my feet attracted my attention. One look,
and I gasped in horror, for it was Shelton, the back of his
head a bloody mass.

"I did it." His voice was hoarse and triumphant but withal
so low that I could scarcely hear it. "I did it. I broke open the
liquid-oxygen compartments and when the spark went through
the acetylide mixture the whole cursed thing exploded." He
gasped a bit and tried to move but failed. "A piece of wreck-
age must have hit me, but I don't care. I'll die knowing
that—"

His voice was nothing more than a rasping rattle, and on
his face was the ecstatic look of martyr. He died then, and I
could not find it in my heart to condemn him.

It was then I first thought of Harman. Ambulances from
Manhattan and from Jersey City were on the scene, and one
had sped to a wooden patch some five hundred yards distant,
where, caught in the treetops, lay a splintered fragment of the
Prometheus' forward compartment. I limped there as fast as I
could, but they had dragged out Harman and clanged away
long before I could reach them.

After that, I didn't stay. The disorganized crowd had no
thought but for the dead and wounded now, but when they
recovered, and bent their thoughts to revenge, my life would
not be worth a straw. I followed the dictates of the better
part of valour and quietly disappeared.

The next week was a hectic one for me. During that time,
I lay in hiding at the home of a friend, for it would have been
more than my life was worth to allow myself to be seen and
recognized. Harman, himself, lay in a Jersey City hospital,
with nothing more than superficial cuts and bruises—thanks
to the backward force of the explosion and the saving clump
of trees which cushioned the fall of the Prometheus. It was
on him that the brunt of the world's wrath fell.

New York, and the rest of the world also, just about went
crazy. Every last paper in the city came out with gigantic
headlines, "28 Killed, 73 Wounded—the Price of Sin,"
printed in blood-red letters. The editorials howled for Har-
man's life, demanding he be arrested and tried for first-degree
murder.

The dreaded cry of "Lynch him!" was raised throughout
the five boroughs, and milling thousands crossed the river
and converged on Jersey City. At their head was Otis El-
dredge, both legs in splints, addressing the crowd from an
open automobile as they marched. It was a veritable army.

Mayor Carson of Jersey City called out every available
policeman and phoned frantically to Trenton for the State
militia. New York clamped down on every bridge and tunnel
leaving the city—but not till after many thousands had left.

There were pitched battles on the Jersey coast that sixteenth
of July. The vastly outnumbered police clubbed indiscrim-
inately but were gradually pushed back and back. Mounties
rode down upon the mob relentlessly but were swallowed up
and pulled down by sheer force of numbers. Not until tear
gas was used, did the crowd halt—and even then they did not
retreat.

The next day, martial law was declared, and the State
militia entered Jersey City. That was the end for the lynchers.
Eldredge was called to confer with the mayor, and after the
conferences ordered his followers to disperse.

In a statement to the newspapers. Mayor Carson said;

"John Harman must needs suffer for his crime, but it is es-
sential that he do so legally. Justice must take its course, and
the State of New Jersey will take all necessary measures."

By the end of the week, normality of a sort had returned
and Harman slipped out of the public spotlight. Two more
weeks and there was scarcely a word about him in the news-
papers, excepting such casual references to him in the discus-
sion of the new Zittman antirocketry bill that had just passed
both houses of Congress by unanimous votes.

Yet he remained in the hospital still. No legal action had
been taken against him, but it began to appear that a sort of
indefinite imprisonment "for his own protection" might be his
eventual fate. Therefore, I bestirred myself to action.

Temple Hospital is situated in a lonely and outlying district
of Jersey City, and on a dark, moonless night I experienced
no difficulty at all in invading the grounds unobserved. With
a facility that surprised me, I sneaked in through a basement
window, slugged a sleepy interne into insensibility and pro-
ceeded to Room 15E, which was listed in the books as
Harman's.

"Who's there?" Harman's surprised shout was music in my
ears.

"Sh! Quiet! It's I, Cliff McKenny."

"You! What are you doing here?"

"Trying to get you out. If I don't, you're liable to stay here
the rest of your life. Come on, let's go."

I was hustling him into his clothes while we were speaking,
and in no time at all we were sneaking down the corridor.
We were out safely and into my waiting car before Harman
collected his scattered wits sufficiently to begin asking ques-
tions.

"What's happened since that day?" was the first question.
"I don't remember a thing after starting the rocket blasts until
I woke up in the hospital."

"Didn't they tell you anything?"

"Not a damn thing," he swore. "I asked until I was hoarse."

So I told him the whole story from the explosion on. His
eyes were wide with shocked surprise when I told of the dead
and wounded, and filled with wild rage when he heard of
Shelton's treachery. The story of the riots and attempted
lynching evoked a muffled curse from between set lips.

"Of course, the papers howled 'murder,' " I concluded, "but
they couldn't pin that on you. They tried manslaughter, but
there were too many eye-witnesses that had heard your request
for the removal of the crowd and the police sergeant's absolute
refusal to do so. That, of course, absolved you from all blame.
The police sergeant himself died in the explosion, and they
couldn't make him the goat.

"Still, with Eldredge yelling for your hide, you're never
safe. It would be best to leave while able."

Harman nodded his head in agreement "Eldredge sur-
vived the explosion, did he?"

"Yes, worse luck. He broke both legs, but it takes more
than that to shut his mouth."

Another week had passed before I reached our future
haven—my uncle's farm in Minnesota. There, in a lonely and
out-of-the-way rural community, we stayed while the hulla-
baloo over Harman's disappearance gradually died down and
the perfunctory search for us faded away. The search, by the
way, was short indeed, for the authorities seemed more re-
lieved than concerned over the disappearance.

Peace and quiet did wonders with Harman. In six months
he seemed a new man—quite ready to consider a second at-
tempt at space travel. Not all the misfortunes in the world
could stop him, it seemed, once he had his heart set on some-
thing.

"My mistake the first time," he told me one winter's day,
"lay in announcing the experiment. I should have taken the
temper of the people into account, as Winstead said. This
time, however"—he rubbed his hands and gazed thoughtfully
into the distance—"I'll steal a march on them. The experi-
ment will he performed in secrecy—absolute secrecy."

I laughed grimly, "It would have to be. Do you know that
all future experiment in rocketry, even entirely theoretical
research is a crime punishable by death?"

"Are you afraid, then?"

"Of course not, boss. I'm merely stating a fact. And here's
another plain fact. We two can't build a ship all by ourselves,
you know."

"I've thought of that and figured a way out, Cliff. What's
more, I can take care of the money angle, too. You'll have
to do some traveling, though.

"First, you'll have to go to Chicago and look up the firm
of Roberts & Scranton and withdraw everything that's left of
my father's inheritance, which," he added in a rueful aside,
"is more than half gone on the first ship. Then, locate as
many of the old crowd as you can: Harry Jenkins, Joe
O'Brien, Neil Stanton—all of them. And get back as quickly
as you can. I am tired of delay."

Two days later, I left for Chicago. Obtaining my uncle's
consent to the entire business was a simple affair. "Might as
well be strung up for a herd of sheep as for a lamb," he
grunted, "so go ahead. I'm in enough of a mess now and can

afford a bit more, I guess."

It took quite a bit of travelling and even more smooth talk
and persuasion before I managed to get four men to come:

the three mentioned by Harman and one other, a Saul
Simonoff. With that skeleton force and with the half million'
still left Harman out of the reputed millions left him by his
father, we began work.

The building of the New Prometheus is a story in itself—a
long story of five years of discouragement and insecurity.
Little by little, buying girders in Chicago, beryl-steel plates m
New York, a vanadium cell in San Francisco, miscellaneous
items in scattered comers of the nation, we constructed the
sister ship to the illfated Prometheus.

The difficulties in the way were all but insuperable. To
prevent drawing suspicion down upon us, we had to spread
our purchases over periods of time, and to see to it, as well,
that the orders were made out to various places. For this we
required the co-operation of various friends, who, to be sure,
did not know at the time for exactly what purpose the pur-
chases were being used.

We had to synthesize our own fuel, ten tons of it, and that
was perhaps the hardest job of all; certainly it took the most
time. And finally, as Harman's money dwindled, we came up
against our biggest problem—the necessity of economizing.
From the beginning we had known that we could never make
the New Prometheus as large or as elaborate as the first ship
had been, but it soon developed that we would have to reduce
its equipment to a point perilously close to the danger line.
The repulsion screen was barely satisfactory and all attempts
at radio communication were perforce abandoned.

And as we labored through the years, there in the back-
woods of northern Minnesota, the world moved on, and Win-
stead's prophecies proved to have hit amazingly near the
mark.

The events of those five years—from 1973 to 1978—are
well known to the schoolboys of today, the period being the
climax of what we now call the "Neo-Victorian Age." The
happenings of those years seem well-nigh unbelievable as we
look back upon them now.

The outlawing of all research on space travel came in the
very beginning, but was a bare start compared to the anti-
scientific measures taken in the ensuing years. The next con-
gressional elections, those of 1974, resulted in a Congress in
which Eldredge controlled the House and held the balance of
power in the Senate.

Hence, no time was lost. At the first session of the ninety-
third Congress, the famous Stonely-Carter bill was passed. It
established the Federal Scientific Research Investigatory Bu-
reau—the FSRIB—which was given full power to pass on the
legality of all research in the country. Every laboratory, in-
dustrial or scholastic, was required to file information, in ad-
vance, on all projected research before this new bureau,
which could, and did, ban absolutely all such as it disapproved
of.

The inevitable appeal to the supreme court came on No-
vember 9, 1974, in the case of Westly vs. Simmons, in which
Joseph Westly of Stanford upheld his right to continue his in-
vestigations on atomic power on the grounds that the Stonely-
Carter act was unconstitutional.

How we five, isolated amid the snowdrifts of the Middle
West, followed that case! We had all the Minneapolis and St.
Paul papers sent to us—always reaching us two days late—
and devoured every word of print concerning it. For the two
months of suspense work ceased entirely on the New Pro-
metheus.

It was rumoured at first that the court would declare the
act unconstitutional, and monster parades were held in every
large town against this eventuality. The League of the Righ-
teous brought its powerful influence to bear—and even the
supreme court submitted. It was five to four for constitutional-
ity. Science strangled by the vote of one man.

And it was strangled beyond a doubt. The members of the
bureau were Eldredge men, heart and soul, and nothing that
would not have immediate industrial use was passed.

"Science has gone too far," said Eldredge in a famous speech
at about that time. "We must halt it indefinitely, and allow
the world to catch up. Only through that and trust in God
may we hope to achieve universal and permanent prosperity."

But this was one of Eldridge's last statements. He had never
fully recovered from the broken legs he received that fateful
day in July of '73, and his strenuous life since then had
strained his constitution past the breaking point. On February
2, 1976, he passed away amid a burst of mourning unequalled
since Lincoln's assassination.

His death had no immediate effect on the course of events.
The rules of the FSRIB grew, in fact, in stringency as the
years passed. So starved and choked did science become, that
once more colleges found themselves forced to reinstate
philosophy and the classics as the chief studies—and at that
the student body fell to the lowest point since the beginning
of the twentieth century.

These conditions prevailed more or less throughout the
civilized world, reaching even lower depths in England, and
perhaps least depressing in Germany, which was the last to
fall under the "Neo-Victorian" influence.

The nadir of science came in the spring of 1978, a bare
month before the completion of the New Prometheus, with
the passing of the "Easter Edict"—it was issued the day be-
fore Easter. By it, all independent research or experimentation
 was absolutely forbidden. The FSRIB thereafter reserved the
right to allow only such research as it specifically requested.

John Harman and I stood before the gleaming metal of the
New Prometheus that Easter Sunday; I in the deepest gloom,
and he in an almost jovial mood.

"Well, Clifford, my boy," said he, "the last ton of fuel, a
few polishing touches, and I am ready for my second attempt.
This time there will be no Sheltons among us." He hummed
a hymn. That was all the radio played those days, and even
we rebels sang them from sheer frequency of repetition.

I grunted sourly: "It's no use, boss. Ten to one, you end
up somewhere in space, and even if you come back, you'll
most likely be hung by the neck. We can't win." My head
shook dolefully from side to side.

"Bahl This state of affairs can't last, Cliff."

"I think it will. Winstead was right that time. The pendulum
swings, and since 1945 it's been swinging against us. We're
ahead of the times—or behind them."

"Don't speak of that fool, Winstead. You're making the
same mistake he did. Trends are things of centuries and
millenniums, not years or decades. For five hundred years
we have been moving toward science. You can't reverse that
in thirty years."

"Then what are we doing?" I asked sarcastically.

"We're going through a momentary reaction following a
period of too-rapid advance in the Mad Decades. Just such a
reaction took place in the Romantic Age—the first Victorian
Period—following the too-rapid advance of the eighteenth-
century Age of Reason."

"Do you really think so?" I was shaken by his evident self-
assurance.

"Of course. This period has a perfect analogy in the spas-
modic 'revivals' that used to hit the small towns in America's
Bible Belt a century or so ago. For a week, perhaps everyone
would get religion, and virtue would reign triumphant. Then,
one by one, they would backslide and the Devil would re-
sume his sway.

"In fact, there are symptoms of backsliding even now. The

L. R. has indulged in one squabble after another since El-
dredge's death. There have been half a dozen schisms al-
ready. The very extremities to which those in power are going
are helping us, for the country is rapidly tiring of it."

And that ended the argument—I in total defeat, as usual.
A month later, the New Prometheus was complete. It was
nowhere near as glittering and as beautiful as the original,
and bore many a trace of makeshift workmanship, but we were
proud of it—proud and triumphant.

"I'm going to try again, men"—Harman's voice was husky,
and his little frame vibrant with happiness—"and I may not
make it, but for that I don't care." His eyes shone in anticipa-
tion. "I'll be shooting through the void at last, and the dream
of mankind will come true. Out around the Moon and back;

the first to see the other side. It's worth the chance,"

"You won't have fuel enough to land on the Moon, boss,
which is a pity," I said.

At that a pessimistic whisper ran through the little group
surrounding him, to which he paid no attention.

"Good-bye," he said. "I'll be seeing you." And with a cheer-
ful grin he climbed into the ship.

Fifteen minutes later, the five of us sat about the living-
room table, frowning, lost in thought, eyes gazing out of the
building at the spot where a burned section of soil marked the
spot where a few minutes earlier the New Prometheus had
lain.

Simonoff voiced the thought that was in the mind of each
one of us: "Maybe it would be better for him not to come
back. He won't be treated very well if he does, I think." And
we all nodded in gloomy assent.

How foolish that prediction seems to me now from the
hindsight of three decades.

The rest of the story is really not mine, for I did not see
Harman again until a month after his eventful trip ended in
a safe landing.

It was almost thirty-six hours after the take-off that a
screaming projectile shot its way over Washington and
buried itself in the mud just across the Potomac.

Investigators were at the scene of the landing within fifteen
minutes, and in another fifteen minutes the police were there,
for it was found that the projectile was a rocketship. They
stared in involuntary awe at the tired, dishevelled man who
staggered out in near-collapse.

There was utter silence while he shook his fist at the staring
spectators and shouted: "Go ahead, hang me, fools. But I've
reached the Moon, and you can't hang that. Get the FSRIB.
Maybe they'll declare the flight illegal and, therefore, non-
existent." He laughed weakly and suddenly collapsed.

Someone shouted: "Take him to a hospital. He's sick." In
stiff unconsciousness Harman was bundled into a police car
and carried away, while the police formed a guard about the
rocketship.

Government officials arrived and investigated the ship, read
the log, inspected the drawings and photographs he had taken
of the Moon, and finally departed in silence. The crowd grew
and the word spread that a man had reached the Moon.

Curiously enough, there was little resentment of the fact.
Men were impressed and awed; the crowd whispered and cast
inquisitive glances at the dim crescent of Luna, scarcely seen
in the bright sunlight. Over all, an uneasy pall of silence, the
silence of indecision, lay.

Then, at the hospital, Harman revealed his identity, and
the fickle world went wild. Even Harman himself was stunned
in surprise at the rapid change in the world's temper. It seemed
almost incredible, and yet it was true. Secret discontent, com-
bined with a heroic tale of man against overwhelming odds—
the sort of tale that had stirred man's soul since the beginning
of time—served to sweep everyone into an ever-swelling
current of anti-Victorianism. And Eldredge was dead—no
other could replace him.

I saw Harman at the hospital shortly after that. He was
propped up and still half buried with papers, telegrams and
letters. He grinned at me and nodded. "Well, Cliff," he
whispered, "the pendulum swung back again."

THE END

Actually, though "Trends" was the second story I sold, it
was the third to be published. Ahead of it was not only
"Marooned off Vesta," but another story (to be mentioned
shortly) that was written and sold after "Trends" but was
rushed into print sooner. Both earlier stories were, however,
published in Amazing and, somehow, I find it difficult to
count them. To me, the first story I sold to Campbell and
published in Astounding is my first significant published
story. This is rather ungrateful of me toward Amazing, but

I can't help it.

The July 1939 issue of Astounding is sometimes con-
sidered by later fans to mark the beginning of science
fiction's so-called Golden Age, a period stretching through
most of the 1940s. In that period, Campbefl's views were in
full force in the magazine, and the authors he trained and
developed were writing with the full ardor of youth. 1 wish
I could say that "Trends" was what marked the beginning of
that Golden Age, but 1 can't. Its appearance in that issue was
pure coincidence.

What really counted was that the lead novelette in the
July 1939 issue was "Black Destroyer," by A. E. van Vogt,
a first story by a new author, while in the next issue, August
1939, was a short story, "Lifeline," by Robert A. Heinlein,
another first story by a new author.

In time to come, Van Vogt, Heinlein, and I would be uni-
versally listed among the top authors of the Golden Age,
but Van Vogt and Heinlein were that from the very begin-
ning. Each blazed forth as a first-magazine star at the
moment his first story appeared, and their status never
flagged throughout the remainder of the Golden Age. I, on
the other hand (and this is not false modesty), came up only
gradually. I was very little noticed for a while and came to
be considered a major author by such gradual steps that
despite the healthy helping of vanity with which I am
blessed, 1 myself was the last to notice.

"Trends" is an amusing story in some respects. It sets
the initial space flights to the Moon in the 1970s. I thought
at the time I was being daring indeed, but it has turned
out that I was behind the eventual reality by a full decade,
since what I described was done, and with immensely
greater sophistication, in the 1960s. My description of the
first attempts at space flight was, of course, incredibly
naive, in hindsight.

In one respect, however, the story is unusual. In recent
years Phil Klas (a science fiction writer who publishes
under the pseudonym "William Tenn") pointed out to me
that this was the first story in history that predicted re-
sistance of any kind to the notion of space exploration. In
all other stories, the general public was either indifferent
or enthusiastic. This makes me sound enormously and uni-
quely perceptive, but having explained the nature of the
book I was doing my NYA work on, I can't take credit for
brilliance. (Heck!)

Notice also the reference to the "Second [World War] of
1940." The story, remember, was written two months after
Munich. I did not believe at the time that this meant "peace
in our time," as Neville Chamberlain had maintained. I
estimated that there would be war in a year and a half, and
again ! was too conservative.

"Trends," incidentally, is one of the few stories I have
written in the first person, and the narrator is named Clifford
McKenny. (Why my penchant for Irish last names in those
days I haven't been able to figure out.) Behind the first
name, though, lies a story.

After my May 1938 scare concerning the demise of
Astounding, I began sending monthly letters to the maga-
zine, carefully rating the stories. (I stopped after I began
selling stories myself.) These were all published, and, in
fact, I had sent a letter to Astounding, which was published,
back in 1935. Two established science fiction writers wrote
me personally in response to remarks I made concerning
their stories. These were Russell R. Winterbotham and
Clifford D. Simak.

With both, I maintained a correspondence, quite regular
at first, and with long dry intervals in later years. The
friendship that resulted, though long distance, was enduring.
I met Russ Winterbotham in person only once, and that was
at the World Science Fiction Convention in Cleveland in
1966. He died in 1971. I have met Cliff Simak three times,
the most recent occasion being at the World Science Fiction
Convention in Boston in 1971, where he was guest of honor.

Simak's first letter to me was in response to a letter
of mine printed in Astounding that had given a low rating
to his story "Rule 18," in the July 1938 issue. Simak wrote
to ask details so that he might consider my criticisms and
perhaps profit from them. (Would that I would react so
gently and rationally to adverse criticism!)

I reread the story in order to be able to answer properly
and found, to my surprise, that there was nothing wrong
with it at all. What he had done was to write the story in
separate scenes with no explicit transition passages between.
I wasn't used to that technique, so the story seemed
choppy and incoherent. The second time around, I rec-
ognized what he was doing and realized that not only was
the story not in the least incoherent but it moved with a slick
speed that would have been impossible if all the dull, bread-
and-butter transitions had been inserted.

1 wrote Simak to explain, and adopted the same device in
my own stories. What's more, I attempted, as far as possible,
to make use of something similar to Simak's cool and un-
adorned style,

I have sometimes heard science fiction writers speak of
the influence upon their style of such high-prestige literary
figures as Kafka, Proust, and Joyce. This may be pose or it
may be reality, but, for myself, 1 make no such claim.
I learned how to write science fiction by the attentive reading
of science fiction, and among the major influences on my
style was Clifford Simak.

Simak was particularly encouraging in those anxious
months during which I was trying to sell a story. On the
day I made my first sale, I had a letter, all sealed and
addressed and stamped, waiting to be mailed to him. I tore
it open to add the news, and destroying a stamped envelope,
which represented a clear loss of several cents, was not
something I did lightly in those days.

It has always pleased me, therefore, that my first sale to
Campbell had, as its first-person narrator, a character
named in Clifford Simak's honor.

One more point about "Trends"—

In my early sessions with Campbell, he had occasionally
pointed out the value of having a name that wasn't odd
and hard to pronounce, and suggested the use of a common
Anglo-Saxon name as a pseudonym. On this point, I clearly
expressed intransigence. My name was my name and it would
go on my stories.

When "Trends" was sold, I steeled myself for what I
thought might be a struggle with Campbell that might even
cost me my precious sale. —It never happened. Perhaps it
was because my name had already appeared on two stories
in Amazing, or perhaps Campbell recognized I would not
agree to a pseudonym, but he never raised the point.

As it happened, my disinclination for a pseudonym was
lucky indeed, for the name Isaac Asimov proved highly
visible. No one could see the name for the first time without
smiling at its oddness; and anyone seeing it the second
time would instantly remember the first time. I'm convinced
that at least part of my eventual popularity came about
because the readers recognized the name quickly and be-
came aware of my stories as a group.

Indeed, matters came full circle. In later years, I fre-
quently met readers who were convinced the name was a
pseudonym designed to achieve visibility and that my real
name must be something like John Smith. It was sometimes
hard to disabuse them.

While I was revising "Trends" for Campbell, I was also
working on another story, "The Weapon Too Dreadful to
Use." That one I did not submit to Campbell. Either I did
not wish to push him too hard immediately after I had made
a sale to him, or I suspected the story wasn't good enough
for him and didn't want to spoil the impression "Trends"
might have made. In either case (and I don't really re-
member the motive) 1 decided to try it on Amazing first. It
was also a one cent market, after all, and perhaps I thought
I owed them another chance, now that I had made my
Campbell sale.

I mailed "The Weapon^ Too Dreadful to Use" to Amazing
on February 6, 1939, and on February 20 received notice of
acceptance. Amazing may have bought it because it needed
a story in a hurry, for it appeared in the May issue, which
reached the newsstands only three weeks after the sale.
That made it my second published story, for it appeared two
months before "Trends."

The Weapon Too Dreadful to Use

Karl Frantor found the prospect a terribly dismal one. From
low-hanging clouds, fell eternal misty rain; squat, rubbery
vegetation with its dull, reddish-brown colour stretched away
in all directions. Now and then a Hop-scotch Bird fluttered
wildly above them, emitting plaintive squawks as it went.

Karl turned his head to gaze at the tiny dome of Aphro-
dopolis, largest city on Venus.

"God," he muttered, "even the dome is better than this
awful world out here." He pulled the rubberized fabric of his
coat closer about him. "I'll be glad to get back to Earth
again."

He turned to the slight figure of Antil, the Venusian, "When
are we coming to the ruins, Antil?"

There was no answer and Karl noticed the tear that rolled
down the Venusian's green, puckered cheeks. Another glis-
tened in the large, lemur-like eyes; soft, incredibly beautiful
eyes.

The Earthman's voice softened. "Sorry, Antil, I didn't mean
to say anything against Venus."

Antil turned his green face toward Karl, "It was not that,
my friend. Naturally, you would not find much to admire in
an alien world. I, however, love Venus, and I weep because I
am overcome with its beauty." The words came fluently but
with the inevitable distortion caused by vocal cords unfitted
for harsh-languages.

"I know its seems incomprehensible to you," Antil con-
tinued, "but to me Venus is a paradise, a golden land—I can-
not express my feelings for it properly."

"Yet there are some that say only Earthmen can love."
Karl's sympathy was strong and sincere.

The Venusian shook his head sadly. "There is much besides
the capacity to feel emotion that your people deny us."

Karl changed the subject hurriedly. 'Tell me, Antil, doesn't
Venus present a dull aspect even to you? You've been to
Earth and should know. How can this eternity of brown and
grey compare t© the living, warm colours of Earth?"

"It is far more beautiful to me. You forget that my colour
sense is so enormously different from yours.* How can I
explain the beauties, the wealth of colour in which this land-
scape abounds?" He fell silent, lost in the wonders he spoke
of, while to the Terrestrial the deadly, melancholy grey re-
mained unchanged.

"Someday," Antil's voice came as from a person in a dream,
"Venus will once more belong to the Venusians. The Earth-
lings shall no longer rule us, and the glory of our ancestors
shall return to us."

Karl laughed. "Come, now, Antil, you speak like a mem-
ber of the Green Bands, that are giving the government so
much trouble. I thought you didn't believe in violence."

"I don't, Karl," Antil's eyes were grave and rather fright-
ened, "but the extremists are gaining power, and I fear the
worst. And if—if open rebellion against Earth breaks out, I
must join them."

"But you disagree with them."

"Yes, of course," he shrugged his shoulders, a gesture he
had learned from Earthmen, "we can gain nothing by violence.
There are five billion of you and scarcely a hundred million
of us. You have resources and weapons while we have none.
It would be a fool's venture, and even should we win, we
might leave such a heritage of hatred that there could never
be peace among our two planets."

"Then why join them?"

"Because I am a Venusian."

The Venusian eye can distinguish between two tints, the wave-
lengths of which differ by as little as five Angstrom units. They
see thousands of colours to which Earthmen are blind.—Author.

The Earthman burst into laughter again. "Patriotism, it
seems, is as irrational On Venus as on Earth. But come, let us
proceed to the ruins of your ancient city. Are we nearly
there?"

"Yes," answered Antil, "it's a matter of little more than an
Earth mile now. Remember, however, that you are to disturb
nothing. The ruins of Ash-taz.-7.or are sacred to us, as the sole
existing remnant of the time when we, too, were a great race,
rather than the degenerate remains of one."

They walked on in silence, slogging through the soft earth
beneath, dodging the writhing roots of the Snaketree, and
giving the occasional Tumbling Vines they passed a wide
berth.

It was Antil who resumed the conversation.

"Poor Venus." His quiet, wistful voice was sad. "Fifty
years ago the Earthman came with promises of peace and
plenty—and we believed. We showed them the emerald mines
and the juju weed and their eyes glittered with desire. More
and more came, and their arrogance grew. And now—"

"It's too bad, Antil," Karl said, "but you really feel too
strongly about it."

"Too strongly! Are we allowed to vote? Have we any rep-
resentation at all in the Venusian Provincial Congress? Aren't
there laws against Venusians riding in the same stratocars as
Earthlings, or eating in the same hotel, or living in the same
house? Are not all colleges closed to us? Aren't the best and
most fertile parts of the planet pre-empted by Earthlings?
Are there any rights at all that Terrestrials allow us upon our
own planet?"

"What you say is perfectly true, and I deplore it. But
similar conditions once existed on Earth with regard to cer-
tain so-called 'inferior races,' and in time, all those disabilities
were removed until today total equality reigns. Remember,
too, that the intelligent people of Earth are on your side. Have
I, for instance, ever displayed any prejudice against a Venu-
sian?"

"No, Karl, you know you haven't. But how many intelli-
gent men are there? On Earth, it took long and weary
millennia, filled with war and suffering, before equality was
established. What if Venus refuses to wait those millennia?"

Karl frowned, "You're right, of course, but you must wait
What else can you do?"

"I don't know—I don't know," Antil's voice trailed into
silence.

Suddenly, Karl wished he hadn't started on this trip to the
ruins of mysterious Ash-taz-zor. The maddeningly monoto-
nous terrain, the just grievances of Antil had served to depress
him greatly. He was about to call the whole thing on when
the Venusian raised his webbed fingers to point out a mound
of earth ahead.

"That's the entrance," he said; "Ash-taz-zor has been buried
under the soil for uncounted thousands of years, and only
Venusians know of it. You're the first Earthman ever to see
it."

"I shall keep it absolutely secret, Antil. I have promised."

"Come, then."

Antil brushed aside the lush vegetation to reveal a narrow
entrance between two boulders and beckoned to Karl to fol-
low. Into a narrow, damp corridor they crept. Antil drew
from his pouch a small Atomite lamp, which cast its pearly
white glow upon walls of dripping stone.
-^-"These corridors and burrows," he said, "were dug three
centuries ago by our ancestors who considered the city a
holy place. Of late, however, we have neglected it. I was the
first to visit it in a long, long time. Perhaps that is another
sign of our degeneracy."

For over a hundred yards they walked on straight ahead;
then the corridors flared out into a lofty dome. Karl gasped
at the view before him. There were the remains of buildings,
architectural marvels unrivalled on Earth since the days of
Periclean Athens. But all lay in shattered ruins, so that only a
hint of the city's magnificence remained.

Antil led the way across the open space and plunged into
another burrow that twisted its way for half a mile through
soil and rock. Here and there, side-corridors branched off, and
once or twice Karl caught glimpses of ruined structures. He
would have investigated had not Antil kept him on the path.

Again they emerged, this time before a low, sprawling
building constructed of a smooth, green stone. Its right wing
was utterly smashed, but the rest seemed scarcely touched.

The Venusian's eyes shone; his slight form straightened
with pride. "This is what corresponds to a modern museum
of arts and sciences. In this you shall see the past greatness
and culture of Venus."

With high excitement, Karl entered—the first Earthman ever
to see these ancient achievements. The interior, he found,
was divided into a series of deep alcoves, branching out from
the long central colonnade. The ceiling was one great painting
that showed dimly in the light of the Atomite lamp.

Lost in wonder, the Earthman wandered through the al-
coves. There was an extraordinary sense of strangeness to
the sculptures and paintings about him, an unearthliness that
doubled their beauty.

Karl realized that he missed something vital in Venusian
art simply because of the lack of common ground between
his own culture and theirs, but he could appreciate the techni-
cal excellence of the work. Especially, did he admire the
colour-work of the paintings which went far beyond anything
he had ever seen on Earth. Cracked, faded, and scaling
though they were, there was a blending and a harmony about
them that was superb.

"What wouldn't Michelangelo have given," he said to Antil,
"to have the marvellous colour perception of the Venusian
eye."

Antil inflated his chest with happiness. "Every race has its
own attributes. I have often wished my ears could distinguish
the slight tones and pitches of sound the way it is said Earth-
men can. Perhaps I would then be able to understand what it
is that is so pleasing about your Terrestrial music. As it is, its
noise is dreadfully monotonous to me."

They passed on, and every minute Karl's opinion of Venu-
sian culture mounted higher. There were long, narrow strips
of thin metal, bound together, covered with the lines and ovals
of Venusian script—thousands upon thousands of them. In
them, Karl knew, might lie such secrets as the scientists of
Earth would give half their lives to know.

Then, when Antil pointed out a tiny, six-inch-high affair,
and said that, according to the inscription, it was some type
of atomic converter with an efficiency several times any of
the current Terrestrial models, Karl exploded.

"Why don't you reveal these secrets to Earth? If they only
knew your accomplishments in ages past, Venusians would
occupy a far higher place than they do now."

"They would make use of our knowledge of former days,
yes," Antil replied bitterly, "but they would never release
their stranglehold on Venus and its people. I hope you are
not forgetting your promise of absolute secrecy."

"No, I'll keep quiet, but I think you're making a mistake."

"I think not," Antil turned to leave the alcove, but Karl
called to him to wait.

"Aren't we going into this little room here?" he asked.

Antil whirled, eyes staring, "Room? What room are you
talking about? There's no room here."

Karl's eyebrows shot up in surprise as he mutely pointed
out the narrow crack that extended half way up the rear wall.
The Venusian muttered something beneath his breath and
fell to his knees, delicate fingers probing the crack.
"Help me, Karl. This door was never meant to be opened,
I think. At least there is no record of its being here, and I
know the ruins of Ash-taz-zor perhaps better than any other
of my people."

The two pushed against the section of the wall, which gave
backward with groaning reluctance for a short distance, then
yielded suddenly so as to catapult them into the tiny, almost
empty cubicle beyond. They regained their feet and stared
about.

The Earthman pointed out broken, ragged rust-streaks on the
floor, and along the line where door joined wall. "Your peo-
ple seem to have sealed this room up pretty effectively. Only
the rust of eons broke the bonds. You'd think they had some
sort of secret stored here."

Antil shook his green head. "There was no evidence of a
door last time I was here. However—" he raised the Atomite
lamp up high and surveyed the room rapidly, "there doesn't
seem to be anything here, anyway."

He was right. Aside from a nondescript oblong chest that
squatted on six stubby legs, the place contained only unbe-
lievable quantities of dust and the musty, almost suffocating
smell of long-shut-up tombs.

Karl approached the chest, tried to move it from the comer
where it stood. It didn't budge, but the cover slipped under
his pressing fingers.

"The cover's removable, Antil. Look!" He pointed to a
shallow compartment within, which contained a square slab
of some glassy substance and five six-inch-long cylinders re-
sembling fountain-pens.

Antil shrieked with delight when he saw these objects and
for the first time since Karl knew him, lapsed into sibilant
Venusian gibberish. He removed the glassy slab and inspected
it closely. Karl, his curiosity aroused, did likewise. It was
covered with closely-spaced, varicoloured dots, but there
seemed no reason for Antil's extreme glee.

"What is it, Antil?"

"It is a complete document in our ancient ceremonial
language. Up to now we have never had more than disjointed
fragments. This is a great find."

"Can you decipher it?" Karl regarded the object with more
respect.

"I think I can. It is a dead language and I know little more
than a smattering. You see, it is a colour language. Each word
is designated by a combination of two, and sometimes three,
coloured dots. The colours are finely differentiated, though,
and a Terrestrial, even if he had the key to the language,
would have to use a spectroscope to read it."

"Can you work on it now?"

"I think so, Karl. The Atomite lamp approximates normal
daylight very closely, and I ought to have no trouble with it.
However, it may take me quite a time; so perhaps you'd better
continue your investigation. There's no danger of your getting
lost, provided you remain inside this building."

Karl left. taking a second Atomite lamp with him, left
Antil, the Venusian, bent over the ancient manuscript, de-
ciphering it slowly and painfully.

Two hours passed before the Earthman returned; but when he
did, Anti! had scarcely changed his position. Yet, now, there
was a look of horror on the Venusian's face that had not been
there before. The "colour" message lay at his feet, disregarded.
The noisy entrance of the Earthman made no impression'
upon him. As if ossified, he sat in unmoving, staring fright.
Kar] jumped to his side. "Antil, Antil, what's wrong?"
Antil's head turned slowly, as though moving through
viscous liquid, and his eyes gazed unseeingly at his friend.
Karl grasped the other's thin shoulders and shook him un-
mercifuily.

The Venusian came to his senses. Writhing out of Karl's
grasp he sprang to his feet. From the desk in the corner he
removed the five cylindrical objects, handling them with a
queer sort of reluctance, placing them in his pouch. There,
likewise, did he put the slab he had deciphered.

Having done this, he replaced the cover on the chest and
motioned Karl out of the room. "We must go now. Already
we have stayed too long." His voice had an odd, frightened
tone about it that made the Earthman uncomfortable.

Silently, they retraced their steps until once more they stood'
upon the soaked surface of Venus. It was still day, but
twilight was near. Karl felt a growing hunger. They would
need to hurry if they expected to reach Aphrodopolis before
the coming of night. Karl turned up the collar of his slicker,
pulled his rubberized cap low over his forehead and set out,

Mile after mile passed by and the domed city once more rose
upon the grey horizon. The Earthman chewed at damp ham
sandwiches, wished fervently for the comfortable dryness of
Aphrodopolis. Through it all, the normally friendly Venusian
maintained a stony silence, vouchsafing not so much as a
glance upon his companion.

Karl accepted this philosophically. He had a far higher
regard for Venusians than the great majority of Earthmen,
but even he experienced a faint disdain for the ultra-emotional
character of Antil and his kind. This brooding silence was but
a manifestation of feelings that in Karl would perhaps have
resulted in no more than a sigh or a frown. Realizing this,
Antil's mood scarcely affected him.

Yet the memory of the haunting fright in Antil's eyes
aroused a faint unease. It had come after the translation of
that queer slab. What secret could have been revealed in that
message by those scientific progenitors of the Venusians?

It was with some diffidence that Karl finally persuaded him-
self to ask, "What did the slab say, Antil? It must be interest-
ing, I judge, considering that you've taken it with you."

Antil's reply was simply a sign to hurry, and the Venusian
thereupon plunged into the gathering darkness with redoubled
speed. Karl was puzzled and rather hurt. He made no further
attempt at conversation for the duration of the trip.

When they reached Aphrodopolis, however, the Venusian
broke his silence. His puckered face, drawn and haggard,
turned to Karl with the expression of one who has come to
a painful decision.

"Karl," he said, "we have been friends, so I wish to give
you a bit of friendly advice. You are going to leave for Earth
next week. I know your father is high in the councils of the
Planetary President. You yourself will probably be a person-
age of importance in the not-too-distant future. Since this is
so, I beg you earnestly to use every atom of your influence to
a moderation of Earth's attitude toward Venus. I, in my turn,
being a hereditary noble of the largest tribe on Venus, shall
do my utmost to repress all attempts at violence."

The other frowned. "There seems to be something behind
all this. I don't get it at all. What are you trying to say?"

"Just this. Unless conditions are bettered—and soon—
Venus will rise in revolt. In that case, I will have no choice
but to place my services at her feet, and then Venus will no
longer be defenceless."

These words served only to amuse the Earthman. "Come,
Antil, your patriotism is admirable, and your grievances justi-
fied, but melodrama and chauvinism don't go with me. I am,
above all, a realist."

There was a terrible eamestness in the Venusian's voice.

"Believe me, Karl, when I say nothing is more real than what
I tell you now. In case of a Venusian revolt, I cannot vouch
for Earth's safety."

"Earth's safety!" The enormity of this stunned Karl.
"Yes," continued Antil, "for I may be forced to destroy
Earth. There you have it." With this, he wheeled and plunged
into the underbrush on the way back to the little Venusian
village outside the great dome.

Five years passed—years of turbulent unrest, and Venus
stirred in its sleep like an awakening volcano. The short-
sighted Terrestrial masters of Aphrodopolis, Venusia, and
other domed cities cheerfully disregarded all danger signals.
When they thought of the little green Venusians at all, it was
with a disdainful grimace as if to say, "Oh, THOSE things!"

But "those things" were finally pushed beyond endurance,
and the nationalistic Green Bands became increasingly vocifer-
ous with every passing day. Then, on one grey day, not unlike
the grey days preceding, crowds of natives swarmed upon the
cities in organized rebellion.

The smaller domes, caught by surprise, succumbed. In;
rapid succession New Washington, Mount Vulcan, and Sl.
Denis were taken, together with the entire eastern continent,

Before the reeling Terrestrials realized what was happening,
half of Venus was no longer theirs.    
                    
Earth, shocked and stunned by this sudden emergency-
which, of course, should have been foreseen—sent arms and
supplies to the inhabitants of the remaining beleaguered towns
and began to equip a great space fleet for the recovery of the
lost territory.

Earth was annoyed but not frightened, knowing that ground

lost by surprise could easily be regained at leisure, and that
ground not now lost would never be lost. Or such, at least,
was the belief.

Imagine, then, the stupefaction of Earth's leaders as no
pause came in the Venusian advance. Venusia City had been
amply stocked with weapons and food; her outer defences
were up, the men at their posts. A tiny army of naked, un-
armed natives approached and demanded unconditional sur-
render. Venusia refused haughtily, and the messages to Earth
were mirthful in their references to the unarmed natives who
had become so recklessly flushed with success.

Then, suddenly, no more messages were received, and the
natives took over Venusia.

The events at Venusia were duplicated, over and over again,
at what should have been impregnable fortresses. Even
Aphrodopolis itself, with half a million population, fell to a
pitiful five hundred Venusians. This, in spite of the fact that
every weapon known to Earth was available to the defenders.

The Terrestrial Government suppressed the facts, and Earth
itself remained unsuspecting of the strange events on Venus;
but in the inner councils, statesmen frowned as they listened
to the strange words of Karl Frantor, son of the Minister of
Education.

Jan Heersen, Minister of War, rose in anger at the conclusion
of the report.

"Do you wish us to take seriously the random statement of
a half-mad Greenie and make our peace with Venus on its
own terms? That is definitely and absolutely impossible. What
those damned beasts need is the mailed fist. Our fleet will blast
them out of the Universe, and it is time that it were done."

"The blasting may not be so simple, Heersen," said the
greyhaired, elder Frantor, rushing to his son's defence. "There
are many of us who have all along claimed that the Govern-
ment policy toward the Venusians was all wrong. Who knows
what means of attack they have found and what, in revenge,
they will do with it?" 

"Fairy Tales!" exclaimed Heersen. "You treat the Greenies
as if they were people. They're animals and should be thank-
ful for the benefits of civilization we brought them. Remem-
ber, we're treating them much better than some of our own
Earth races were treated in our early history, the Red Indians
for example."

Karl Frantor burst in once more in an agitated voice. "We
must investigate, sirs! Antil's threat is too serious to disregard,
no matter how silly it sounds—and in the light of the Venusian
conquests, it sounds anything but silly. I propose that you
send me with Admiral von Blumdorff, as a sort of envoy. Let
me get to the bottom of this before we attack them."

The saturnine Earth President, Jules Debuc, spoke now for
the first time. "Frantor's proposal is reasonable, at least. It
shall be done. Are there any objections?"

There were none, though Heersen scowled and snorted
angrily. Thus, a week later, Kari Frantor accompanied the
space armada of Earth when it set off for the inner planet.

It was a strange Venus that greeted Kari after his five years'
absence. It was still its old soaking self, its old dreary, monot-
ony of white and grey, its scattering of domed cities—and yet
how different.

Where before the haughty Terrestrials had moved in dis-
dainful splendour among the cowering Venusians, now the
natives maintained undisputed sway. Aphrodopolis was a na-
tive city entirely, and in the office of the former governor sat
—Antil.

Kari eyed him doubtfully, scarcely knowing what to say. "I
rather thought you might be king-pin," he managed at length.

"You—the pacifist."

"The choice was not mine. It was that of circumstance,"
Antil replied. "But you, I did not expect you to be your
planet's spokesman."

"It was to me that you made your silly threat years ago,

and so it is I who was most pessimistic concerning your re-
bellion. I come, you see, but not unaccompanied." His hand
motioned vaguely upward, where spaceships lazed motionless
and threatening.

"You come to menace me?"

"No! To hear your aims and your terms."                

"That is easily accomplished. Venus demands its indepen- 
dence and we promise friendship, together with free and unre- 
stricted trade."                                              

"And you expect us to accept all that without a struggle."
"I hope you do—for Earth's own sake."

Kari scowled and threw himself back in his chair in an-
noyance, "For God's sake, Antil, the time for mysterious hints
and bogies has passed. Show your hand. How did you over-
come Aphrodopolis and the other cities so easily?"

"We were forced to it, Kari. We did not desire it." Antil's
voice was shrill with agitation. "They would not accept our
fair terms of surrender and began to shoot their Tonite
guns. We—we had to use the—the weapon. We had to kill
most of them afterward—out of mercy."

"I don't follow. What weapon are you talking about?"

"Do you remember that time in the ruins of Ash-tai-wr,
Karl? The hidden room; the ancient inscription; the five little
rods."

Kari nodded sombrely. "I thought so, but I wasn't sure."

"It was a horrible weapon, Kari." Antil hurried on as if the
mere thought of it were not to be endured. "The ancients dis-
covered it—but never used it. They hid it instead, and why
they did not destroy it, I can't imagine. I wish they had de-
stroyed it; I really do. But they didn't and I found it and I
must use it—for the good of Venus."

His voice sank to a whisper, but with a manifest effort he
nerved himself to the task of explanation. "The little harmless
rods you saw then, Kari, were capable of producing a force
field of some unknown nature (the ancients wisely refused to
be explicit there) which has the power of disconnecting brain
from mind."

"What?" Kari stared in open-mouthed surprise. "What are
you talking about?"

"Why, you must know that the brain is merely the seat of
the mind, and not the mind itself. The nature of 'mind' is a
mystery, unknown even to our ancients; but whatever it is, it
uses the brain as its intermediary to the world of matter."

"I see. And your weapon divorces mind from brain—
renders mind helpless—a space-pilot without his controls."

Antil nodded solemnly. "Have you ever seen a decerebrated
animal?" he asked suddenly.

"Why, yes, a dog—in my bio course back in college."

"Come, then, I will show you a decerebrated human."

Kari followed the Venusian to an elevator. As he shot down-
ward to the lowest level—the prison level—his mind was in a
turmoil. Tom between horror and fury, he had alternate im-
pulses of unreasoning desire to escape and almost insuper-
able yearnings to slay the Venusian at his side. In a daze, he
left the cubicle and followed Antil down a gloomy corridor,
winding its way between rows of tiny, barred cells.

There." Antil's voice roused Kari as would a sudden
stream of cold water. He followed the pointing webbed hand
and stared in fascinated revulsion at the human figure revealed.

It was human, undoubtedly, in form—but inhuman, never-
theless. It (Kari could not imagine it as "he") sat dumbly on
the floor, large staring eyes never leaving the blank wall be-
fore him. Eyes that were empty of soul, loose lips from which
saliva drooled, fingers that moved aimlessly. Nauseated, Kari
turned his head hastily.

"He is not exactly decerebrated." Antil's voice was low.
"Organically, his brain is perfect and unharmed. It is merely
—disconnected."

"How does it live, Antil? Why doesn't it die?"

"Because the autonomic system is untouched. Stand him
up and he will remain balanced. Push him and he will regain
his balance. His heart beats. He breathes. If you put food in
his mouth, he will swallow, though he would die of starvation
before performing the voluntary act of eating food that has
been placed before him. It is life—of a sort; but it were better
dead, for the disconnection is permanent."

"It is horrible—horrible."

"It is worse than you think. I feel convinced that some-
where within the shell of humanity, the mind, unharmed, still
exists. Imprisoned helplessly in a body it cannot control, what
must be that mind's torture?"

Karl stiffened suddenly. "You shan't overcome Earth by
sheer unspeakable brutality. It is an unbelievably cruel weapon
but no more deadly than any of a dozen of ours. You shall
pay for this."

"Please, Karl, you have no conception of one-millionth of
the deadliness of the 'Disconnection Field'. The Field is inde-
pendent of space, and perhaps of time, too, so that its range
can be extended almost indefinitely. Do you know that it
required merely one discharge of the weapon to render every
warm-blooded creature in Aphrodopolis helpless?" Antil's
voice rose tensely. "Do you know that I am able to bathe ALL
EARTH in the Field—to render all your teeming billions the
duplicate of that dead-alive hulk in there AT ONE STROKE."

Karl did not recognize his own voice as he rasped, "Fiend!
Are you the only one who knows the secret of this damnable
Field?"

Antil burst into a hollow laugh, "Yes, Karl, the blame rests
on me, alone. Yet killing me will not help. If I die, there are
others who know where to find the inscription, others who
have not my sympathy for Earth. I am perfectly safe from
you, Karl, for my death would be the end of your world."

The Earthman was broken—utterly. Not a fragment of
doubt as to the Venusian's power was left within him. "I
yield," he muttered, "I yield. What shall I tell my people?"

"Tell them of my terms, and of what I could do if I
wished."

Karl shrank from the Venusian as if his very touch was
death, "I will tell them that."

"Tell them also, that Venus is not vindictive. We do not
wish to use our weapon, for it it too dreadful to use. If they
will give us our independence on our own terms, and allow
us certain wise precautions against future re-enslavement, we
will hurl each of our five guns and the explanatory inscription
explaining it into the sun."

The Terrestrial's voice did not change from its toneless
whisper. "I will tell them that."

Admiral von Blumdorff was as Prussian as his name, and his
military code was the simple one of brute force. So it was
quite natural that his reactions to Karl's report were explosive
in their sarcastic derision.

"You forsaken fool," he raved at the young man. 'This is
what comes of talk, of words, of tomfoolery. You dare come
back to me with this old-wives' tale of mysterious weapons, of
untold force. Without any proof at all, you accept all that this
damned Greenie tells you at absolute face value, and surrender
abjectly. Couldn't you threaten, couldn't you bluff, couldn't
you lie?"

"He didn't threaten, bluff, or lie," Karl answered warmly.
"What he said was the gospel truth. If you had seen the
decerebrated man—"

"Bah! That is the most inexcusable part of the whole
cursed business. To exhibit a lunatic to you, some perfectly
normal mental defective, and to say, 'This is our weapon!' and
for you to accept that without question! Did they do anything
but talk? Did they demonstrate the weapon? Did they even
show it to you?"

"Naturally not. The weapon is deadly. They're not going to
kill a Venusian to satisfy me. As for showing me the weapon
—well, would you show your ace-in-the-hole to the enemy?
Now you answer me a few questions. Why is Antil so cocksure
of himself? How did he conquer all Venus so easily?"

"I can't explain it I admit, but does that prove that theirs
is the correct explanation? Anyhow, I'm sick of this talk.
We're attacking now, and to hell with theories. I'll face them
with Tonite projectiles and you can watch their bluff backfire
in their ugly faces."

"But, Admiral, you must communicate my report to the
President."

"I will—after I blow Aphrodopolis into kingdom come."

He turned on the central broadcasting unit. "Attention, all
ships! Battle formation! We dive at Aphrodopolis with all To-
nites blasting in fifteen minutes." Then he turned to the
orderly. "Have Captain Larsen inform Aphrodopolis that they
have fifteen minutes to hoist the white flag."

The, minutes that ticked by after that were tense and nerve-
wracking for Karl Frantor. He sat in bent silence, head
buried in his hands and the faint click of the chronometer at
the end of every minute sounded like a thunder-clap in his
ears. He counted those clicks in a mumbling whisper—8—9—

10. God!

Only five minutes to certain death! Or was it certain death?

Was von Blumdorff right? Were the Venusians putting over a
daring bluff?

An orderly catapulted into the room and saluted. "The
Greenies have just answered, sir."

"Well," von Blumdorff leaned forward eagerly.

'They say, 'Urgently request fleet not to attack. If done,
we shall not be responsible for the consequences.'"

"Is that all?" came the outraged shout

"Yes, sir."
The Admiral burst into a sulphurous stream of profanity.

"Why, the infernal gall of them," he shouted. "They dare bluff
to the very end."

And as he finished, the fifteenth minute clicked off, and the
mighty armada burst into motion. In streaking, orderly flight
they shot down toward the cloudy shroud of the second planet.
Von Blumdorff grinned in a grisly appreciation of the awe-
some view spread over the televisor—until the mathematically

precise battle formation suddenly broke.

The Admiral stared and rubbed his eyes. The entire further
half of the fleet had suddenly gone crazy. First, the ships
wavered; then they veered and shot off at mad angles.

Then calls came in from the sane half of the fleet—reports
that the left wing had ceased to respond to radio.

The attack on Aphrodopolis was immediately disrupted as
the order went out to capture the ships that had run amok.
Von Blumdorff stamped up and down and tore his hair. Karl
Frantor cried out dully, "It is their weapon," and lapsed back
into his former silence.

From Aphrodopolis came no word at all.                 
For two solid hours the remnant of the Terrestrial fleet
battled their own ships. Following the aimless courses of the
stricken vessels, they approached and grappled. Bound to-
gether then by rigid force, rocket blasts were applied until the 
insane flight of the others had been balanced and stopped, 

Fully twenty of the fleet were never caught; some continuing
on some orbit about the sun, some shooting off into unknown
space, a few crashing down to Venus.

When the remaining ships of the left wing were boarded,
the unsuspecting boarding parties stopped short in horror.
Seventy-five staring witless shells of humanity in each ship.
Not a single human being left.

Some of the first to enter screamed in horror and fled in a
panic. Others merely retched and turned away their eyes. One
officer took in the situation at a glance, calmly drew his
Atomo-pistol and rayed every decerebrate in sight.

Admiral von Blumdorff was a stricken man; a pitiful, limp
wreck of his former proud and blustering self, when he heard
the worst. One of the decerebrates was brought to him, and
he reeled back.

Karl Frantor gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes, "Well,
Admiral, are you satisfied?"

But the Admiral made no answer. He drew his gun, and
before anyone could stop him, shot himself through the head.

Once again Karl Frantor stood before a meeting of the Presi-
dent and his Cabinet, before a dispirited, frightened group of
men. His report was definite and left no doubt as to the course
that must now be followed.

President Debuc stared at the decerebrate brought in as an
exhibit. "We are finished," he said. "We must surrender un-
conditionally, throw ourselves upon their mercy. But some-
day—," his eyes kindled in retribution.

"No, Mr. President!" Karl's voice rang out, "there shall be
no someday. We must give the Venusians their simple due—
liberty and independence. Bygones must be bygones—our
dead have but paid for the half-century of Venusian slavery.
After this, there must be a new order in the Solar System—
the birth of a new day."

The President lowered his head in thought and then raised
it again. "You are right," he answered with decision; "there
shall be no thought of revenge."

Two months later the peace treaty was signed and Venus
became what it has remained ever since—an independent and
sovereign power. And with the signing of the treaty, a whirling
speck shot out toward the sun. It was—the weapon too dread-
ful to use.

THE END

Amazing Stories was, at that time, heavily slanted toward
adventure and action and disapproved of too much scientific
exposition in the course of the story. I, of course, even
then was writing the kind of science fiction that involved
scientific extrapolation that was specifically described. What
Raymond Palmer did in this case was to omit some of my
scientific discussion and to place in footnotes a condensed
version of passages that he could not omit without damaging
the plot. This was an extraordinarily inept device, at which
I chafed at the time. 1 took the only retaliation available to
me. I placed Amazing at the bottom of the list, as far as the
order in which to submit stories was concerned.

What I remember most clearly about the story, though,
is Fred Pohl's remark concerning it. The story ends with
Earth and Venus at peace, with Earth promising to respect
Venus' independence and Venus destroying its weapon. Fred
said, upon reading the published story, "And after the
weapon was destroyed, Earth wiped the Venusians off the
face of their planet."

He was quite right. I was naive enough then to suppose
that words and good intentions are sufficient. (Fred also
remarked that the weapon that was too dreadful to be
used was, in fact, used. He was right in that case, too, and
that helped sour me on titles that were too long and elabo-
rate. 1 have tended toward shorter titles since, even one-
word titles, something Campbell consistently encouraged,
perhaps because short titles fit better on the cover and
on the title page of a magazine.)

If I thought that my sale to Campbell had made me an
expert in knowing what he wanted and in being able to
supply that want, 1 was quite wrong. In February 1939 I
wrote a story called "The Decline and Fall." I submitted it
to Campbell on February 21 and it was back in my lap,
quite promptly, on the twenty-fifth. It made the rounds
thereafter without results and was never published. It no
longer exists and I remember nothing at all about it.

On March 4, 1939, 1 began my most ambitious writing
project to that date. It was a novelette (in which I named
an important character after Russell Winterbotham) that
was intended to be at least twice as long as any of my
previous stories. 1 called the story "Pilgrimage." It was my
first attempt to write "future history"; that is, a tale about
a far future time written as though it were a historical novel.
I was also my first attempt to write a story on a galactic
scale.

I was very excited while working at it and felt somehow
that it was an "epic." (I remember, though, that Winter-
botham was rather dubious about it when I described the
plot to him in a letter.) I brought it in to Campbell on
March 21, 1939, with high hopes, but it was back on the
twenty-fourth with a letter that said, "You have a basic
idea which might be made into an interesting yarn, but as
it is, it is not strong enough."

This time I would not let go. I was in to see Campbell
again on the twenty-seventh and talked him into letting me
revise it in order to strengthen the weaknesses he found in
it. I brought in the second version on April 25, and it, too,
was found wanting, but this time it was Campbell who asked
for a revision. I tried again and the third version was sub-
mitted on May 9 and rejected on the seventeenth. Camp-
bell admitted there was still the possibility of saving it, but,
after three tries, he said, I should put it to one side for
some months and then look at it from a fresh viewpoint.

I did as he said and waited two months (the minimum
time I could interpret as "some months") and brought in
the fourth version on August 8.

This time, Campbell hesitated over it till September 6,
and then rejected it permanently on the ground that Robert
A. Heinlein had just submitted an important short novel
(later published as "If This Goes On—") that had a religious
theme. Since "Pilgrimage" also had a religious theme,
John couldn't use it. Two stories on so sensitive a subject
in rapid succession were one too many.

I had written the story four times, but I saw Campbell's
point. Campbell said Heinlein's story was the better of the
two and I could see that an editor could scarcely be expected
to take the worse and reject the better simply because writ-
ing the worse had been such hard work.

There was nothing, however, to prevent me from trying
to sell it elsewhere. I kept trying for two years, during which
time I rewrote it twice more and retitled it "Galactic Cru-
sade."

Eventually I sold it to another of the magazines that were
springing up in the wake of Campbell's success with
Astounding. This was Planet Stories, which during the 1940s
was to make its mark as a home for the "space opera,"
the blood-and-thunder tale of interplanetary war. My story
was of this type, and the editor of Planet, Malcolm Reiss,
was attracted.

The religious angle worried him, too, however. Would I
go through the story, he asked during luncheon on August
18, 1941, and remove any direct reference to religion. Would
I, in particular, refrain from referring to any of my charac-
ters as "priests." Sighing, 1 agreed, and the story was re-
vised for a sixth time. On October 7, 1941, he accepted it
and, after two and a half years that included ten rejections,
the story was finally placed.

But, having put me to the trouble of that particular re-
move-the-religion revision, what did Reiss do? Why, he re-
titled it (without consulting me, of course) and called the
story "Black Friar of the Flame."

I might mention two points about this story before pre-
senting it.

First, it was the only story I ever sold to Planet.

Second, it was illustrated by Frank R. Paul. Paul was the
most prominent of all the science fiction illustrators of the
pre-Campbell era, and, to the best of my knowledge, this is
the only time our paths crossed professionally.

I did see him once from a distance, though. On July 2,
1939, I attended the First World Science Fiction Convention,
which was held in Manhattan. Frank Paul was guest of honor.
It was the first occasion on which I was publicly recognized
as a professional, rather than as merely a fan. With three
published stories under my belt ("Trends" had just ap-
peared) I was pushed up to the platform to take a bow.
Campbell was sitting in an aisle seat and he waved me
toward the platform delightedly, I remember.

I said a few words, referring to myself as the "worst
science fiction writer unlynched." 1 didn't mean it, of
course, and I doubt that anyone thought for a moment that
I did.

Black Friar of the Flame

Russell Tymball's eyes were filled with gloomy satisfaction as
they gazed at the blackened ruins of what had been a cruiser
of the Lhasinuic Fleet a few hours before. The twisted girders,
scattered in all directions, were ample witness of the terrific
force of the crash.

The pudgy Earthman re-entered his own sleek Strato-roctet
and waited. Fingers twisted a long cigar aimlessly for minutes
before lighting it. Through the up-drifting smoke, his eyes
narrowed and he remained lost in thought

He came to his feet at the sound of a cautious hail. Two
men darted in with one last fugitive glance behind them. The
door closed softly, and one stepped immediately to the con-
trols. The desolate desert landscape was far beneath them
almost at once, and the silver prow of the Strato-rocket
pointed for the ancient metropolis of New York.

Minutes passed before Tymball spoke, "All clear?"

The man at the controls nodded. "Not a tyrant ship about.
It's quite evident the 'Grahul' had not been able to radio for
help."

"You have the dispatch?" the other asked eagerly.

"We found it easily enough. It is unharmed."

"We also found," said the second man bitterly, "one other
thing—the last report of Sidi Peller."

For a moment, Tymball's round face softened and some-
thing almost like pain entered his expression. And then it
hardened again, "He died! But it was for Earth, and so it was
not death. It was martyrdom!"

Silence, and then sadly, "Let me see the report, Petri."

He took the single, folded sheet handed him and held it
before him. Slowly, he read aloud:

"On September 4, made successful entry into 'Grahul'
cruiser of the tyrant fleet. Maintained self in hiding during
passage from Pluto to Earth. On September 5, located dispatch
in question and assumed possession. Have just shorted rocket
jets. Am sealing this report in with dispatch. Long live Earth!"

Tymball's voice was strangely moved as he read the last
word. "The Lhasinuic tyrants have never martyrized a greater
man than Sidi Peller. But we'll be repaid, and with interest
The Human Race is not quite decadent yet."

Petri stared out the window. "How did Peller do it all? One
man—to stow away successfully upon a cruiser of the fleet
and in the face of the entire crew to steal the dispatch and
wreck the fleet. How was it done? And we'll never know;
except for the bare facts in his report."

"He had his orders,'" said Willums, as he locked controls
and turned about. "I carried them to him on Pluto myself.
Get the dispatch! Wreck the 'Grahul' in the Gobi! He did it!
That's all!" He shrugged his shoulders wearily.

The atmosphere of depression deepened until Tymball him-
self broke it was a growl. "Forget it. Did you take care of
everything at the wreck?"

The other two nodded in unison. Petri's voice was business-
like, "All traces of Peller were removed and de-atomized.
They will never detect the presence of a Human among the
wreckage. The document itself was replaced by the prepared
copy, and carefully burnt beyond recognition. It was even
impregnated with silver salts to the exact amount contained
in the official seal of the Tyrant Emperor. I'll stake my head
that no Lhasinu will suspect that the crash was no accident or
that the dispatch was not destroyed by it."

"Good! They won't locate the wreck for twenty-four hours
at least. It's an airtight job. Let me have the dispatch now."

He fondled the metalloid container almost with reverence.
It was blackened and twisted, still faintly warm. And then
with a savage twist of the wrist, he tore off the lid.

The document that he lifted out unrolled with a rustling
sound. At the lower left hand comer was the huge silver seal
of the Lhasinuic Emperor himself—the tyrant, who from
Vega, ruled one third of the Galaxy. It was addressed to the
Viceroy of Sol.

The three Earthmen regarded the fine print solemnly. The
harshly angular Lhasinuic script glinted redly in the rays of
the setting sun.

"Was I right?" whispered Tymball.

"As always," assented Petri.

Night did not really fall. The sky's black-purple deepened
ever so slightly and the stars brightened imperceptibly, but
aside from that the stratosphere did not differentiate between
the absence and the presence of the sun.

"Have you decided upon the next step?" asked Willums,
hesitantly.

"Yes—long ago. I'm going to visit Paul Kane tomorrow,
with this," and he indicated the dispatch.

"Loam Paul Kane!" cried Petri.

"That—that Loarist!" came simultaneously from Willums.
"The Loarist," agreed Tymball. "He is our man!"
"Say rather that he is the lackey of the Lhasinu," ground
out Willums. "Kane—the head of Loarism—consequently the
head of the traitor Humans who preach submission to the
Lhasinu."

"That's right," Petri was pale but more calm. "The Lhasinu
are our known enemies and are to be met in fair fight—but
the Loarists are vermin. Great Space! I would rather throw
myself on the mercy of the tyrant Viceroy himself than have
anything to do with those snuffling students of ancient history,
who praise the ancient glory of Earth and encompass its
present degradation."

"You judge too harshly." There was the trace of a smile
about Tymball's lips. "I have had dealings with this leader of
Loarism before. Oh—" "he checked the cries of startled dis-
may that rose, "I was quite discreet about it. Even you two
didn't know, and, as you see, Kane has not yet betrayed me. I
failed in those dealings, but I learned a little bit. Listen to
me!"

Petri and Willums edged nearer, and Tymball continued in
crisp, matter-of-fact tones, "The first Galactic Drive of the
Lhasinu ended two thousand years ago just after the capture
of Earth. Since then, the aggression has not been resumed, and
the independent Human Planets of the Galaxy are quite satis-
fied at the maintenance of the status quo. They are too
divided among themselves to welcome a return of the struggle.

Loarism itself is only interested in its own survival against
the encroachments of newer ways of thought, and it is no
great moment to them whether Lhasinu or Human rules
Earth as long as Loarism itself prospers. As a matter of fact,
we—the Nationalists—are perhaps a greater danger to them
in that respect than the Lhasinu."

Willums smiled grimly, "I'll say we are."

"Then, granting that, it is natural that Loarism assume the
role of appeasement. Yet, if it were to their interests, they
would join us at a second's notice. And this," he slapped the
document before him, "is what will convince them where their
interests lie."

The other two were silent.

Tymball continued, "Our time is short. Not more than
three years, perhaps not more than two. And yet you know
what the chances of success for a rebellion today are."

"We'd do it," snarled Petri, and then in a muffled tone, "if
the only Lhasinu we had to deal with were those of Earth."

"Exactly. But they can call upon Vega for help, and we can
call upon no one. No one of the Human Planets would stir in
our defense, any more than they did five hundred years ago.
And that's why we must have Loarism on our side."

"And what did Loarism do five hundred years ago during
the Bloody Rebellion?" asked Willums, bitter hatred in his
voice. "They abandoned us to save their own precious hides."

"We are in no position to remember that," said Tymball.
"We will have their help now—and then, when all is over, our
reckoning with them—"

Willums returned to the controls, "New York in fifteen
minutes!" And then, "But I still don't like it. What can those
filthy Loarists do? Dried out husks fit for nothing but treason
and platitudes!"

"They are the last unifying force of Humanity," answered
Tymball. "Weak enough now and helpless enough, but Earth's
only chance."

They were slanting downwards now into the thicker, lower
atmosphere, and the whistling of the air as it streamed past
them became shriller in pitch. Willums fired the braking rock-
ets as they pierced a gray layer of clouds. There upon the
horizon was the great diffuse glow of New York City.

"See that our passes are in perfect order for the Lhasinuic
inspection and hide the document. They won't search us, any-
way."

Loara Paul Kane leaned back in his ornate chair. The
slender fingers of one hand played with the ivory paperweight
upon his desk. His eyes avoided those of the smaller, rounder
man before him, and his voice, as he spoke, took on solemn
inflections.

"I cannot risk shielding you longer, Tymball. I have done
so until now because of the bond of common Humanity be-
tween us, but—" his voice trailed away.

"But?" prompted Tymball.

Kane's fingers turned his paperweight over and over. "The
Lhasinu are growing harsher this past year. They are almost
arrogant." He looked up suddenly. "I am not quite a free
agent, you know, and haven't the influence and power you
seem to think I have."

His eyes dropped again, and a troubled note entered his
voice, "The Lhasinu suspect. They are beginning to detect the
workings of a tightly-knit conspiracy underground, and we
cannot afford to become entangled in it."

"I know. If necessary, you are quite willing to sacrifice us
as your predecessor sacrificed the patriots five centuries ago.
Once again, Loarism shall play its noble part."

"What good are your rebellions?" came the weary reply.
"Are the Lhasinu so much more terrible than the oligarchy of
Humans that rules Santanni or the dictator that rules Trantor?
If the Lhasinu are not Human, they are at least intelligent
Loarism must live at peace with the rulers."

And now Tymball smiled. There was no humor in it—
rather mocking irony, and from his sleeve, he drew forth a
small card.

"You think so, do you? Here, read this. It is a reduced pho-
tostat of—no, don't touch it—read it as / hold it, and—"

His further remarks were drowned in the sudden hoarse
cry from the other. Kane's face twisted alarmingly into a
mask of horror, as he snatched-desperately at the reproduc-
tion held out to him.

"Where did you get this?" He scarcely recognized his own
voice.

"What odds? I have it, haven't I? And yet it cost the life of
a brave man, and a ship of His Reptilian Eminence's navy. I
believe you can see that there is no doubt as to the genuine-
ness of this."

"No—no!" Kane put a shaking hand to his forehead. "That
is the Emperor's signature and seal. It is impossible to forge
them."

"You see. Excellency," there was sarcasm in the title, "the
renewal of the Galactic Drive is a matter of two years—or
three—in the future. The first step in the drive comes within
the year—and it is concerning that first step," his voice took
on a poisonous sweetness, "that this order has been issued to
the Viceroy."

"Let me think a second. Let me think." Kane dropped into
his chair.

"Is there the necessity?" cried Tymball, remorselessly. "This
is nothing but the fulfillment of my prediction of six months
ago, to which you would not listen. Earth, as a Human world,
is to be destroyed; its population scattered in groups through-
out the Lhasinuic portions of the Galaxy; every trace of
Human occupancy destroyed."

"But Earth, Earth, the home of the Human Race; the be-
ginning of our civilization."

"Exactly! Loarism is dying and the destruction of Earth
will kill it And with Loarism gone, the last unifying force is
destroyed, and the human planets, invincible when united, shall
be wiped out, one by one, in the Second Galactic Drive.
Unless—"

The other's voice was toneless.

"I know what you're going to say."

"No more than I said before. Humanity must unite, and
can do so only about Loarism. It must have a Cause for
which to fight, and that Cause must be the liberation of Earth.
/ shall fire the spark here on Earth and you must convert the
Human portion of the Galaxy into a powder-keg."

"You wish a Total War—a Galactic Crusade," Kane spoke
in a whisper, "yet who should know better than I that a Total
War has been impossible for these thousand years." He
laughed suddenly, harshly, "Do you know how weak Loarism
is today?"

"Nothing is so weak that it cannot be strengthened. Al-
though Loarism has weakened since its great days during the
First Galactic Drive, you still have your organization and
your discipline; the best in the Galaxy. And your leaders are,
as a whole, capable men, I must say that for you. A thor-
oughly centralized group of capable men, working desper-
ately, can do much. It must do much, for it has no choice."

"Leave me," said Kane, brokenly, "I can do no more now.
I must think." His voice trailed away, but one finger pointed
toward the door.

"What good are thoughts?" cried Tymball, irritably. "We
need deeds!" And with that, he left.

The night had been a horrible one for Kane. His face was
pale and drawn; his eyes hollow and feverishly brilliant. Yet
he spoke loudly and firmly.

"We are allies, Tymball."

Tymball smiled bleakly, took Kane's outstretched hand for
a moment, and dropped it, "By necessity. Excellency, only. I
am not your friend."

"Nor I yours. Yet we may work together. My initial orders
have gone out and the Central Council will ratify them. In
that direction, at least, I anticipate no trouble."

"How quickly may I expect results?"

"Who knows? Loarism still has its facilities for propaganda.
There are still those who will listen from respect and others
from fear, and still others from the mere force of the propa-
ganda itself. But who can say? Humanity has slept, and
Loarism as well. There is little anti-Lhasinuic feeling, and it
will be hard to drum it up out of nothing."

"Hate is never hard to drum up," and Tymball's moon-face
seemed oddly harsh. "Emotionalism! Propaganda! Frank and
unscrupulous opportunism! And even in its weakened state,
Loarism is rich. The masses may be corrupted by words, but
those in high places, the important ones, will require a bit of
the yellow metal."

Kane waved a weary hand, "You preach nothing new. That
line of dishonor was Human policy far back in the misty
dawn of history when only this poor Earth was Human and
even it split into warring segments." Then, bitterly, "To think
that we must return to the tactics of that barbarous age."

The conspirator shrugged his shoulders cynically, "Do you
know any better?"

"And even so, with all that foulness, we may yet fail."

"Not if our plans are well-laid."

Loara Paul Kane rose to his feet and his hands clenched
before him, "Fool! You and your plans! Your subtle, secret,
snaky, tortuous plans! Do you think that conspiracy is re-
bellion, or rebellion, victory? What can you do? You can
ferret out information and dig quietly at the roots, but you
can't lead a rebellion. I can organize and prepare, but I can't
lead a rebellion."

Tymball winced, "Preparation—perfect preparation—"
"—is nothing, I tell you. You can have every chemical in-
gredient necessary, and all the proper conditions, and yet
there may be no reaction. In psychology—particularly mob
psychology—as in chemistry, one must have a catalyst."

"What in space do you mean?"

"Can you lead a rebellion?" cried Kane. "A crusade is a
war of emotion. Can you control the emotions? Why, you
conspirator, you could not stand the light of open warfare an
instant. Can I lead the rebellion? I, old and a man of peace?
Then who is to be the leader, the psychological catalyst, that
can take the dull worthless clay of your precious 'preparation'
and breathe life into it?"

Russell Tymball's jaw muscles quivered, "Defeatismi So
soon?"

The answer was harsh, "No! Realismi"

There was angry silence and Tymball turned on his heel
and left.

It was midnight, ship time, and the evening's festivities
were reaching their high point. The grand salon of the
superiiner Flaming Nova was filled with whirling, laughing,
glittering figures, growing more convivial as the night wore on.

'This reminds me of the triply-damned affairs my wife
makes me attend back on Lacto," muttered Sammel Maronni
to his companion. "I thought I'd be getting away from some
of it, at least out here in hyperspace, but evidently I didn't."
He groaned softly and gazed at the assemblage with a faintly
disapproving stare.

Maronni was dressed in the peak of fashion, from purple
headsash to sky-blue sandals, and looked exceedingly uncom-
fortable. His portly figure was crammed into a brilliantly red
and terribly tight tunic and the occasional jerks at his wide
belt showed that he was only too conscious of its ill fit.

His companion, taller and slimmer, bore his spotless white
uniform with an ease born of long experience, and his im-
posing figure contrasted strongly with the slightly ridiculous
appearance of Sammel MaronnL

The Lactonian exporter was conscious of this fact. "Blast
it, Drake, you've got one fine job here. You dress like a nob
and do nothing but look pleasant and answer salutes. How
much do you get paid, anyway?"

"Not enough." Captain Drake lifted one gray eyebrow and
stared quizzically at the Lactonian. "I wish you had my job
for a week or so. You'd sing mighty small after that. If you
think taking care of fat dowager damsels and curly-headed

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

society snobs is a bed of roses, you're welcome to it." He
muttered viciously to himself for a moment and then bowed
politely to a bejeweled harridan who simpered past. "It's
what's grayed my hair and furrowed my brow, by Rigel."

Maronni drew a long Karen smoke out of his waist-pouch
and lit up luxuriously. He blew a cloud of apple-green smoke
into the Captain's face and smiled impishly.

"I've never heard the man yet who didn't knock his own
job, even when it was the pushover yours is, you hoary old
fraud. Ah, if I'm not mistaken, the gorgeous Yien Surat is

bearing down upon us."

"Oh, pink devils of Sirius! I'm afraid to look. Is that old

hag actually moving in our direction?"

"She certainly is—and aren't you the lucky one! She's one
of the richest women on Santanni and a widow, too. The uni-
form gets them, I suppose. What a pity I'm married."

Captain Drake twisted his face into a most frightful gri-
mace, "I hope a chandelier falls on her."

And with that he turned, his expression metamorphosed
into one of bland delight in an instant, "Why, Madam Surat,
I thought I'd never get the chance to see you tonight."

Yien Surat, for whom the age of sixty was past experience,
giggled girlishly, "Be still, you old flirt, or you'll make me for-
get that I've come here to scold you."

"Nothing is wrong, I hope?" Drake felt a sinking of the
heart. He had had previous experience with Madam Surat's

complaints. Things usually were wrong.

"A great deal is wrong. I've just been told that in fifty
hours, we shall land on Earth—if that's the way you pro-
nounce the word."

"Perfectly correct," answered Captain Drake, a bit more at

ease.

"But it wasn't listed as a stop when we boarded."
"No, it wasn't. But then, you see, it's .quite a routine affair.

We leave ten hours after landing."

"But this is insupportable. It will delay me an entire day. It
is necessary for me to reach Santanni within the week, and
days are precious. Now, I've never heard of Earth. My guide
book," she extracted a leather-covered volume from her
reticule and flipped its pages angrily, "doesn't even mention
the place. No one, I feel sure, has any interest in a halt there.
If you persist in wasting the passengers' time in a perfectly
useless stop, I shall take it up with the president of the line.
I'll remind you that 1 have some little influence back home."

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Captain Drake sighed inaudibly. It had not been the first
time he had been reminded of Yien Surat's "little influence."
"My dear madam, you are right, entirely right, perfectly
right—but I can do nothing. All ships on the Sirius, Alpha
Centauri, and 61 Cygni lines must stop at Earth. It is by inter-
stellar agreement, and even the president of the line, no matter
how stimulated he may be by your argument, could do
nothing."

"Besides," interrupted Maronni, who thought it time to
come to the aid of the beleaguered captain, "I believe that we
have two passengers who are actually headed for Earth."

'That's right. I had forgotten." Captain Drake's face bright-
ened a bit. "There! We have concrete reason for the stop as
well."

"Two passengers out of over fifteen hundred! Reason, in-
deed!"

"You are unfair," said Maronni, lightly. "After all, it was
on Earth that the Human race originated. You know that, I
suppose?"

Yien Surat lifted patently false eyebrows, "Did we?"

The blank look on her face twisted to one of disdain, "Oh,
well, that was all thousands and thousands of years ago. It
doesn't matter any more."

"It does to the Loarists and the two who wish to land are
Loarists."

"Do you mean to say," sneered the widow, "that there are
still people in this enlightened age who go about studying 'our
ancient culture.' Isn't that what they're always talking about?"

'That's what Filip Sanat is always talking about," laughed
Maronni. "He gave me a long sermon only a few days ago
on that very subject. And it was interesting, too. There was a
lot to what he said."

He nodded lightly and continued, "He's got a good head on
him, that Filip Sanat. He might have made a good scientist or
businessman."

"Speak of meteors and hear them whizz," said the Captain,
suddenly, and nodded his head to the right.

"Well!" gasped Maronni. "There he is. But—but what in
space is he doing here?"

Filip Sanat did make a rather incongruous picture as he
stood framed in the far doorway. His long, dark purple tunic
—mark of the Loarist—was a sombre splotch upon an other-
wise gay scene. His grave eyes turned toward Maronni and
he lifted his hand in immediate recognition.

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
Astonished dancers made way automatically as he passed,
staring at him long and curiously afterwards. One could hear
the wake of whispering that he left in his path. Filip Sanat,
however, took no notice of this. Eyes fixed stonily ahead of
him and expression stolidly immobile, he reached Captain
Drake, Sammel Maronni, and Yien Surat

Filip Sanat greeted the two men warmly and then, in re-
sponse to an introduction, bowed gravely to the widow, who

regarded him with surprise and open disdain.

"Pardon me for disturbing you. Captain Drake," said the
young man, in a low tone. "I only want to know at what time

we are leaving hyperspace."

The captain yanked out a corpulent pocket-chromo. "An

hour from now. Not more."
"And we shall then be—?"
"Just outside the orbit of Planet IX."
"That would be Pluto. Sol will then be in sight as we enter

normal space?"

"If you're looking in the right direction, it will be—toward

the prow of the ship."

"Thank you," Pilip Sanat made as if to depart, but Maronni

detained him.

"Hold on there, Filip, you're not going to leave us, are you?

I'm sure Madam Surat here is fairly dying to ask you several
questions. She has displayed a great interest in Loarism."
There was more than the suspicion of a twinkle in the Lac-

tonian's eye.

Filip Sanat turned politely to the widow, who, taken aback

for the moment, remained speechless, and then recovered.
"Tell me, young man," she burst forth, "are there really

still people like you left?—Loarists, I mean."

Filip Sanat started and stared quite rudely at his questioner,
but did lose his tongue. With calm distinctness, he said, "There
are still people left who try to maintain the culture and way

of life of ancient Earth."

Captain Drake could not forbear a tiny bit of irony, "Even

down to the culture of the Lhasinuic masters?"

Yien Surat uttered a stifled scream, "Do you mean to say
Earth is a Lhasinuic world? Is it?" Her voice rose to a fright-
ened squeak.

"Why, certainly," answered the puzzled captain, sorry that

he had spoken. "Didn't you know?"

"Captain," there was hysteria in the woman's voice. "You

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must not land. If you do, I shall make trouble—plenty of
trouble. I will not be exposed to hordes of those terrible
Lhasinu—those awful reptiles from Vega."

"You need not fear. Madam Surat," observed Filip Sanat,
coldly. "The vast majority of Earth's population is very much
human. It is only the one percent that rules that is Lhasinuic."

"Oh—" A pause, and then, in a wounded manner, "Well, I
don't think Earth can be so important, if it is not even ruled
by Humans. Loarism indeed! Silly waste of time, I call it!"

Sanat's face flushed suddenly, and for a moment he seemed
to struggle vainly for speech. When he did speak, it was in an
agitated tone, "You have a very superficial view. The fact that
the Lhasinu control Earth has nothing to do with the funda-
mental problem of Loarism which—"

He turned on his heel and left.

Sammel Maronni drew a long breath as he watched the re-
treating figure. "You hit him in a sore spot, Madam Surat, I
never saw him squirm away from an argument or an attempt
at an explanation in that way before."

"He's not a bad looking chap," said Captain Drake.

Maronni chuckled, "Not by a long shot. We're from the
same planet, that young fellow and I. He's a typical Lactonian,
like me."

The widow cleared her throat grumpily, "Oh, let us change
the subject by all means. That person seems to have cast a
shadow over the entire room. Why do they wear those awful
purple robes? So unstylish!"

Loara Broos Porin glanced up as his young acolyte entered.

"Well?"

"In less than forty-five minutes, Loara Broos."

And throwing himself into a chair, Sanat leaned a flushed
and frowning face upon one balled fist.

Porin regarded the other with an affectionate smile, "Have
you been arguing with Sammel Maronni again, Filip?"

"No, not exactly." He jerked himself upright. "But what's
the use, Loara Broos? There, on the upper level, are hundreds
of Humans, thoughtless, gaily dressed, laughing, frolicking;

and there outside is Earth, disregarded. Only we two of the
entire ship's company are stopping there to view the world of
our ancient days."

His eyes avoided those of the older man and his voice took
on a bitter tinge, "And once thousands of Humans from every

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
comer of the Galaxy landed on Earth every day. The great
days of Loarism are over."

Loara Broos laughed. One would not have thought such a
hearty laugh to be in his spindly figure. "That is at least the
hundredth time I have heard that said by you. Foolish! The
day will come when Earth will once more be remembered.
People will yet again flock. By the thousands and millions
they'll come."

"No! It is over!"

"Bah! The croaking prophets of doom have said that over
and over again through history. They have yet to prove them-
selves right."

"This time they will." Sanat's eyes blazed suddenly, "Do
you know why? It is because Earth is profaned by the reptile
conquerors. A woman has just said to me—a vain, stupid,
shallow woman—that T don't think Earth can be so important
if it is not even ruled by Humans.' She said what billions must
say unconsciously, and I hadn't the words to refute her. It was
one argument I couldn't answer."

"And what would your solution be, Filip? Come, have you
thought it out?"

"Drive them from Earth! Make it a Human planet once
more! We fought them once during the First Galactic Drive
two thousand years ago, and stopped them when it seemed as
if they might absorb the Galaxy. Let us make a Second Drive
of our own and hurl them back to Vega."

Porin sighed and shook his head, "You young hothead!
There never was a young Loarist who didn't eat fire on the
subject. You'll outgrow it. You'll outgrow it."

"Look, my boy!" Loara Broos arose and grasped the other
by the shoulders, "Man and Lhasinu have intelligence, and
are the only two intelligent races of the Galaxy. They are
brothers in mind and spirit. Be at peace with them. Don't
hate; it is the most unreasoning emotion. Instead, strive to
understand."

Filip Sanat stared stonily at the ground and made no indi-
cation that he heard. His mentor clicked his tongue in gentle
rebuke.

"Well, when you are older, you will understand. Now, for-
get all this, Filip. Remember that the ambition of every real
Loarist is about to be fulfilled for you. In two days, we shall
reach Earth and its soil shall be under your feet. Isn't that
enough to make you happy? Just think! When you return, you
shall be awarded the title 'Loara.' You shall be one who has

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

visited Earth. The golden sun will be pinned to your shoulder."

Porin's hand crept to the staring yellow orb upon his own
tunic, mute witness of his three previous visits to Earth.

"Loara Filip Sanat," said Sanat slowly, eyes glistening.
"Loara Filip Sanat. It has a wonderful sound, hasn't it? And
only a little ways off."

"Now, then, you feel better. But come, in a few moments
we shall leave hyperspace and we will see Sol."

Already, even as he spoke, the thick, choking cloak of
hyper-stuff that clung so closely to the sides of the Flaming
Nova was going through those curious changes that marked
the beginning of the shift to normal space. The blackness
lightened a bit and concentric rings of various shades of gray
chased each other across the port-view with gradually hasten-
ing speed. It was a weird and beautiful optical illusion that
science has never succeeded in explaining.

Porin clicked off the lights in the room, and the two sat
quietly in the dark, watching the feeble phosphorescence of
the racing ripples as they sped into a blur. Then, with a ter-
rifying silent suddenness, the whole structure of hyper-stuff
seemed to burst apart in a whirling madhouse of brilliant
color. And then all was peaceful again. The stars sparkled
quietly, against the curved backdrop of normal space.

And up in the corner of the port blazed the brightest spark
of the sky with a luminous yellow flame that lit up the faces
of the two men into pale, waxen masks. It was Sol!

The birth-star of Man was so distant that it lacked a per-
ceptible disc, yet it was incomparably the brightest object to
be seen. In its feeble yellow light, the two remained in quiet
thought, and Pilip Sanat grew calmer.

In two days, the Flaming Nova landed on Earth.

Filip Sanat forgot the delicious thrill that had seized him.
at the moment when his sandals first came into contact with
the firm green sod of Earth, when he caught his first glimpse
of a Lhasinuic official.

They seemed actually human—or humanoid, at least.
At first glance, the predominantly Manlike characteristics
drowned out all else. The body plan differed in no essential
from Man's. The four-limbed, bipedal body; the middling-well
proportioned arms and legs; the well-defined neck, were all
astonishingly in evidence. It was only after a few minutes that
the smaller details marking the difference between the two
races were noticed at all.

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

Chief of these were the scales covering the bead and a thick
line down the backbone, halfway to the hips. The face itself,
with its flat, broad, thinly-scaled nose and lidless eyes was
rather repulsive, but in no way bestial. Their clothes were few
and simple, and their speech quite pleasant to the ear. And,
what was most important, there was no masking the intelli-
gence that showed forth in their dark, luminous eyes.

Porin noted Sanat's surprise at this first glimpse of the
Vegan reptiles with every sign of satisfaction.

"You see," he remarked, "their appearance is not at all
monstrous. Why should hate exist between Human and

Lhasinu, then?"

Sanat didn't answer. Of course, his old friend was right. The

word "Lhasinu" had so long been coupled with the words
"alien" and "monster" in his mind, that against all knowledge
and reason, he had subconsciously expected to see some weird

life-form.

Yet, overlying the foolish feeling this realization induced

was the same haunting hate that clung closely to him, growing
to fury as they passed inspection by an over-bearing English-
speaking Lhasinu.

The next morning, the two left for New York, the largest

city of the planet In the historic lore of the unbelievably
ancient metropolis, Sanat forgot for a day the troubles of the
Galaxy outside. It was a great moment for him when he finally
stood before a towering structure and said to himself, "This

'is the Memorial."

The Memorial was Earth's greatest monument, dedicated

to the birthplace of the Human race, and this was Wednesday,
the day of the week when two men "guarded the Flame."
Two men, alone in the Memorial, watched over the flickering
yellow fire that symbolized Human courage arid Human
initiative—and Porin had already arranged that the choice
should fall that day upon himself and Sanat, as being two

newly-arrived Loarists.

And so, in the fading twilight, the two sat alone in the spa-
cious Flame Room of the Memorial. In the murky semi-
darkness, lit only by the fitful glare of a dancing yellow

flame, a quiet peace descended upon them.

There was something about the brooding aura of the place
that wiped all mental disturbance clean away. There was
something about the wavering shadows as they weaved
through the pillars of the long colonnade on either side, that

cast a hypnotic spell.
126

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

Gradually, he fell into a half doze, and out of sleepy eyes
regarded the Flame intently, until it became a living being of
light weaving a dim, silent figure beside him.

But tiny sounds are sufficient to disturb a reverie, especially
when contrasted with a hitherto deep silence. Sanat stiffened
suddenly, and grasped Porin's elbow in a fierce grip.

"Listen," he hissed the warning quietly.

Porin started violently out of a peaceful day-dream, re-
garded his young companion with uneasy intentness, then,
without a word, trumpeted one ear. The silence was thicker
than ever—also a tangible cloak. Then the faintest possible
scraping of feet upon marble, far off. A low whisper, down
at the limits of audibility, and then silence again.

"What is it?" he asked bewilderedly of Sanat, who had
already risen to his feet.

"Lhasinu!" ground out Sanat, face a mask of hate-filled
indignation.

"Impossible!" Porin strove to keep his voice coldly steady,
but it trembled in spite of itself. "It would be an unheard-of
event. We are just imagining things, now. Our nerves are
rubbed raw by this silence, that is all. Perhaps it is some
official of the Memorial."

"After sunset, on Wednesday?" came Sanat's strident voice.
"That is as illegal as the entrance of Lhasinuic lizards, and far
more unlikely. It is my duty as a Guardian of the Flame to
investigate this."

He made as if to walk toward the shadowed door, and Porin
caught his wrist fearfully, "Don't Filip. Let us forget this until
sunrise. One can never tell what will happen. What can you
do, even supposing that Lhasinu have entered the Memorial?
If you—"

But Sanat was no longer listening. Roughly, he shook off
the other's desperate grasp, "Stay here! The Flame must be
guarded. I shall be back soon."

He was already half way across the wide, marble-floored
hall. Cautiously, he approached the glass-paned door to the
dark, twisting staircase that circled its way upwards through
the twilit gloom into the desert recesses of the tower.

Slipping off his sandals, he crept up the stairs, casting one
last look back toward the softly luminous Flame, and toward
the nervous, frightened figure standing beside it.

The two Lhasinu stared about them in the pearly light of
the Atomo lamp.

127




BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
"Dreary old place," said Threg Ban Sola. His wrist camera
clicked three times. "Take down a few of those books on the

walls. They'll serve as additional proof."

"Do you think we ought to," asked Cor Wen Hasta. "These

Human apes may miss them."

"Let them!" came the cool response. "What can they do?
Here, sit down!" He flicked a hasty glance upon his chro-
nometer. "We'll get fifty credits for every minute we stay, so
we might as well pile up enough to last us for a while."

"Pirat For is a fool. What made him think we wouldn't

take the bet?"                           '

"I think," said Ban Sola, "he's heard about the soldier torn

to pieces last year for looting a European museum. The Hu-
mans didn't like it, though Loarism is filthy rich, Vega knows.
The Humans were disciplined, of course, but the soldier was
dead. Anyway, what Pirat For doesn't know is that the
Memorial is deserted Wednesdays. This is going to cost him

money."

"Fifty credits a minute. And it's been seven minutes now."

"Three hundred and fifty credits. Sit down. We'll play a
game of cards and watch our money mount."

Threg Ban Sola drew forth a worn pack of cards from his
pouch which, though they were typically and essentially
Lhasinuic, bore unmistakable traces of their Human deriva-
tion.

"Put the Atomo-light on the table and I'll sit between it and

the window," he continued peremptorily, shuffling the cards
as he spoke. "Hah! I'll warrant no Lhasinu ever gamed in such
an atmosphere. Why, it will triple the zest of the play."

Cor Wen Hasta seated himself, and then rose again, "Did
you hear anything?" He stared into the shadows beyond the

half-open door.

"No," Ban Sola frowned and continued shuffling. "You're

not getting nervous, are you?"

"Of course not. Still, if they were to catch us here in this

blasted tower, it might not be pleasant."

"Not a chance. The shadows are making you jumpy." He

dealt the hands.

"Do you know," said Wen Hasta, studying his cards care-
fully, "it wouldn't be so nice if the Viceroy were to get wind
of this, either. I imagine he wouldn't deal lightly with offend-
ers of the Loarists, as a matter of policy. Back on Sirius,

where I served before I was shifted, the scum—"

"Scum, all right," grunted Ban Sola. "They breed like flies

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
and fight each other like mad bulls. Look at the creatures!"
He turned his cards downward and grew argumentative. "I
mean, look at them scientifically and impartially. What are
they? Only mammals! Mammals that can think, in a way; but
mammals just the same. That's all."

"I know. Did you ever visit one of the Human worlds?"

Ban Sola smiled, "I may, pretty soon."

"Furlough?" Wen Hasta registered polite astonishment.

"Furlough, my scales. With my ship! And with guns shoot-
ing!"

"What do you mean?" There was a sudden glint in Wen
Hasta's eyes.

Ban Sola's grin grew mysterious. "This isn't supposed to be
known, even among us officers, but you know how things leak
out."

Wen Hasta nodded, "I know." Both had lowered their
voices instinctively.

"Well. The Second Drive will be on, now, any time."

"No!"

"Fact! And we're starting right here. By Vega, the Viceregal
Palace is buzzing with nothing else. Some of the officers have
even started a lottery on the exact date of the first move. I've
got a hundred credits at twenty to one myself. But then, I
drew only to the nearest week. You can get a hundred and
fifty to one, if you're nervy enough to pick a particular day."

"But why here on this Galaxy-forsaken planet?"

"Strategy on the part of the Home Office." Ban Sola leaned
forward. "The position we're in now has us facing a numeri-
cally superior enemy hopelessly divided amongst itself. If we
can keep them so, we can take them over one by one. The
Human Worlds would just naturally rather cut their own
throats than co-operate with each other."

Wen Hasta grinned agreement, "That's typical mammalian
behavior for you. Evolution must have laughed when she
gave a brain to an ape."

"But Earth has particular significance. It's the center of
Loarism, because the Humans originated here. It corresponds
to our own Vegan system."

"Do you mean that? But you couldn't! This little two-by-
four flyspeck?"

'That's what they say. I wasn't here at the time, so I
wouldn't know. But anyway, if we can destroy Earth, we can
destroy Loarism, which is centered here. It was Loarism, the
historians say, that united the Worlds against us at the end

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
of the First Drive. No Loarism; the last fear of enemy unifica-
tion is gone; and victory is easy."

"Damned clever! How are we going to go about it?"
"Well, the word is that they're going to pack up every last
Human on Earth and scatter them through the subject worlds.
Then we can remove everything else on Earth that smells of
the Mammals and make it an entirely Lhasinuic world."

"But when?"

"We don't know; hence the lottery. But no one has placed
his bet at a period more than two years in the future."

"Hurrah for Vega! I'll give you two to one I riddle a
Human cruiser before you do, when the time comes."

"Done," cried Ban Sola. "I'll put up fifty credits."

They rose to touch fists in token and Wen Hasta
grinned at his chronometer, "Another minute and we'll have
an even thousand credits coming to us. Poor Pirat For. He'll
groan. Let's go now; more would be extortionate."

There was low laughter as the two Lhasinu left, long cloaks
swishing softly behind them. They did not notice the slightly
darker shadow hugging the wall at the head of the stairs,
though they almost brushed it as they passed. Nor did they
sense the burning eyes focused upon them as they descended
noiselessly.

Loara Broos Porin jerked to his feet with a sob of relief as
he saw the figure of Filip Sanat stumble across the hall to-
ward him. He ran to him eagerly, grasping both hands tightly.

"What kept you, Filip? You don't know what wild thoughts
have passed through my head this past hour. If you had been
gone another five minutes, I would have gone mad for sheer
suspense and uncertainty. But what's wrong?"

It took several moments for Loara Broos' wild relief to sub-
side sufficiently to note the other's trembling hands, his di-
sheveled hair, his feverishly-glinting eyes; but when it did, all
his fears returned.

He watched Sanat in dismay, scarcely daring to press his
question for fear of the answer. But Sanat needed no urging.
In short, jerky sentences he related the conversation he had
overheard and his last words trailed into a despairing silence.

Loara Broos' pallor was almost frightening, and twice he
tried to talk with no success other than a few hoarse gasps.
Then, finally, "But it is the death of Loarism! What is to be

done?"

Filip Sanat laughed, as men laugh when they are at last

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
convinced that nothing remains to laugh at. "What can be
done? Can we inform the Central Council? You know only
too well how helpless they are. The various Human govern-
ments? You can imagine how effective those divided fools
would be."

"But it can't be true! It simply can't be!"

Sanat remained silent for seconds, and then his face twisted
agonizedly and in a voice thick with passion, he shouted, "I
won't have it. Do you hear? It shan't be! I'll stop it!"

It was easy to see that he had lost control of himself; that
wild emotion was driving him. Porin, large drops of perspira-
tion on his brow, grasped him about the waist, "Sit down,
Filip, sit down! Are you going crazy?"

"No!" With a sudden push, he sent Porin stumbling back-
wards into a sitting position, while the Flame wavered and
flickered madly in the rush of air, "I'm going sane. The time
for idealism and compromise and subservience is gone! The

time for force has come! We will fight and, by Space, we will
win!"

He was leaving the room at a dead run.

Porin limped after, "Pilip! Pilip!" He stopped at the door-
way in frightened despair. He could go no further. Though the
Heavens fell, someone must guard the Flame.

But—but what was Filip Sanat going to do? And through
Porin's tortured mind flickered visions of a certain night, five
hundred years before, when a careless word, a blow, a shot,
had lit a fire over Earth that was finally drowned in Human
blood.

Loara Paul Kane was alone that night. The inner office was
empty; the dim, blue light upon the severely simple desk the
only illumination in the room. His thin face was bathed in

the ghastly light, and his chin buried musingly between his
hands.

And then there was a crashing interruption as the door was
flung open and a disheveled Russell Tymball knocked off the
restraining hands of half a dozen men and catapulted in. Kane
whirled in dismay at the intrusion and one hand flew up to his

throat as his eyes widened in apprehension. His face was one
startled question.

Tymball waved his arm in a quieting gesture. "It's all right.
Just let me catch my breath." He wheezed a bit and seated
himself gently before continuing, "Your catalyst has turned
up, Loara Paul—and guess where. Here on Earth! Here in

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
New York! Not half a mile from where we're sitting now!"

Loara Paul Kane eyed Tymball narrowly, "Are you mad?"

"Not so you can notice it. I'll tell you about it, if you don't
mind turning on a light or .two. You look like a ghost in the
blue." The room whitened under the glare of Atomos, and
Tymball continued, "Femi and I were returning from the
meeting. We were passing the Memorial when it happened,
and you can thank Fate for the lucky coincidence that led us
to the right spot at the right moment.

"As we passed, a figure shot out the side entrance, jumped
on the marble steps in front, and shouted, 'Men of Earth!'
Everyone turned to look—you know how filled Memorial
Sector is at eleven—and inside of two seconds, he had a
crowd."

"Who was the speaker, and what was he doing inside the
Memorial? This is Wednesday night, you know."

"Why," Tymball paused to consider, "now that you mention
it, he must have been one of the two Guardians. He was a
Loarist—you couldn't mistake the tunic. He wasn't Terres-
trial, either!"

"Did he wear the yellow orb?"

"No."

"Then I know who he was. He's Porin's young friend. Go
ahead."

"There he stood!" Tymball was warming to his task. "He
was some twenty feet above street level. You have no idea
what an impressive figure he made with the glare of the
Luxites lighting his face. He was handsome, but not in an
athletic, brawny way. He was the ascetic type, if you know
what I mean. Pale, thin face, burning eyes, long, brown hair.

"And when he spoke! It's no use describing it; in order to
appreciate it really, you would have to hear him. He began
telling the crowd of the Lhasinuic designs; shouting what /
had been whispering. Evidently, he had gotten them from a
good source, for he went into details—and how he put them!
He made them sound real and frightening. He frightened me
with them; had me standing there scared blue at what he was
saying; and as for the crowd, after the second sentence, they
were hypnotized. Every one of them had had 'Lhasinuic
Menace' drilled into them over and over again, but this was
the first time they listened—actually listened.

"Then he began damning the Lhasinu. He rang the changes
on their bestiality, their perfidy, their criminality—only he had
a vocabulary that raked them into the lowest mud of a Venu-

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
sian ocean. And every time he let loose with an epithet, the
crowd stood upon its hind legs and let out a roar. It began
to sound like a catechism. 'Shall we allow this to go on?' cried
he. 'Never!' yelled the crowd. 'Must we yield?' 'Neveri' 'Shall
we resist?' 'To the end!' 'Down with the Lhasinul' he shouted.
•KiU them!' they howled.

"I howled as loud as any of them—forgot myself entirely.
"I don't know how long it lasted before Lhasinuic guards
began closing in. The crowd turned on them, with the Loarist
urging them on. Did you ever hear a mob yell for blood? No?
It's the most awful sound you can imagine. The guards thought
so, too, for one look at what was before them made them
turn and run for their lives, in spite of the fact that they
were armed. The mob had grown into a matter of thousands
and thousands by then.

"But in two minutes, the alarm siren sounded—for the first
time in a hundred years. I came to my senses at last and made
for the Loarist, who had not stopped his tirade a moment It
was plain that we couldn't let him fall into the hands of the
Lhasinu.

"The rest is pretty much of a mixup. Squadrons of motor-
ized police were charging down on us, but somehow, Ferni
and I managed between the two of us to grab the Loarist, slip
out, and bring him here. I have him in the outer room, gagged
and tied, to keep him quiet."

During all the last half of the narrative, Kane had paced
the floor nervously, pausing every once in a while in deep
consideration. Little flecks of blood appeared on his lower lip.

"You don't think," he asked, "that the riot will get out of
hand? A premature explosion—"

Tymball shook his head vigorously, "They're mopping up
already. Once the young fellow disappeared, the crowd lost
its spirit, anyway."

"There will be many killed or hurt, but— Well, bring in the
young firebrand." Kane seated himself behind his desk and
composed his face into a semblance of tranquility.

Filip Sanat was in sad shape as he kneeled before his su-
perior. His tunic was in tatters, and his face scratched and
bloody, but the fire of determination shone as brilliantly as
ever in his fierce eyes. Russell Tymball regarded him breath-
lessly as though the previous hour's magic still lingered.

Kane extended his arm gently, "I have heard of your wild
escapade, my boy. What was it that impelled you to do so
foolish an act? It might very well have cost you your life, to

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
say nothing of the lives of thousands of others."
" For the second time that night, Sanat repeated the conver-
sation he had overheard—dramatically and in the minutest

detail.

"Just so, just so," said Kane, with a grim smile, upon the
conclusion of the tale, "and did you think we knew nothing
of this? For a long time we have been preparing against this
danger, and you have come near to upsetting all our carefully
laid plans. By your premature appeal, you might have worked
irreparable harm to our cause."

Filip Sanat reddened, "Pardon my inexperienced enthusi-
asm—"

"Exactly," exclaimed Kane. "Yet, properly directed, you
might be of great aid to us. Your oratory and youthful fire
might work wonders if well managed. Would you be willing
to dedicate yourself to the task?"

Sanat's eyes flashed, "Need you ask?"

Loara Paul Kane laughed and cast a jubilant side-glance at
Russell Tymball, "You'll do. In two days, you shall leave for
the outer stars. With you, will go several of my own men.
And now, you are tired. You will be taken to where you may
wash and treat your cuts. Then, you had better sleep, for you
shall need your strength in the days to come."

"But—but Loara Broos Porin—my companion at the

Flame?"

"I shall send a messenger to the Memorial immediately. He

will tell Loara Broos of your safety and serve as the second
Guardian for the remainder of the night. Go, now!"

But even as Sanat, relieved and deliriously happy, rose to
go, Russell Tymball leaped from his chair and grasped the
older Loarist's wrist in a convulsive grip.

"Great Space! Listen!"

The shrill, keening whine that pierced to the inner sanctum
of Kane's offices told its own story. Kane's face turned
haggard.

"It's martial law!"

Tymball's very lips had turned bloodless, "We lost out, after
all. They're using tonight's disturbance to strike the first blow.
They're after Sanat, and they'll have him. A mouse couldn't
get through the cordon they're going to throw about the city

now."

"But they mustn't have him." Kane's eyes glittered. "We'll
take him to the Memorial by the Passageway. They won't dare
violate the Memorial."

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

"They have done it once already," came Sanat's impassioned
cry. "I won't hide from the lizards. Let us fight."

"Quiet," said Kane, "and follow silently."

A panel in the wall had slid aside, and toward it Kane mo-
tioned.

And as the panel closed noiselessly behind them, leaving
them in the cold glow of a pocket Atomo lamp, Tymball
muttered softly, "If they are ready, even the Memorial will
yield no protection."

New York was in ferment. The Lhasinuic garrison had
mustered its full strength and placed it in a state of siege. No
one might enter. No one might leave. Through the key ave-
nues, rolled the ground cars of the army, while overhead
poised the Strato-cars that guarded the airways.

The Human population stirred restlessly. They percolated
through the streets, gathering in little knots that broke up at
the approach of the Lhasinu. The spell of Sanat lingered, and
here and there frowning men exchanged angry whispers.

The atmosphere crackled with tension.

The Viceroy of New York realized that as he sat behind
his desk in the Palace, which raised its spires upon Washing-
ton Heights. He stared out the window at the Hudson River,
flowing darkly beneath, and addressed the uniformed Lhasinu
before him.

"There must be positive action. Captain. You are right in
that. And yet, if possible, an outright break must be avoided.
We are woefully undermanned and we haven't more than five
third-rate war-vessels on the entire planet."

"It is not our strength but their own fear that keeps them
helpless. Excellency. Their spirit has been thoroughly broken
in these last centuries. The rabble would break before a single
unit of Guardsmen. That is precisely the reason why we must
strike hard now. The population has reared and they must feel
the whip immediately. The Second Drive may as well begin
tonight."

"Yes," the Viceroy grimaced wryly. "We are caught off-
stride, but the—er—rabble-rouser must be made an example
of. You have him, of course."

The captain smiled grimly, "No. The Human dog had
powerful friends. He is a Loarist, you know. Kane—"

"Is Kane standing against us?" Two re3 spots burnt over
the Viceroy's eyes. "The fool presumes! The troops are to
arrest the rebel in spite of him-—and him, too, if he objects."




BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
"Excellency!" the captain's voice rang metallically. "We
have reason to believe the rebel may be skulking in the

Memorial."

The Viceroy half-rose to his feet. He scowled in indecision

and seated himself once more, "The Memoriall That presents

difficulties!"

"Not necessarily!"
'There are some things those Humans won't stand." His

voice trailed off uncertainly.

The Captain spoke decisively, "The nettle seized firmly does
not sting. Quickly done—a criminal could be dragged from
the Hall of the Flame itself—and we kill Loarism at a
stroke. There could be no struggle after that supreme defi-
ance."

"By Vega! Blast me, if you're not right. Good! Storm the

Memorial!"

The Captain bowed stiffly, turned on his heel, and left the

Palace.

Filip Sanat re-entered the Hall of Flame, thin face set
angrily, "The entire Sector is patrolled by the lizards. All
avenues of approach to the Memorial have been shut off."

Russell Tymball rubbed his jaw, "Oh, they're not fools,
They've treed us, and the Memorial won't stop them. As a
matter of fact, they may have decided to make this the Day."

Filip frowned and his voice was thickly furious. "And we're
to wait here, are we? Better to die fighting, than to die

hiding."

"Better not to die at all, Filip." responded Tymball quietly.

There was a moment of silence. Loara Paul Kane sat

staring at his fingers.

Finally, he said, "If you were to give the signal to strike

now, Tymball, how long could you hold out?"

"Until Lhasinuic reinforcements could arrive in sufficient
numbers to crush us. The Terrestrial garrison, including, the
entire Solar Patrol, is not enough to stop us. Without outside
help, we can fight effectively for six months at the very least.
Unfortunately it's out of the question." His composure was

unruffled.

"Why is it out of the question?"

And his face reddened suddenly, as he sprang angrily to
his feet, "Because you can't just push buttons. The Lhasinu
are weak. My men know that, but Earth doesn't. The lizards
have one weapon, fear! We can't defeat them, unless the

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
populace is with us, at least passively." His mouth twisted,
"You don't know the practical difficulties involved. Ten years,
now, I've been planning, working, trying. I have an army;

and a respectable fleet in the Appalachians. I could set the
wheels in motion in all five continents simultaneously. But
what good would it do? It would be useless. If I had New
York, now—if I were able to prove to the rest of Earth that
the Lhasinu were not invincible."

"If I could banish fear from the hearts of Humans?" said
Kane softly.

"I would have New York by dawn. But it would take a
miracle."

"Perhaps! Do you think you can get through the cordon
and reach your men?"

"I could if I had to. What are you going to do?"

"You will know when it happens." Kane was smiling
fiercely. "And when it does happen, strike!"

There was a Tonite gun in Tymball's hand suddenly, as he
backed away. His plump face was not at all gentle, "I'll take
a chance, Kane. Good-bye 1"

The captain strode up the deserted marble steps of the
Memorial arrogantly. He was flanked on each side by an
armed adjutant.

He paused an instant before the huge double-door that
loomed up before him and stared at the slender pillars that
soared gracefully upwards at its sides.

There was faint sarcasm in his smile, "Impressive, all this,
isn't it?"

"Yes, Captain!" was the double reply.

"And mysteriously dark, too, except for the dim yellow of
their Flame. You see its light?" He pointed toward the stained
glass of the bottom windows, which glinted flickeringly.

"Yes, Captain!"

"It's dark, and mysterious, and impressive—and it is about
to fall in ruins." He laughed, and suddenly brought the butt
end of his saber down upon the metal carvings on the door
in a clanging salvo.

It echoed through the emptiness within and sounded hol-
lowly in the night, but there was no answer.

The adjutant at his left raised his televisor to his ear and
caught the faint words issuing therefrom. He saluted, "Cap-
tain, the Humans are crowding into the sector."

The captain sneered, "Let them! Order the guns placed in

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
readiness and aimed along the avenues. Any Human attempt-
ing to pass the cordon is to be rayed mercilessly."

His barked command was murmured into the televisor, and
a hundred yards beyond, Lhasinuic Guardsmen put guns in
order and aimed them carefully. A low, inchoate murmur
went up—a murmur of fear. Men pressed back.

"If the door does not open," said the captain, grimly, "it is
to be broken down." He raised his saber again, and again

there was the thunder of metal on metal.

Slowly, noiselessly, the door yawned wide, and the captain
recognized the stem, purple-clad figure that stood before him.

"Who disturbs the Memorial on the night of the Guarding
of the Flame?" demanded Loara Paul Kane solemnly.

"Very dramatic, Kane. Stand aside!"

"Back!" The words rang out loudly and clearly. "The Me-
morial may not be approached by the Lhasinu."

"Yield us our prisoner, and we leave. Refuse, and we will

take him by force."

"The Memorial yields no prisoner. It is inviolate. You may

not enter."

"Make way!"

"Stand back!"

The Lhasinu growled throatily and became aware of a dim
roaring. The streets about him were empty, but a block away
in every direction was the thin line of Lhasinuic troops, sta-
tioned at their guns, and beyond were the Humans. They
were massed in noisy thickness and the whites of their faces
shone palely in the Chrome-lights.

"What," gritted the captain to himself, "do the scum yet
snarl?" His tough skin ridged at the jaws and the scales upon
his head uptilted sharply. He turned to the adjutant with the
televisor. "Order a round over their heads."

The night was split in two by the purple blasts of energy
and the Lhasinu laughed aloud at the silence that followed.

He turned to Kane, who remained standing upon the thresh-
old. "So you see that if you expect help from your people,
you will be disappointed. The next round will be aimed at
head level. If you think that bluff, try me!"

Teeth clicked together sharply, "Make way!" A Tonite was
leveled in his hand, and thumb was firm upon the trigger.

Loara Paul Kane retreated slowly, eyes upon the gun. The
captain followed. And as he did so, the inner door of the
anteroom swung open and the Hall of the Flame stood re-
vealed. In the sudden draft, the Flame staggered, and at the

138

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
sight of it, there came a huge shout from the distant spectators.

Kane turned toward it, face raised upwards. The motion of
one of his hands was all but imperceptible.

And the Flame suddenly changed. It steadied and roared up
to the vaulted ceiling, a blazing shaft fifty feet high. Loara
Paul Kane's hand moved again, and as it did so, the Flame
turned carmine. The color deepened and the crimson light of
that flaming pillar streamed out into the city and turned the
Memorial's windows into staring, bloody eyes.

Long seconds passed, while the captain froze in bewilder-
ment; while the distant mass of Humanity fell into awed
silence.

And then there was a confused murmur, which strengthened
and grew and split itself into one vast shout.

"Down with the Lhasinul"

There was the purple flash of a Tonite from somewhere
high above, and the captain came to life an instant too late.
Caught squarely, he bent slowly to his death; cold, reptilian
face a mask of contempt to the last.

Russell Tymball brought down his gun and smiled sardoni-
cally, "A perfect target against the Flame. Good for Kanel
The changing of the Flame was just the emotion-stirring thing
we needed. Let's go!"

From the roof of Kane's dwelling he aimed down upon
the Lhasinu below. And as he did, all Hell erupted. Men
mushroomed from the very ground, it seemed, weapons in
hand. Tonites blazed from every side, before the startled
Lhasinu could spring to their triggers.

And when they did so, it was too late, for the mob, white-
hot with flaring rage, broke its bounds. Someone shrieked,
"Kill the lizards!" and the cry was taken up in one roaring
ululation that swelled to the sky.

Like a many-headed monster, the stream of Humanity
surged forward, weaponless. Hundreds withered under the
belated fury of the defending guns, and tens of thousands
scrambled over the corpses, charging to the very muzzles.

The Lhasinu never wavered. Their ranks thinned steadily
under the deadly sharp-shooting of the Tymballists, and those
that remained were caught by the Human flood that surged
over them and tore them to horrible death.

The Memorial sector gleamed in the crimson of the bloody
Flame and echoed to the agony of the dying, and the shriek-
ing fury of the triumphant.

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

It was the first battle of the Great Rebellion, but it was not
really a battle, or even madness. It was concentrated anarchy.

Throughout the city, from the tip of Long Island to the mid-
Jersey flatlands, rebels sprang from nowhere and Lhasinu
went to their death. And as quickly as Tymball's orders spread
to raise the snipers, so did the news of the changing of the
Flame speed from mouth to mouth and grow in the telling. All
New York heaved, and poured its separate lives into the
single giant crucible of the "mob."

It was uncontrollable, unanswerable, irresistible. The Tym-
ballists followed helplessly where it led, all efforts at direction
hopeless from the start.

Like a mighty river, it lashed its way through the metrop-
olis, and where it passed no living Lhasinu remained.

The sun of that fateful morning arose to find the masters of
Earth occupying a shrinking circle in upper Manhattan. With
the cool courage of bom soldiers, they linked arms and with-
stood the charging, shrieking millions. Slowly, they backed
away; each building a skirmish; each block a desperate battle.
They split into isolated groups; defending first a building, and
then its upper stories, and finally its roof.

With the noonday sun boiling down, only the Palace itself
remained. Its last desperate stand held the Humans at bay.
The withering circle of fire about it paved the grounds with
blackened bodies. The Viceroy himself from his throneroom
directed the defense; his own hand upon the butt of a semi-
portable.

And then, when the mob had finally come to a pause, Tym-
ball seized his opportunity and took the lead. Heavy guns
clanked to the front Atomos and delta-rays, from the rebel
stock and from the stores captured the previous night, pointed
their death-laden muzzles at the Palace.

Gun answered gun, and the first organized battle of ma-
chines flared into desperate fury. Tymball was an omnipresent
figure, shouting, directing, leaping from gun-emplacement to
gun-emplacement, firing his own band Tonite defiantly at the
Palace.

Under a barrage of the heaviest fire, the Humans charged
once more and pierced to the walls as the defenders fell back.
An Atomo projectile smashed its way into the central tower
and there was a sudden inferno of fire.

That blaze was the funeral pyre of the last of the Lhasinu
in New York. The blackening walls of the palace crumbled in,
in one vast crash; but to the very last, room blazing about hmia

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
face horribly cut, the Viceroy stood his ground, aiming into
the thick of the besieging force. And when his semi-portable
expended the last dregs of its power and expired, he heaved it
out the window in a last futile gesture of defiance, and plunged
into the burning Hell at his back.

Above the Palace grounds at sunset, with a yet-roaring

furnace as the background, there floated the green flag of in-
dependent Earth.

New York was once more Human.

Russell Tymball was a sorry figure when he entered the
Memorial once more that night. Clothes in tatters, and bloody
from head to foot from the undressed cut on his cheek, he
surveyed the carnage about him with sated eyes.

Volunteer squads, occupied in removing the dead and tend-
ing to the wounded had not yet succeeded in making more
than a dent in the deadly work of the rebellion.

The Memorial was an improvised hospital. There were few
wounded, for energy weapons deal death; and of these few,
almost none slightly. It was a scene of indescribable confusion,
and the moans of the hurt and dying mingled horribly with
the distant yells of celebrating war-drunk survivors.

Loara Paul Kane pushed through the crowding attendants
to Tymball.

•Tell me;-is it over?" His face was haggard.

"The beginning is. The Terrestrial Flag flies over the ruins
of the Palace."

"It was horrible! The day has—has—" He shuddered and
closed his eyes, "If I had known in advance, I would rather
have seen Earth dehumanized and Loarism destroyed."

"Yes, it was bad. But the results might have been much

more dearly bought, and yet have remained cheap at the
price. Where's Sanat?"

"In the courtyard—helping with the wounded. We all are.
It—it—" Again his voice failed him.

There was impatience in Tymball's eyes, and he shrugged
weary shoulders, "I'm not a callous monster, but it had to be
done, and as yet it is only the beginning. Today's events
mean little. The uprising has taken place over most of Earth,
but without the fanatic enthusiasm of the rebellion in New
York. The Lhasinu aren't defeated, or anywhere near de-
feated; make no mistake about that Even now the Solar
Guard is flashing to Earth, and the forces on the outer
planets are being .called back. In no time at all, the entire

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
Lhasinuic Empire will converge upon Earth and the reckon-
ing will be a terrible and bloody one. We must have helpl"

He grasped Kane by the shoulders and shook him roughly.
"Do you understand? We must have help! Even here in New
York the first flush of victory will fade by tomorrow. We

must have help!"
"I know," said Kane tonelessly. "I'll get Sanat and he can

leave today." He sighed, "If today's action was any criterion
of his power as a catalyst, we may expect great events."

Sanat climbed into the little two-man cruiser half an hour
later and took his seat beside Petri at the controls.

He extended his hand to Kane a last time, "When I come

back it will be with a navy behind me."

Kane grasped the young man's hand tightly, "We depend
upon you, Pilip." He paused and said slowly, "Good luck,

Loara Filip Sanat!"

Sanat flushed with pleasure at the title as he resumed his
seat once more. Petri waved and Tymball called out, "Watch

out for the Solar Guard!"

The airlock clanged shut, and then, with a coughing roar,

the pigmy cruiser was oS into the heavens.

Tymball followed it to where it dwindled into a speck and
less and then turned to Kane. "All is now in the hands of
Fate. And, Kane, just how was that Changing of the Flame
worked? Don't tell me the Flame turned red of itself."

Kane shook his head slowly, "No! That carmine blaze was
the result of opening a hidden pocket of strontium salts,
originally placed there to impress the Lhasinu in case of need.

The rest was chemistry."

Tymball laughed grimly, "You mean the rest was mob
psychology! And the Lhasinu, I think, were impressed—

and howl"

Space itself gave no warning, but the mass-detector buzzed.
It buzzed peremptorily and insistently. Petri stiffened in his
seat and said, "We're in none of the meteor zones."

Filip Sanat held his breath as the other turned the knob
that rotated the peri-rotor. The star-field in the 'visor shifted

with slow dignity, and then they saw it.

It glinted in the sun like half a tiny, orange football, and

Petri growled, "If they've spotted us, we're sunk."

"Lhasinuic ship?"
"Ship? That's no ship! That's a fifty-thousand ton battle

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
cruiseri What in the Galaxy it's doing here, I don't know.
Tymball said the Patrol bad made for Earth."

Sanat's voice was calm, "That one hasn't. Can we outrage

it?"

"Fat chance!" Petri's fist clenched white on the G-stick.
"They're coming closer."

The words might have been a signal. The audiomitter jig-
gled and the harsh Lhasinuic voice started from a whisper and ^
rose to stridence as the radio beam sharpened, "Fire reverse
motors and prepare for boarding!"

Petri released the controls and shot a look at Sanat, "I'm
only the chauffeur. What do you want to do? We haven't the

chance of a meteor against the sun—but if you like the
gamble—"

"Well," said Sanat, simply, "we're not going to surrender,
are we?"

The other grinned, as the decelerating rockets blasted, "Not
bad for a Loarist! Can you shoot a mounted Tonite?"
"I've never tried!"

"Well, then, learn how. Grab that little wheel over there
and keep your eye on the small 'visor above. See anything?"
Speed was steadily dropping and the enemy ship was ap-
proaching.

"Just stars!"                    \

"All right, rotate the wheel—go ahead, further. Try the
other direction. Do you see the ship now?"
"Yes! There it is."

"Good! Now center it. Get it where the hairlines cross, and
for the sake of Sol, keep it there. Now I'm going to turn to-
ward the lizard scum," siderockets blasted as he spoke, "and
you keep it centered."

The Lhasinuic ship was bloating steadily, and Petri's voice
descended to a tense whisper, "I'm dropping our screen and
lunging directly at her. It's a gamble. If they're sufficiently
startled, they may drop their screen and shoot; and if they
shoot in a hurry, they may miss."

Sanat nodded silently.

"Now the second you see the purple flash of the Tonite,
pull back on the wheel. Pull back hard; and pull back fast. If

you're the tiniest trifle late, we're through." He shrugged, "It's

a gamble!"

With that, he slammed the G-stick forward hard and
shouted, "Keep it centered!"

Acceleration pushed Sanat back gaspingly, and-the wheel in
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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
his sweating hands responded reluctantly to pressure. The
orange football wobbled at the center of the 'visor. He could
feel his hands trembling, and that didn't help any. Eyes
winced with tension.

The Lhasinuic ship was swelling terribly now, and then,
from its prow, a purple sword leaped toward them. Sanat
closed his eyes and jerked backwards.

He kept his eyes closed and waited. There was no sound.

He opened them and started to his feet; for Petri, arms
akimbo, was laughing down upon him.

"A beginner's own luck," he laughed. "Never held a gun
before in his life and knocks out a heavy cruiser in as pretty a
pink as I ever saw."

"I hit it?" gasped Sanat.

"Not on the button, but you did disable it. That's good
enough. And now, just as soon as we get far enough away
from the sun, we're going into hyperspace."

The tall, purple-clad figure standing by the central portview
gazed longingly at the silent globe without. It was Earth, huge,
gibbous, glorious.

Perhaps his thoughts were just a trifle bitter as he considered
the six-month period that had just passed. It had begun with
a nova-blaze. Enthusiasm kindled to white heat and spread,
leaping the stellar gulfs from planet to planet as fast as the
hyper-atomic beam. Squabbling governments, sudden putty
before the outraged clamoring of their peoples, outfitted fleets.
Enemies of centuries made sudden peace and flew under the
same green flag of Earth.

Perhaps it would have been too much to expect this love-
feast to continue. While it did the Humans were irresistible,
One fleet was not two parsecs from Vega itself; another had
captured Luna and hovered one light-second above the Earth,
where Tymball's ragged revolutionaries still held on doggedly.

Filip Sanat sighed and turned at the sound of a step. White-
haired Ion Smitt of the Lactonian contingent entered.

"Your face tells the story," said Sanat.

Smitt shook his head, "It seems hopeless."

Sanat turned away again, "Did you know that we've got-
ten word from Tymball today? They're fighting on what they
can filch from the Lhasinu. The lizards have captured Buenos
Aires, and all South America seems likely to go under their
heel. They're disheartened—the Tymballists—and disgusted,
and I am, too." He whirled suddenly, "You say that our new

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
needle-ships insure victory. Then, why don't we attack?"
"Well, for one thing," the grizzled soldier planted one

booted leg on the chair next to him, "the reinforcements from
Santanni are not coming."

Sanat started, "I thought they were on their way. What
happened?"

'The Santannian government has decided its fleet is re-
quired for home defense." A wry smile accompanied his
words.

"What home defense? Why, the Lhasinu are five hundred
parsecs away from them."

Smitt shrugged, "An excuse is an excuse and need not make
sense. I didn't say that was the real reason."

Sanat brushed his hair back and his fingers strayed to the
yellow sun upon his shoulder, "Even so! We could still fight,
with over a hundred ships. The enemy outnumbers us two to
one, but with the needle-ships and with Lunar Base at our

backs and the rebels harassing them in the rear—" He fell
into a brooding reverie.

"You won't get them to fight, Filip. The Trantorian squad-
ron favors retreat." His voice was suddenly savage, "Of the
entire fleet, I can trust only the twenty ships of my own
squadron—the Lactonian. Oh, Filip, you don't know the dirt
of it—you never have known. You've won the people to the
Cause, but you've never won the governments. Popular

opinion forced them in, but now that they are in, they're in
only for what they can get."

"I can't believe that, Smitt. With victory in their grasp—"
"Victory? Victory for whom? It is exactly over that bone
that the planets are squabbling. At a secret convention of the
nations, Santanni demanded control of all the Lhasinuic
worlds of the Sirius sector—none of which have been recog-
nized as yet—and was refused. Ah, you didn't know that
Consequently, she decides that she must take care of her home
defense, and withdraws her various squadrons."

Filip Sanat turned away in pain, but Ion Smitt's voice ham-
mered on, hard, unmerciful.

"And then Trantor realizes that she hates and fears San-
tanni more than ever she did the Lhasinu and any day now she
will withdraw her fleet to refrain from crippling them while
her enemy's ships remain quietly and safely in port. The
Human nations are falling apart," the soldier's fist came down
upon the table, "like rotten cloth. It was a fool's dream to

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
think that the selfish idiots could ever unite for any worthy

purpose long."

Sanat's eyes were suddenly calculating slits, "Wait a while!

Things will yet work out all right, if we can only manage to
seize control of Earth. Earth is the key to the whole situa-
tion." His fingers drummed upon the table edge. "Its capture
would provide the vital spark. It would drum up Human
enthusiasm, now lagging, to the boiling point, and the Gov-
ernments,—well, they would either have to ride the wave, or

be dashed to pieces."

"I know that. If we fought today, you have a soldier's word

we'd be on Earth tomorrow. They realize it, too, but they

won't fight"

'Then—then they must be made to fight. The only way they

can be made to fight is to leave no alternative. They won't
fight now, because they can retreat whenever they wish, but

if—"

He suddenly looked up, face aglow, "You know, I haven't

been out of the Loarist tunic in years. Do you suppose your

clothes will fit me?"

Ion Smitt looked down upon his ample girth and grinned,
"Well, they might not fit you, but they'll cover you all right.

What are you thinking of doing?"

"I'll tell you. It's a terrible chance, but— Relay the follow-
ing orders immediately to the Lunar Base garrison—"

The admiral of the Lhasinuic Solar squadron was a war-
scarred veteran who hated two things above all else: Humans
and civilians. The combination, in the person of the tall,
slender Human in ill-fitted clothing, put a scowl of dislike

upon his face.

Sanat wriggled in the grasp of the two Lhasinuic soldiers.

"Tell them to let go," he cried in the Vegan tongue. "I am

unarmed."

"Speak," ordered the admiral in English. "They do not

understand your language^' Then, in Lhasinuic to the soldiers,

"Shoot when I give the word."

Sanat subsided, "I came to discuss terms."

"I judged as much when you hoisted the white flag. Yet you
come in a one-man cruiser from the night side of your own
fleet, like a fugitive. Surely, you cannot speak for your fleet."

"I speak for myself."

'Then I give you one minute. If I am not interested by the
end of that time, you will be shot." His expression was stony.

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
Sanat tried once more to free himself, with little success.
His captors tightened their grips.

"Your situation," said the Earthman, "is this. You can't
attack the Human squadron as long as they control Lunar
Base, without serious damage to your own fleet, and you can't
risk that with a hostile Earth behind you. At the same time, I
happen to know that the order from Vega is to drive the
Humans from the Solar System at all costs, and that the Em-
peror dislikes failures."

"You have ten seconds left," said the admiral, but tell-tale
red spots appeared above his eyes.

"All right, then," came the hurried response, "how's this?
What if I offer you the entire Human Fleet caught in a trap?"

There was silence. Sanat went on, "What if I show you how
you can take over Lunar Base, and surround the Humans?"

"Go on!" It was the first sign of interest the admiral had
permitted himself.

"I am in command of one of the squadrons and I have
certain powers. If you'll agree to our terms, we can have the
Base deserted within twelve hours. Two ships," the Human
raised two fingers impressively, "will take it"

"Interesting," said the Lhasinu, slowly, "but your motive?
What is your reason for doing this?"

Sanat thrust out a surly under-lip, "That would not interest
you. I have been ill-treated and deprived of my rights. Be-
sides," his eyes glittered, "Humanity's is a lost cause, anyway.
For this I shall expect payment—ample payment. Swear to
that, and the fleet is yours."

The admiral glared his contempt 'There is a Lhasinuic
proverb: The Human is steadfast in nothing but his treachery.
Arrange your treason, and I shall repay. I swear by the word
of a Lhasinuic soldier. You may return to your ships."

With a motion, he dismissed the soldiers and then stopped
them at the doorway, "But remember, I risk two ships. They
mean little as far as my fleet's strength is concerned, but, nev-
ertheless, if harm comes to a Lhasinuic head through Human
treachery—" The scales on his head were stiffly erect and
Sanat's eyes dropped beneath the other's cold stare.

For a long while, the admiral sat alone and motionless.
Then he spat 'This Human filth! It is a disgrace even to fight
them!"

The Flagship of the Human fleet lazed one hundred miles
above Luna, and within it the captains of the Squadrons sat

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
about the table and listened to Ion Smitt's shouted indictment.

"—I tell you your actions amount to treason. The battle off
Vega is progressing, and if the Lhasinu win, their Solar
squadron will be strengthened to the point where we must re-
treat. And if the Humans win, our treachery here exposes
their flank and renders the victory worthless. We can win, I
tell you. With these new needle-ships—"

The sleepy-eyed Trantorian leader spoke up. "The needle-
ships have never been tried before. We cannot risk a major
battle on an experiment, when the odds are against us."

"That wasn't your original view, Porcut. You—yes, and
the rest of you as well—are a cowardly traitor. Cowards!

Cravens!"

A chair crashed backwards as one arose in anger and others

followed. Loara Filip Sanat, from his vantage-point at the
central port, from where he watched the bleak landscape of
Luna below with devouring concentration, turned in alarm.
But Jem Porcut raised a gnarled hand for order.

"Let's stop fencing," he said. "I represent Trantor, and I
take orders only from her. We have eleven ships here, and
Space knows how many at Vega. How many has Santanni
got? None! Why is she keeping them at home? Perhaps to take
advantage of Trantor's preoccupation. Is there anyone who
hasn't heard of her designs against us? We're not going to
destroy our ships here for her benefit. Trantor will not fight!
My division leaves tomorrow! Under the circumstances, the

Lhasinu will be glad to let us go in peace."

Another spoke up, "And Poritta, too. The treaty of Dra-
conis has hung like neutronium around our neck these twenty
years. The imperialist planets refuse revision, and we will not
fight a war which is to their interest only."

One after another, surly exclamations dinned the perpetual
refrain, "Our interests are against it! We will not fight!"

And suddenly, Loara Filip Sanat smiled. He had turned
away from Luna and laughed at the snarling arguers.

"Sirs," he said, "no one is leaving."

Ion Smitt sighed with relief and sank back in his chair.

"Who will stop us?" asked Porcut with disdain.

'The Lhasinu! They have just taken Lunar Base and we are

surrounded."

The room was a babble of dismay. Shouting confusion held

sway and then one roared above the rest, "What of the garri-
son?"

"The garrison had destroyed the fortifications and evacuated

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
hours before the Lhasinu took over. The enemy met with no
resistance."

The silence that followed was much more terrifying than
the cries that had preceded. "Treason," whispered someone.

"Who is at the bottom of this?" One by one they ap-
proached Sanat. Fists clenched. Faces flushed. "Who did
this?"

"I did," said Sanat, calmly.

A moment of stunned disbelief. "Dog!" "Pig of a Loarist!"
"Tear his guts out!"

And then they shrank back at the pair of Tonite guns that
appeared in Ion Smitt's fists. The burly Lactonian stepped be-
fore the younger man.

"I was in on this, too," he snarled. "You'll have to fight
now. It is necessary to fight fire with fire sometimes, and Sanat
fought treason with treason."

Jem Porcut regarded his knuckles carefully and suddenly
chuckled, "Well, we can't wriggle out now, so we might as
well fight. Except for orders, I wouldn't mind taking a crack
at the damn lizards."

The reluctant pause was followed by shamefaced shouts—
proof-positive of the willingness of the rest.

In two hours, the Lhasinuic demand for surrender had been
scornfully rejected and the hundred ships of the Human
squadron spread outwards on the expanding surface of an
imaginary sphere—the standard defense formation of a sur-
rounded fleet—and the Battle for Earth was on.

A space-battle between approximately equal forces resem-
bles in almost every detail a gigantic fencing match in which
controlled shafts of deadly radiation are the rapiers and im-
permeable walls of etheric inertia are the shields.

The two forces advance to battle and maneuver for position.
Then the pale purple of a Tonite beam lashes out in a blaze
of fury against the screen of an enemy ship, and in so doing,
its own screen is forced to blink out. For that one instant it is
vulnerable and is a perfect target for an enemy ray, which,
when loosed, renders its ship open to attack for the moment.
In widening circles, it spreads. Each unit of the fleet, combin-
ing speed of mechanism with speed of human reaction, at-
tempts to slip through at the crucial moment and yet maintain
its own safety.

Loara Filip Sanat knew all this and more. Since his en-
counter with the battle cruiser on the way out from Earth, he

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
had studied space war, and now, as the battle fleets fell into
line, he felt his very fingers twitch for action.

He turned and said to Smitt, "I'm going down to the big

guns."

Smitt's eye was on the grand 'visor, his hand on the ether-
wave sender, "Go ahead, if you wish, but don't get in the

way."

Sanat smiled. The captain's private elevator carried him to
the gun levels, and from there it was five hundred feet through
an orderly mob of gunners and engineers to Tonite One.
Space is at a premium in a battleship. Sanat could feel the
crampedness of the room in which individual Humans dove-
tailed their work smoothly to create the gigantic machine that
was a giant dreadnaught.

He mounted the six steep steps to Tonite One and motioned
the gunner away. The gunner hesitated; his eye fell upon the
purple tunic, and then he saluted and backed reluctantly down

the steps.

Sanat turned to the co-ordinator at the gun's visiplate, "Do •
you mind working with me? My speed of reaction has been
tested and grouped 1-A. I have my rating card, if you'd care

to see it."

The co-ordinator flushed and stammered, "No, sir! It's an
honor to work with you, sir."

The amplifying system thundered, "To your stations!" and
a deep silence fell, in which the cold purr of machinery

sounded its ominous note.

Sanat spoke to the co-ordinator in a whisper, "This gun
covers a full quadrant of space, doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, see if you can locate a dreadnaught with the sign
of a double sun in partial eclipse."

There was a long silence. The co-ordinator's sensitive hands
were on the Wheel, delicate pressure turning it this way and
that, so that the field in view on the visiplate shifted. Keen
eyes scanned the ordered array of enemy ships.

"There it is," he said. "Why, it's the flagship."

"Exactly! Center that ship!"

As the Wheel turned, the space-field reeled, and the enemy
flagship wobbled toward the point where the hairlines crossed.
The pressure of the co-ordinator's fingers became lighter and

more expert.

"Centered!" he said. Where the hairlines crossed the tiny
oval globe remained impaled.

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BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
"Keep it that way!" ordered Sanat, grimly. "Don't lose it
for a second as long as it stays in our quadrant. The enemy
admiral is on that ship and we're going to get him, you and
I."

The ships were getting within range of each other and Sanat
felt tense. He knew it was going to be close—very close. The
Humans had the edge in speed, but the Lhasinu were two to
one in numbers.

A flickering beam shot out, another, ten more.

There was a sudden blinding flash of purple intensityl

"First hit," breathed Sanat. He relaxed. One of the enemy
ships drifted off helplessly, its stem a mass of fused and
glowing metal.

The opposing ships were not at close grips. Shots were
being exchanged at blinding speed. Twice, a purple beam
showed at the extreme limits of the visiplate and Sanat realized
with a queer sort of shiver down his spine that it was one of
the adjacent Tonites of their own ship that was firing.

The fencing match was approaching a climax. Two flashes
blazed into being, almost simultaneously, and Sanat groaned.
One of the two had been a Human ship. And three times there
came that disquieting hum as Atomo-engines in the lower
level shot into high gear—and that meant that an enemy beam
directed at their own ship had been stopped by the screen.

And, always, the co-ordinator kept the enemy flagship cen-
tered. An hour passed; an hour in which six Lhasinu and four
Human ships had been whiffed to destruction; an hour in
which the Wheel turned fractions of a degree this way, that
way; in which it swivelled on its universal socket mere hair-
lines in half a dozen directions.

Sweat matted the co-ordinator's hair and got into his eyes;

his fingers half-lost all sensation, but that flagship never left
the ominous spot where the hairlines crossed.

And Sanat watched; finger on trigger—watched—and
waited.

Twice the flagship had glowed into purple luminosity, its
guns blazing and its defensive screen down; and twice Sanat's
finger had quivered on the trigger and refrained. He hadn't
been quick enough.

And then Sanat rammed it home and rose to his feet tensely.
The co-ordinator yelled and dropped the Wheel.

In a gigantic funeral pyre of purple-hued energy, the flag-
ship with the Lhasinuic Admiral inside had ceased to exist.

Sanat laughed. His hand went out, and the co-ordinator's

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

came to meet it in a firm grasp of triumph.

But the triumph did not last long enough for the co-ordina-
tor to speak the first jubilant words that were welling up in
his throat, for the visiplate burst into a purple bombshell as
five Human ships detonated simultaneously at the touch of

deadly energy shafts.

The amplifiers thundered, "Up screens! Cease firing! Ease

into Needle formation!"

Sanat felt the deadly pall of uncertainty squeeze his throat.

He knew what had happened. The Lhasinu had finally man-
aged to set up their big guns on Lunar Base; big guns with
three times the range of even the largest ship guns—big guns
that could pick off Human ships with no fear of reprisal.

And so the fencing match was over, and the real battle was
to start. But it was to be a real battle of a type never before
fought, and Sanat knew that that was the thought in every
man's mind. He could see it in their grim expressions and feel

it in their silence.

It might work! And it might noti

The Earth squadron had resumed its spherical formation
and drifted slowly outwards, its offensive batteries silent.
The Lhasinu swept in for the kill. Cut off from power supply
as the Earthmen were, and unable to retaliate with the gigantic
guns of the Lunar batteries commanding near-by space, it
seemed only a matter of time before either surrender or an-
nihilation.

The enemy Tonite beams lashed out in continuous blasts of

energy, and tortured screens on Human ships sparked and
fiuoresced under the harsh whips of radiation.

Sanat could hear the buzz of the Atomo-engines rise to a
protesting squeal. Against his will, his eye flicked to the
energy gauge, and the quivering needle sank as he watched,
moving down the dial at perceptible speed.

The co-ordinator licked dry Ups, "Do you think we'll make

it, sir?"

"Certainly!" Sanat was far from feeling his expressed confi-
dence. "We need hold out for an hour—provided they don't

fall back."

And the Lhasinu didn't. To have fallen back would have
meant a thinning of the lines, with a possible break-through

and escape on the part of the Humans.

The Human ships were down to crawling speed—scarcely
above a hundred miles an hour. Idling along, they crept up

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

the purple beams of energy, the imaginary sphere increasing

in size, the distance between the opposing forces ever narrow-
ing.

But inside the ship, the gauge-needle was dropping rapidly,
and Sanat's heart dropped with it. He crossed the gun level to
where hard-bitten soldiers waited at a gigantic and gleaming

lever, in anticipation of an order that had to come soon—or
never.

The distance between opponents was now only a matter of
one or two miles—almost contact from the viewpoint of
space warfare—and then that order shot over the shielded
etheric beams from ship to ship.

It reverberated through the gun level:

"Out needles!"

A score of hands reached for the lever, Sanat's among
them, and jerked downwards. Majestically, the lever bent in a
curving are to the floor and as it did so, there was a vast
scraping noise and a sharp thud that shook the ship.
The dreadnaught had become a "needle ship!"
At the prow, a section of armor plate had slid aside and a
glittering shaft of metal had lunged outward viciously. One
hundred feet long, it narrowed gracefully from a base ten
feet in diameter to a needle-sharp diamond point. In the sun-
light, the chrome-steel of the shaft gleamed in flaming
splendor.

And every other ship of the Human squadron was likewise

equipped. Each had become ten, fifteen, twenty, fifty thousand
tons of driving rapier.

Swordfish of spacel

Somewhere in the Lhasinuic fleet, frantic orders must have
been issued. Against this Oldest of all naval tactics—old even
in the dim dawn of history when rival triremes had maneu-
vered and rammed each other to destruction with pointed

prows—the super-modem equipment of a space-fleet has no
defense.

Sanat forceol his way to the visiplate and strapped himself
into an anti-acceleration seat, and he felt the springs absorb

the backward jerk as the ship sprang into sudden accelera-
tion.

He didn't bother with that, though. He wanted to watch the
battle! There wasn't one here, nor anywhere in the Galaxy,
that risked what he did. They risked only their lives; and he

risked a dream that he had, almost single-handed, created out
of nothing.

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME

He had taken an apathetic Galaxy and driven it into revolt
against the reptile. He had taken an Earth on the point of de-
struction and dragged it from the brink, almost unaided. A
Human victory would be a victory for Loara Filip Sanat and

no one else.

He, and Earth, and the Galaxy were now lumped into one

and thrown into the scale. And against it was weighed the out-
come of this last battle, a battle hopelessly lost by his own

purposeful treachery, unless the needles won.

And if they lost, the gigantic defeat—the ruin of Humanity

—was also his.

The Lhasinuic ships were jumping aside, but not fast

enough. While they were slowly gathering momentum and
drifting away, the Human ships had cut the distance by three-
^ quarters. On the screen, a Lhasinuic ship had grown to colos-
sal proportions. Its purple whip of energy had gone out as
every ounce of power had gone into a man-killing attempt at

rapid acceleration.

And nevertheless its image grew and the shining point that

could be seen at the lower end of the screen aimed like a glit-
tering javelin at its heart.

Sanat felt he could not bear the tension. Five minutes and

he would take his place as the Galaxy's greatest hero—or its
greatest traitor! There was a horrible, unbearable pounding

of blood in his temples.
Then it came.

Contact!!
The screen went wild in a chaotic fury of twisted metal

The anti-acceleration seats shrieked as springs absorbed the
shock. Things cleared slowly. The screenview veered wildly as
the ship slowly steadied. The ship's needle had broken, the
jagged stump twisted awry, but the enemy vessel it had pierced

was a gutted wreck.

Sanat held his breath as he scanned space. It was a vast sea ;

of wrecked ships, and on the outskirts tattered remnants of
the enemy were in flight, with Human ships in pursuit.
There was the sound of colossal cheering behind him and a

pair of strong hands on his shoulders.

He turned. It was Smitt—Smitt, the veteran of five wars,

with tears in his eyes.

"Filip," he said, "we've won. We've just received word

from Vega. The Lhasinuic Home Fleet has been smashed—
and also with the needles. The war is over, and we've woo

You've won, Filip! You!"
154

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
His grip was painful, but Loara Filip Sanat did not mind
that. For a single, ecstatic moment, he stood motionless, face
transfigured.

Earth was free! Humanity was saved!
THE END

For some reason, possibly because of the awful title, for
which I emphatically disclaim responsibility, "Black Friar of
the Flame" is taken as the quintessence of my early in-
competence. At least, fans who come across a copy think
they can embarrass me by referring to it.

Well, it isn't good, I admit, but it has its interesting points.
For one thing, it is an obvious precursor to my successful
"Foundation" series. In "Black Friar of the Flame," as in the
"Foundation" series, human beings occupy many planets;

and two worlds mentioned in the former, Trantor and San-
tanni, also play important roles in the latter. (Indeed, the
first of the "Foundation" series was to appear only a couple
of months after "Black Friar of the Flame," thanks to the
delay in selling the latter.)

Furthermore, there is also a strong suggestion in "Black
Friar of the Flame" of my first book-length novel. Pebble in
the Sky, which was to appear eight years later. In both, the
situation I pictured on Earth was inspired by that of Judea
under the Romans. The climactic battle in "Black Friar of
the Flame," however, was inspired by that of the Battle of
Salamis, the great victory of the Greeks over the Persians.
(In telling future-history I always felt it wisest to be guided

by past-history. This was true in the "Foundation" series,
too.)

"Black Friar of the Flame" cured me forever, by the way,
of attempting repeated revisions. There may well be a
connection between the consensus that the story is a poor
one and the fact that it was revised six times. I know that
there are writers who revise and revise and revise, polishing
everything to a high gloss, but I can't do that.

It is my habit now to begin by typing a first draft without
an outline. I compose freely on the typewriter though I
am frequently questioned about this by readers who seem
to think an initial draft can be only in pencil. Actually,

155

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
writing by hand begins to hurt my wrist after fifteen minutes
or so, is very slow, and is hard to read. 1 can type, on the
other hand, ninety words a minute and keep that up for
hours without difficulty. As for outlines, I tried one once and
it was disastrous, like trying to play the piano from inside

a straitjacket.

Having completed the first draft, 1 go over it and correct

it in pen and ink. I then retype the whole thing as the
final copy. I revise no more, of my own volition. If ah editor
asks for a clearly defined revision of a minor nature, with
the philosophy of which I agree, I oblige. A request for a
major, top-to-bottom revision, or a second revision after the
first, is another matter altogether. Then I do refuse.

This is not out of arrogance or temperament. It is just
that too large a revision, or too many revisions, indicate
that the piece of writing is a failure. In the time it would
take to salvage such a failure, I could write a new piece
altogether and have infinitely more fun in the process.
(Doing a revision is something like chewing used gum.)
Failures are therefore put to one side and held for possible
sale elsewhere—for what is a failure to one editor is not
necessarily a failure to another.

About the time I was working on "Black Friar of the
Flame" I was becoming enmeshed in fan activities. 1 had
joined an organization called "The Futurians," which con-
tained a group of ardent science fiction readers, almost all
of whom were to become important in the field as writers or
editors or both. Included among them were Frederik Pohl,
Donald A. Wollheim, Cyril Kornbluth, Richard Wilson,

Damon Knight, and so on.

As I had occasion to say before, 1 became particularly

friendly with Pohl. During the spring and summer of 1939,
he visited me periodically, looking over my manuscripts and
announcing that I had the "best bunch of rejected stories"

he had ever seen.

The possibility began to arise that he might be my agent.

He was no older than myself, but he had a great deal more
practical experience with editors and knew a great deal
more about the field. I was tempted, but was afraid this

156

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
might mean I would not be allowed to see Campbell any
more, and I valued my monthly visits with him too much
to risk it.

In May 1939 I wrote a story I called "Robbie," and on the
twenty-third of that month I submitted it to Campbell. It
was the first robot story I had ever written and it contained
the germ of what later came to be known as the "Three
Laws of Robotics." Fred read my carbon and at once said it
was a good story but that Campbell would reject it because
it had a weak ending plus other shortcomings. Campbell did
reject it on June 6, for precisely the reasons Pohl had given
me.

I was very impressed by that, and any hesitation I had
with respect to letting him represent me vanished—but I
specified that his agentship must be confined to editors
other than Campbell.

I gave him "Robbie" after the rejection, but he didn't
succeed in selling it either, though he even submitted it to
a British science fiction magazine (something I would my-
self never have thought of doing). In October 1939, how-
ever, he himself became editor of Astonishing Stories and

Super Science Stories, and he therefore ceased being my
agent.*

On March 25, 1940, however, he did as editor what he

couldn't do as agent. He placed the story—by taking it him-
self.

It appeared in Super Science Stories under a changed
title. (Pohl was always changing titles.) He called the story
"Strange Playfellow," a miserable choice, in my opinion.
Eventually the story was included as the first of the nine
connected "positronic robot" series that made up my book
I, Robot. In the book, I restored the/title to the original
"Robbie," and it has appeared as "Robbie" in every form
in which the story has been published since.

Fifteen years later, a daughter was born to me. She was

* A decade later he became my agent again for a few years. I
.never enjoyed being represented, however, and except for Pohl
on these two occasions, I have never had an agent, despite the
vast and complicated nature of my writing commitments. Nor
do I intend ever having one.

BLACK FRIAR OF THE FLAME
named Robyn and I call her Robbie. I have been asked
more than once whether there is a connection. Did I de-
liberately give her a name close to "robot" because I made
such a success of my robot stories? The answer is a flat
negative. The whole thing is pure coincidence.

One more thing— In the course of my meeting with Camp-
bell on June 6, 1939 (the one in which he rejected "Rob-
bie"), I met a by then quite well established science fiction
writer, L. Sprague de Camp. That started a close friendship
—perhaps my closest within the science fiction fraternity—•
that has continued to this day.

•In June 1939 I wrote "Half-Breed" and decided to give
Fred Pohl a fair chance. I did not submit it to Campbell, but
gave it to Pohl directly to see what he could do with it. He
tried Amazing, which rejected it. So I took it back and tried
Campbell in the usual direct fashion. Campbell rejected it,

too.

When Pohl became an editor, however, he announced the

fact to me (on October 27, 1939) by saying that he was
taking "Half-Breed." In later months he also took first
"Robbie," then "The Callistan Menace." He bought seven
stories from me altogether during his editorial tenure.

Half-Breed

Jefferson Scanlon wiped a perspiring brow and took a deep
breath. With trembling finger, he reached for the switch—and
changed his mind. His latest model, representing over three
months of solid work, was very nearly his last hope. A good
part of the fifteen thousand dollars he had been able to bor-
row was in it. And now the closing of a switch would show
whether he won or lost

Scanlon cursed himself for a coward and grasped the switch
firmly. He snapped it down and flicked it ooen again with one
swift movement. And nothing happened—his eyes, strain
though they might, caught no flash of surging power. The pit
of his stomach froze, and he closed the switch again, savagely,

and left it closed. Nothing happened: the machine, again, was

a failure.

He buried his aching head in his hands, and groaned. "Oh,
God! It should work—it should. My math is right and I've
produced the fields I want. By every law of science, those
fields should crack the atom." He arose, opening the useless
switch, and paced the floor in deep thought.

His theory was right. His equipment was cut neatly to the
pattern of his equations. If the theory was right, the equipment
must be wrong. But the equipment was right, so the theory

must... . "I'm getting out of here before I go crazy," he said
to the four walls.

He snatched his hat and coat from the peg behind the door

X»l.-.-« •    --




HALF-BREED

and was out of the house in a whirlwind of motion, slamming
the door behind him in a gust of fury.                        '

Atomic power. Atomic power 1 Atomic power!
The two words repeated themselves over and over again,
singing a monotonous, maddening song in his brain. A siren
song! It was luring him to destruction; for this dream he had
given up a safe and comfortable professorship at M.I.T. For
it, he had become a middle-aged man at thirty—the first flush

of youth long gone,—an apparent failure.

And now his money was vanishing rapidly. If the love of
money is the root of all evil, the need of money is most cer-
tainly the root of all despair. Scanlon smiled a little at the

thought—rather neat.

Of course, there were the beautiful prospects in store if he

could ever bridge the gap he had found between theory and
practice. The whole world would be his—Mars too, and even
the unvisited planets. All his. All he had to do was to find out
what was wrong with his mathematics—no, he'd checked that,
it was in the equipment. Although— He groaned aloud once

more.

The gloomy train of his thoughts was broken as he sud-
denly became aware of a tumult of boyish shouts not far off.
Scanlon frowned. He hated noise especially when he was in

the dumps.
The shouts became louder and dissolved into scraps of

words, "Get him, Johnnyl" "Whee—look at him run!"

A dozen boys careened out from behind a large frame
building, not two hundred yards away, and ran pell-mell in

Scanlon's general direction.

In spite of himself, Scanlon regarded the yelling group

curiously. They were chasing something or other, with the
heartless glee of children. In the dimness he couldn't make out
just what it was. He screened his eyes and squinted. A sudden
motion and a lone figure disengaged itself from the crowd

and ran frantically.

Scanlon almost dropped his solacing pipe in astonishment,

for the fugitive was a Tweenie—an Earth-Mars half-breed.
There was no mistaking that brush of wiry, dead-white hair
that rose stiffly in all directions like porcupine-quills. Scanlon
marvelled—what was one of those things doing outside an

asylum?

The boys had caught up with the Tweenie again, and the

fugitive was lost to sight. The yells increased in volume,
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HALF-BREED

Scanlon, shocked, saw a heavy board rise and fall with a thud.
A profound sense of the enormity of his own actions in stand-
ing idly by while a helpless creature was being hounded by a
crew of gamins came to him, and before he quite realized it
he was charging down upon them, fists waving threateningly
in the air.

"Seat, you heathens! Get out of here before I—" the point
of his foot came into violent contact with the seat of the near-
est hoodlum, and his arms sent two more tumbling.

The entrance of the new force changed the situation con-
siderably. Boys, whatever their superiority in numbers, have
an instinctive fear of adults,—especially such a shouting,
ferocious adult as Scanlon appeared to be. In less time than it
took Scanlon to realize it they were gone, and he was left
alone with the Tweenie, who lay half-prone, and who between
panting sobs cast fearful and uncertain glances at his de-
liverer.

"Are you hurt?" asked Scanlon gruffly.

"No, sir." The Tweenie rose unsteadily, his high silver crest
of hair swaying incongruously. "I twisted my ankle a bit, but
I can walk. I'll go now. Thank you very much for helping
me."

"Hold on! Wait!" Scanlon's voice was much softer, for it
dawned on him that the Tweenie, though almost full-grown,
was incredibly gaunt; that his clothes were a mere mass of
dirty rags; and that there was a heart-rending look of utter
weariness on his thin face.

"Here," he said, as the Tweenie turned towards him again,
"'Are you hungry?"

The Tweenie's face twisted as though he were fighting a
battle within himself. When he spoke it was in a low, em-
barrassed voice. "Yes—I am, a little."

"You look it. Come with me to my house," he jerked a
thumb over his shoulder. "You ought to eat Looks like you
can do with a wash and a change of clothes, too." He turned
and led the way.

He didn't speak again until he had opened his front door
and entered the hall. "I think you'd better take a bath first,
boy. There's the bathroom. Hurry into it and lock the door
before Beulah sees you."

His admonition came too late. A sudden, startled gasp
caused Scanlon to whirl about, the picture of guilt, and the
Tweenie to shrink backwards into the shadow of a hat-rack.

Beulah, Seanlon's housekeeper, scurried towards them, her

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HALF-BREED
mild face aflame with indignation and her short, plump body
exuding exasperation at every pore.

"Jefferson ScanlonI Jeffersoni" She glared at the Tweenie
with shocked disgust. "How can you bring such a thing into
this house! Have you lost your sense of morals?"

The poor Tweenie was washed away with the flow of her
anger, but Scanlon, after his first momentary panic, collected
himself. "Come come, Beulah. This isn't like you. Here's a
poor fellow-creature, starved, tired, beaten by a crowd of
boys, and you have no pity for him. I'm really disappointed

in you, Beulah."

"Disappointed!" sniffed the housekeeper, though touched.
"Because of that disgraceful thing. He should be in an institu-
tion where they keep such monsters!"

"All right, we'll talk about it later. Go ahead, boy, take
your bath. And, Beulah, see if you can't rustle up some old

clothes of mine."
With a last look of disapproval, Beulah flounced out of the

room.

"Don't mind her, boy," Scanlon said when she left "She
was my nurse once and she still has a sort of proprietary
interest in me. She won't harm you. Go take your bath."

The Tweenie was a different person altogether when he
finally seated himself at the dining-room table. Now that the
layer of grime was removed, there was something quite hand-
some about his thin face, and his high, clear forehead gave
him a markedly intellectual look. His hair still stood erect, a
foot tall, in spite of the moistening it had received. In the
light its brilliant whiteness took an imposing dignity, and to
Scanlon it seemed to lose all ugliness.

"Do you like cold chicken?" asked Scanlon.

"Oh, yes!" enthusiastically.

"Then pitch in. And when you finish that, you can have
more. Take anything on the table."

The Tweenie's eyes glistened as he set his jaws to work;

and, between the two of them, the table was bare in a few

minutes.

"Well, now," exclaimed Scanlon when the repast had
reached its end, "I think you might answer some questions
now. What's your name?"

'They called me Max."

"Ah! And your last name?"

The Tweenie shrugged his shoulders. "They never called

HALF-BREED

me anything but Max—when they spoke to me at all. I don't
suppose a half-breed needs a name." There was no mistaking
the bitterness in his voice.

"But what were you doing running wild through the
country? Why aren't you where you live?"

"I was in a home. Anything is better than being in a home

—even the world outside, which I had never seen. Especially
after Tom died."

"Who was Tom, Max?" Scanlon spoke softly.
"He was the only other one like me. He was younger—
fifteen—but he died." He looked up from the table, fury in
his eyes. "They killed him, Mr. Scanlon. He was such a young
fellow, and so friendly. He couldn't stand being alone the way
I could. He needed friends and fun, and—all he had was me.
No one else would speak to him, because he was a half-breed.
And when he died I couldn't stand it anymore either. I left"

"They meant to be kind. Max. You shouldn't have done
that You're not like other people; they don't understand you.
And they must have done something for you. You talk as
though you've had some education."

"I could attend classes, all right," he assented gloomily. "But
I had to sit in a comer away from all the others. They let me
read all I wanted, though, and I'm thankful for that."

"Well, there you are. Max. You weren't so badly off, were
you?"

Max lifted his head and stared at the other suspiciously.
"You're not going to send me back, are you?" He half rose, as
though ready for instant flight

Scanlon coughed uneasily. "Of course, if you don't want to

go back I won't make you. But it would be the best thing for

you."

"It wouldn'tl" Max cried vehemently.

"Well, have it your own way. Anyway, I think you'd better
go to sleep now. You need it. We'll talk in the morning."

He led the still suspicious Tweenie up to the second floor,
and pointed out a small bedroom. "That's yours for the night
I'll be in the next room later on, and if you need anything just
shout." He turned to leave, then thought of something. "But
remember, you mustn't try to run away during the night"

"Word of honor. I won't"

Scanlon retired thoughtfully to the room he called his study.
He lit a dim lamp and seated himself in a worn armchair. For
ten minutes he sat without moving, and for the first time in

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HALF-BREED

six years thought about something besides his dream of atomic

power.

A quiet knock sounded, and at his grunted acknowledgment
Beulah entered. She was frowning, her lips pursed. She planted
herself firmly before him.

"Oh, Jefferson! To think that you should do this! If your
dear mother knew..."

"Sit down, Beulah," Scanlon waved at another chair, "and
don't worry about my mother. She wouldn't have minded."

"No. Your father was a good-hearted simpleton, too. You're
just like him, Jefferson. First you spend all your money on
silly machines that might blow the house up any day—and
now you pick up that awful creature from the streets. . . .
Tell me, Jefferson," there was a solemn and fearful pause,
"are you thinking of keeping it?"

Scanlon smiled moodily. "I think I am, Beulah. I can't very
well do anything else."

A week later Scanlon was in his workshop. During the night
before, his brain, rested by the change in the monotony
brought about by the presence of Max, had thought of a pos-
sible solution to the puzzle of why his machine wouldn't work.
Perhaps some of the parts were defective, he thought. Even a
very slight flaw in some of the parts could render the machine
inoperative.

He plunged into work ardently. At the end of half an hour
the machine lay scattered on his workbench, and Scanlon was
sitting on a high stool, eying it disconsolately.

He scarcely heard the door softly open and close. It wasn't
until the intruder had coughed twice that the absorbed inven-
tor realized another was present.

"Oh—it's Max." His abstracted gaze gave way to recogni-
tion. "Did you want to see me?"

"If you're busy I can wait, Mr. Scanlon." The week had
not removed his shyness. "But there were a lot of books in my
room. . ."

"Books? Oh, I'll have them cleaned out, if you don't want
them. I don't suppose you do,—they're mostly textbooks, as I
remember. A bit too advanced for you just now."

"Oh, it's not too difficult," Max assured him. He pointed to
a book he was carrying. "I just wanted you to explain a bit
here in Quantum Mechanics. There's some math with Integral
Calculus that I don't quite understand. It bothers me. Here—
wait till I find it."

164

HALF-BREED

He ruffled the pages, but stopped suddenly as he became
aware of his surroundings. "Oh say—are you breaking up your
model?"

The question brought the hard facts back to Scanlon at a
bound. He smiled bitterly. "No, not yet. I just thought there
might be something wrong with the insulation or the connec-
tions that kept it from functioning. There isn't—I've made a
mistake somewhere."

"That's too bad, Mr. Scanlon." The Tweenie's smooth brow
wrinkled mournfully.

"The worst of it is that I can't imagine what's wrong. I'm
positive the theory's perfect—I've checked every way I can.
I've gone over the mathematics time and time again, and each
time it says the same thing. Space-distortion fields of such and

such an intensity will smash the atom to smithereens. Only
they don't."

"May I see the equations?"

Scanlon gazed at his ward quizzically, but could see nothing
in his face other than the most serious interest He shrugged
his shoulders. "There they are—under that ream of yellow
paper on the desk. I don't know if you can read them, though.

I've been too lazy to type them out, and my handwriting is
pretty bad."

Max scrutinized them carefully and flipped the sheets one
by one. "It's a bit over my head, I guess."

The inventor smiled a little. "I rather thought they would
be. Max."

He looked around the littered room, and a sudden sense of
anger came over him. Why wouldn't the thing work? Abruptly
he got up and snatched his coat "I'm going out of here. Max,"
he said. "Tell Beulah not to make me anything hot for lunch.
It would be cold before I got back."

It was afternoon when he opened the front door, and
hunger was sharp enough to prevent him from realizing with
a puzzled start that someone was at work in his laboratory.
There came to his ears a sharp buzzing sound followed by a
momentary silence and then again the buzz which this time

merged into a sharp crackling that lasted an instant and was
gone.

He bounded down the hall and threw open the laboratory
door. The sight that met his eyes froze him into an attitude of
sheer astonishment—stunned incomprehension.

Slowly, he understood the message of his senses. His
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HALF-BREED

precious atomic motor had been put together again, but this
time in a manner so strange as to be senseless, for even his
trained eye could see no reasonable relationship among the

various parts.

He wondered stupidly if it were a nightmare or a practical

joke, and then everything became clear to him at one bound,
for there at the other end of the room was the unmistakable
sight of a brush of silver hair protruding from above a bench,
swaying gently from side to side as the hidden owner of the

brush moved.

"Max!" shouted the distraught inventor, in tones of fury.

Evidently the foolish boy had allowed his interest to inveigle

him into idle and dangerous experiments.

At the sound, Max lifted a pale face which upon the sight
of his guardian turned a dull red. He approached Scanlon with

reluctant steps.

"What have you done?" cried Scanlon, staring about him

angrily. "Do you know what you've been playing with?
There's enough juice running through this thing to electrocute

you twice over."

•Tm sorry, Mr. Scanlon. I had a rather silly idea about all

this when I looked over the equations, but I was afraid to say
anything because you know so much more than I do. After
you went away, I couldnt resist the temptation to try it out,
though I didn't intend to go this far. I thought I'd have it

apart again before you came back."

There was a silence that lasted a long time. When Scanlon
spoke again, his voice was curiously mild, "Well, what have

you done?"

"You won't be angry?"
"It's a little too late for that. You couldn't have made it

much worse, anyway."

"Well, I noticed here in your equations," he extracted one
sheet and then another and pointed, "that whenever the ex-
pression representing the space-distortion fields occurs, it is
always referred to as a function of x* plus y' plus z". Since the
fields, as far as I could see, were always referred to as con-
stants, that would give you the equation of a sphere."

Scanlon nodded, "I noticed that, but it has nothing to do

with the problem."

"Well, / thought it might indicate the necessary arrange-
ment of the individual fields, so I disconnected the distorters

and hooked them up again in a sphere."

The inventor's mouth fell open. The mysterious rearrange-

166

HALF-BREED

ment of his device seemed clear now—and what was more,
eminently sensible.

"Does it work?" he asked.

"I'm not quite sure. The parts haven't been made to fit this
arrangement so that it's only a rough set-up at best. Then
there's the constant error—"

"But does it work? Close the switch, damn it!" Scanlon
was all fire and impatience once more.

"All right, stand back. I cut the power to one-tenth normal
so we won't get more output than we can handle."

He closed the switch slowly, and at the moment of contact,
a glowing ball of blue-white flame leaped into being from the
recesses of the central quartz chamber. Scanlon screened his
eyes automatically, and sought the output gauge. The needle
was climbing steadily and did not stop until it was pressing the
upper limit. The flame burned continuously, releasing no heat
seemingly, though beside its light, more intensely brilliant
than a magnesium flare, the electric lights faded into dingy
yellowness.

Max opened the switch once more and the ball-of flame
reddened and died, leaving the room comparatively dark and
red. The output gauge sank to zero once more and Scanlon
felt his knees give beneath him as he sprawled onto a chair.

He fastened his gaze on the flustered Tweenie and in that
look there was respect and awe, and something more, too, for
there was fear. Never before had he really realized that the
Tweenie was not of Earth or Mars but a member of a race
apart. He noticed the difference now, not in the comparatively
minor physical changes, but in the profound and searching
mental gulf that he only now comprehended.

"Atomic power!" he croaked hoarsely. "And solved by a
boy, not yet twenty years old."

Max's confusion was painful, "You did all the real work,
Mr. Scanlon, years and years of it. I just happened to notice
a little detail that you might have caught yourself the next
day." His voice died before the fixed and steady stare of the
inventor.

"Atomic power—the greatest achievement of man so far,
and we actually have it, we two."

Both—guardian and ward—seemed awed at the grandeur
and power of the thing they had created.

And in that moment—the age of Electricity died.

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HALF-BREED

Jefferson Scanlon sucked at his pipe contentedly. Outside,
the snow was falling and the chill of winter was in the air, but
inside, in the comfortable warmth, Scanlon sat and smoked
and smiled to himself. Across the way, Beulah, likewise
quietly happy, hummed softly in time to clicking knitting
needles, stopping only occasionally as her fingers flew through
an unusually intricate portion of the pattern. In the comer
next the window sat Max, occupied in his usual pastime of
reading, and Scanlon reflected with faint surprise that of late
Max had confined his reading to light novels.

Much had happened since that well-remembered day over
a year ago. For one thing, Scanlon was now a world-famous
and world-adored scientist, and it would have been strange
had he not been sufficiently human to be proud of it. Sec-
ondly, and scarcely less important, atomic power was remak-
ing the world.

Scanlon thanked all the powers that were, over and over
again, for the fact that war was a thing of two centuries past,
for otherwise atomic power would have been the final ruina-
tion of civilization. As it was, the coalition of World Powers
that now controlled the great force of Atomic Power proved
it a real blessing and were introducing it into Man's life in
the slow, gradual stages necessary to prevent economic up-
heaval

Already, interplanetary travel had been revolutionized.
From hazardous gambles, trips to Mars and Venus had be-
come holiday jaunts to be negotiated in a third of the previous
time, and trips to the outer planets were at last feasible.

Scanlon settled back further in his chair, and pondered
once more upon the only fly in his wonderful pot of ointment
Max had refused all credit; stormily and violently refused to
have his name as much as mentioned. The injustice of it galled
Scanlon, but aside from a vague mention of "capable assis-
tants" he had said nothing; and the thought of it still made
him feel an ace of a cad.

A sharp explosive noise brought him out of his reverie and
he turned startled eyes towards Max, who had suddenly
closed his book with a peevish slap.

"Hello," exclaimed Scanlon, "and what's wrong now?"

Max tossed the book aside and stood up, his underlip thrust
out in a pout, "I'm lonely, that's all."

Scanlon's face fell, and he felt at an uncomfortable loss for
words. "I guess I know that. Max," he said softly, at length.
"I'm sorry for you, but the conditions—are so—"
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Max relented, and brightening up, placed an affectionate
arm about his foster-father's shoulder, "I didn't mean it that
way, you know. It's just—well, I can't say it but it's that—you
get to wishing you had someone your own age to talk to—
someone of your own kind."

Beulah looked up and bestowed a penetrating glance upon
the young Tweenie but said nothing.

Scanlon considered, "You're right, son, in a way. A friend
and companion is the best thing a fellow can have, and I'm
afraid Beulah and I don't qualify in that respect. One of your
own kind, as you say, would be the ideal solution, but that's
a tough proposition." He rubbed his nose with one finger and
gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully.

Max opened his mouth as if he were going to say something
more, but changed his mind and turned pink for no evident
reason. Then he muttered, barely loud enough for Scanlon
to hear, "I'm being silly!" With an abrupt turn he marched
out of the room, banging the door loudly as he left.

The older man gazed after him with undisguised surprise,

"Well! What a funny way to act. What's got into him lately,
anyway?"

Beulah halted the nimbly-leaping needles long enough to

remark acidly, "Men are bom fools and blind into the bar-
gain."

"Is that so?" was the somewhat nettled response, "And do
you know what's biting him?"

"I certainly do. It's as plain as that terrible tie you're
wearing. I've seen it for months now. Poor fellow!"

Scanlon shook his head, "You're speaking in riddles,
Beulah."

The housekeeper laid her knitting aside and glanced at the

inventor wearily, "It's very simple. The boy is twenty. He
needs company."

"But that's just what he said. Is that your marvelous pene-
tration?"

"Good land, Jefferson. Has it been so long since you were
twenty yourself? Do you mean to say that you honestly think
he's referring to male company?"

"Oh," said Scanlon, and then brightening suddenly, "Oh!"
He giggled in an inane manner.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
"Why—why, nothing. What can be done?"
"That's a fine way to speak of our ward, when you're rich
enough to buy five hundred orphan asylums from basement

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to roof and never miss the money. It should be the easiest
thing in the world to find a likely-looking young lady Tweenie

to keep him company."

Scanlon gazed at her, a look of intense horror on his face,
"Are you serious, Beulah? Are you trying to suggest that I
go shopping for a female Tweenie for Max? Why—why, what
do I know about women—especially Tweenie women. I don't
know his standards. I'm liable to pick one he'll consider an

ugly hag."

"Don't raise silly objections, Jefferson. Outside of the hair,

they're the same in looks as anyone else, and I'll leave it to

you to pick a pretty one. There never was a bachelor old and

crabbed enough not to be able to do that."

"No! I won't do it. Of all the horrible ideas—"
"Jefferson! You're his guardian. You owe it to him."
The words struck the inventor forcibly, "I owe it to him,"

he repeated. "You're right there, more right than you know."

He sighed, "I guess it's got to be done."

Scanlon shifted uneasily from one trembling foot to the
other under the piercing stare of the vinegar-faced official,
whose name-board proclaimed in large letters—Miss Martin,

Superintendent.

"Sit down, sir," she said sourly. "What do you wish?"

Scanlon cleared his throat. He had lost count of the asy-
lums visited up to now and the task was rapidly becoming too
much for him. He made a mental vow that this would be the
last—either they would have a Tweenie of the proper sex, age,
and appearance or he would throw up the whole thing as a
bad job.

"I have come to see," he began, in a carefully-prepared, but
stammered speech, "if there are any Twee—Martian half-
breeds in your asylum. It is—."

"We have three," interrupted the superintendent sharply.

"Any females?" asked Scanlon, eagerly.

"All females," she replied, and her eye glittered with disap-
proving suspicion.

"Oh, good. Do you mind if I see them. It is—."

Miss Martin's cold glance did not weaver, "Pardon me, but
before we go any further, I would like to know,whether you're
thinking of adopting a half-breed."

"I would like to take out guardianship papers if I am suited.
Is that so very unusual?"

"It certainly is," was the prompt retort. "You understand

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that in any such case, we must first make a thorough investi-
gation of the family's status, both financial and social. It is
the opinion of the government that these creatures are better
off under state supervision, and adoption would be a difficult
matter."

"I know, madam, I know. I've had practical experience in
this matter about fifteen months ago> I believe I can give you
satisfaction as to my financial and social status without much
trouble. My name is Jefferson Scanlon—."

"Jefferson Scanloni" her exclamation was half a scream. In
a trice, her face expanded into a servile smile, "Why of
course. I should have recognized you from the many pictures
I've seen of you. How stupid of me. Pray do not trouble
yourself with any further references. I'm sure that in your
case," this with a particularly genial expression, "no red tape
need be necessary."

She sounded a desk-bell furiously. "Bring down Madeline
and the two little ones as soon as you can," she snapped at
the frightened maid who answered. "Have them cleaned up
and warn them to be on their best behavior."

With this, she turned to Scanlon once more, "It will not
take long, Mr. Scanlon. It is really such a great honor to have
you here with us, and I am so ashamed at my abrupt treat-
ment of you earlier. At first I didn't recognize you, though I
saw immediately that you were someone of importance."

If Scanlon had been upset by the superintendent's former
harsh haughtiness, he was entirely unnerved by her effusive
geniality. He wiped his profusely-perspiring brow time and
time again, answering in incoherent monosyllables the viva-
cious questions put to him. It was just as he had come to the
wild decision of taking to his heels and escaping from the she-
dragon by flight that the maid announced the three Tweenies
and saved the situation.

Scanlon surveyed the three half-breeds with interest and
sudden satisfaction. Two were mere children, perhaps ten
years of age, but the third, some eighteen years old, was
eligible from every point of view.

Her slight form was lithe and graceful even in the quiet
attitude of waiting that she had assumed, and Scanlon,
"dried-up, dyed-in-the-wool bachelor" though he was, could
not restrain a light nod of approval.

Her face was certainly what Beulah would call "likely-
looking" and her eyes, now bent towards the floor in shy con-

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fusion, were of a deep blue, which seemed a great point to
Scanlon.

Even her strange hair was beautiful. It was only moderately
high, not nearly the size of Max's lordly male crest, and its
silky-white sheen caught the sunbeams and sent them back in
glistening highlights.

The two little ones grasped the skirt of their elder com-
panion with tight grips and regarded the two adults in wide-
eyed fright which increased as time passed.

"I believe. Miss Martin, that the young lady will do," re-»
marked Scanlon. "She is exactly what I had in mind. Could
you tell me how soon guardianship papers could be drawn
up?"

"I could have them ready for you tomorrow, Mr. Scanlon.
In an unusual case such as yours, I could easily make special
arrangements."

'Thank you. I shall be back then—," he was interrupted.
by a loud sniffle. One of the little Tweenies could stand it
no longer and had burst into tears, followed soon by the other.

"Madeline," cried Miss Martin to the eighteen-year-old.
"Please keep Rose and Blanche quiet This is an abominable
exhibition."

Scanlon intervened. It seemed to him that Madeline was
rather pale and though she smiled and soothed the youngsters
he was certain that there were tears in her eyes.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "the young lady has no wish to
leave the institution. Of course, I wouldn't think of taking her
on any but a purely voluntary basis."

Miss Martin smiled superciliously, "She won't make any
trouble." She turned to the young girl, "You've heard of the
great Jefferson Scanlon, haven't you?"

"Ye-es, Miss Martin,' replied the girl, in a low voice.

"Let me handle this. Miss Martin," urged Scanlon. 'Tell
me, girl, would you really prefer to stay here?"

"Oh, no," she replied earnestly, "I would be very glad to
leave, though," with an apprehensive glance at Miss Martin,
"I have been very well treated here. But you see—what's to
be done with the two little ones? I'm all they have, and if I
left, they—they—"

She broke down and snatched them to her with a sudden,
fierce grip, "I don't want to leave them, sir!" She kissed each
softly, "Don't cry, children. I won't leave you. They won't
take me away."

Scanlon swallowed with difficulty and groped for a handker-
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chief with which to blow his nose. Miss Martin gazed on
with disapproving hauteur.

"Don't mind the silly thing, Mr. Scanlon," said she. "I
believe I can have everything ready by tomorrow noon."

"Have ready guardianship papers for all three," was the
gruff reply.

"What? All three? Are you serious?"

"Certainly. I can do it if I wish, can't I?" he shouted.
"Why, of course, but—"

Scanlon left precipitately, leaving both Madeline and Miss
Martin petrified, the latter with utter stupefaction, the former
in a sudden upsurge of happiness. Even the ten-year-olds
sensed the change in affairs and subsided into occasional sobs.

Beulah's surprise, when she met them at the airport and
saw three Tweenies where she had expected one, is not to be
described. But, on the whole, the surprise was a pleasant one,
for little Rose and Blanche took to the elderly housekeeper
immediately. Their first greeting was to bestow great, moist
kisses upon Beulah's lined cheeks at which she glowed with
joy and kissed them in turn.

With Madeline she was enchanted, whispering to Scanlon

that he knew a little more about such matters than he pre-
tended.

"If she had decent hair," whispered Scanlon in reply, "I'd

marry her myself. That I would," and he smiled in great self-
• satisfaction.

The arrival at home in mid-aftemoon was the occasion of
great excitement on the part of the two oldsters. Scanlon in-
veigled Max into accompanying him on a long walk together
in the woods, and when the unsuspecting Max left, puzzled

but willing, Beulah busied herself with setting the three new-
comers at their ease.

They were shown over the house from top to bottom, the
rooms assigned to them being indicated. Beulah prattled away
continuously, joking and chaffing, until the Tweenies had lost
all their shyness and felt as if they had known her forever.

Then, as the winter evening approached, she turned to
Madeline rather abruptly and said, "It's getting late. Do you

want to come downstairs with me and help prepare supper
for the men?"

Madeline was taken aback, "The men. Is there, then,
someone besides Mr. Scanlon?"

"Oh, yes. There's Max. You haven't seen him yet,"

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"Is Max a relation of yours?"

"No, child. He's another of Mr. Scanlon's wards."

"Oh, I see." She blushed and her hand rose involuntarily to

her hair.

Beulah saw in a moment the thoughts passing through her
head and added in a softer voice, "Don't worry, dear. He
won't mind your being a Tweenie. He'll be glad to see you."

It turned out, though, that "glad" was an entirely inade-
quate adjective when applied to Max's emotions at the first
sight of Madeline.

He tramped into the house in advance of Scanlon, taking off
his overcoat and stamping the snow off his shoes as he did so.

"Oh, boy," he cried at the half-frozen inventor who fol-
lowed him in, "why you were so anxious to saunter about on
a freezer like today I don't know." He sniffed the air appre-
ciatively, "Ah, do I smell lamb chops?" and he made for the
dining-room in double-quick time.

It was at the threshold that he stopped suddenly, and
gasped for air as if in the last throes of suffocation. Scanlon
dipped by and sat down.

"Come on," he said, enjoying the other's brick-red visage.
'Sit down. We have company today. This is Madeline and this
s Rose and this is Blanche. And this," he turned to the seated
Sirls and noted with satisfaction that Madeline's pink face was
.urning a fixed glance of confusion upon the plate before her,
"is my ward. Max."

"How do you do," murmured Max, eyes like saucers, "I'm
pleased to meet you."

Rose and Blanche shouted cheery greetings in reply but
Madeline only raised her eyes fleetingly and then dropped
them again.

The meal was a singularly quiet one. Max, though he had
complained of a ravenous hunger all afternoon, allowed his
chop and mashed potatoes to die of cold before him, while
Madeline played with her food as if she did not know what it
was there for. Scanlon and Beulah ate quietly and well, ex-
changing sly glances between bites.

Scanlon sneaked off after dinner, for he rightly felt that
the more tactful touch of a woman was needed in these mat-
ters, and when Beulah joined him in his study some hours
later, he saw at a glance that he had been correct.

"I've broken the ice," she said happily, "they're telling each
other their life histories now and are getting along wonder-

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fully. They're still afraid of each other, though, and insist on
sitting at opposite ends of the room, but that'll wear off—and
pretty quickly, too."

"It's a fine match, Beulah, eh?"

"A finer one I've never seen. And little Rose and Blanche
are angels. I've just put them to bed."

There was a short silence, and then Beulah continued softly,
"That was the only time you were right and I was wrong—
that time you first brought Max into the house and I objected
—but that one time makes up for everything else. You are a
credit to your dear mother, Jefferson."

Scanlon nodded soberly, "I wish I could make all Tweenies
on earth so happy. It would be such a simple thing. If we
treated them like humans instead of like criminals and gave
them homes built especially for them and calculated especially
for their happiness—"

"Well, why don't you do it?" interrupted Beulah.
Scanlon turned a serious eye upon the old housekeeper,
"That's exactly what I was leading up to." His voice lapsed
into a dreamy murmur, "Just think. A town of Tweenies—run
by them and for them—with its own governing officials and
its own schools and its own public utilities. A little world
within a world where the Tweenie can consider himself a
human being—instead of a freak surrounded and looked
down upon by endless multitudes of pure-bloods."

He reached for his pipe and filled it slowly, "The world
owes a debt to one Tweenie which it can never repay—and I
owe it to him as well. I'm going to do it. I'm going to create
Tweenietown."

That night he did not go to sleep. The stars turned in then-
grand circles and paled at last. The grey of dawn came and

grew, but still Scanlon sat unmoving—dreaming and plan-
ning.

At eighty, age sat lightly upon Jefferson Scanlon's head.
The spring was gone from his step, the sturdy straightness
from his shoulders, but his robust health had not failed him,
and his mind, beneath the shock of hair, now as white as any
Tweenie's, still worked with undiminished vigor.

A happy life is not an aging one, and for forty years now,

Scanlon had watched Tweenietown grow, and in the watching,
had found happiness.

He could see it now stretched before him like a large,
beautiful painting as he gazed out the window. A little gem of

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a town with a population of slightly more than a thousand,
nestling amid three hundred square miles of fertile Ohio land.

Neat and sturdy houses, wide, clean streets, parks, theatres,
schools, stores—a model town, bespeaking decades of intelli-
gent effort and co-operation.

The door opened behind him and he recognized the soft
step without needing to turn, "Is that you, Madeline?"

"Yes, father," for by no other title was he known to any
inhabitant of Tweenietown. "Max is returning with Mr.
Johanson."

"That's good," he gazed at Madeline tenderly. "We've seen
Tweenietown grow since those days long ago, haven't we?"

Madeline nodded and sighed.

"Don't sigh, dear. It's been well worth the years we've
given to it. If only Beulah had lived to see it now."

He shook his head as he thought of the old housekeeper,
dead now a quarter of a century.

"Don't think such sad thoughts," admonished Madeline in
her turn. "Here comes Mr. Johanson. Remember it's the
fortieth anniversary and a happy day; not a sad one."

Charles B. Johanson was what is known as a "shrewd"
man. That is, he was an intelligent, far-seeing person, com-
paratively well-versed in the sciences, but one who was wont
to put these good qualities into practice only in order to
advance his own interest. Consequently, he went far in politics
and was the first appointee to the newly created Cabinet post
of Science and Technology.

It was the first official act of bis to visit the world's greatest
scientist and inventor, Jefferson Scanlon, who, in his old age,
still had no peer in the number of useful inventions turned
over to the government every year. Tweenietown was a con-
siderable surprise to him. It was known rather vaguely in the
outside world that the town existed, and it was considered a
hobby of the old scientist—a harmless eccentricity. Johanson
found it a well-worked-out project of sinister connotations.

His attitude, however, when he entered Scanlon's room in
company with his erstwhile guide. Max, was one of frank
geniality, concealing well certain thoughts that swept through
his mind.

"Ah, Johanson," greeted Scanlon, "you're back. What do
you think of all this?" his arm made a wide sweep.

"It is surprising—something marvelous to behold," Johan-
son assured him.
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Scanlon chuckled, "Glad to hear it. We have a population
of 1154 now and growing every day. You've seen what we've
done already but it's nothing to what we are going to do in
the future—even after my death. However, there is something
I wish to see done before I die and for that I'll need your
help.

"And that is?" questioned the Secretary of Science and
Technology guardedly.

"Just this. That you sponsor measures giving these Tweenies,
these so long despised half-breeds, full equality,—political,—
legal,—economic,—social,—with Terrestrials and Martians."

Johanson hesitated, "It would be difficult. There is a certain
amount of perhaps understandable prejudice against them, and
until we can convince Earth that the Tweenies deserve
equality—" he shook his head doubtfully.

"Deserve equalityl" exclaimed Scanlon, vehemently, "Why,
they deserve more. I am moderate in my demands." At these
words. Max, sitting quietly in a corner, looked up and bit his
lip, but said nothing as Scanlon continued, "You don't know
the true worth of these Tweenies. They combine the best of
Earth and Mars. They possess the cold, analytical reasoning
powers of the Martians together with the emotional drive and
boundless energy of the Earthman. As far as intellect is con-
cerned, they are your superior and mine, every one of them.
I ask only equality."

The Secretary smiled soothingly, "Your zeal misleads you
perhaps, my dear Scanlon."

"It does not. Why do you suppose I turn out so many suc-
cessful gadgets—like this gravitational shield I created a few
years back. Do you think I could have done it without my
Tweenie assistants? It was Max here," Max dropped his eyes
before the sudden piercing gaze of the Cabinet member, "that
put the final touch upon my discovery of atomic power itself."

Scanlon threw caution to the winds, as he grew excited,
"Ask Professor Whitsun of Stanford and he'll tell you. He's
a world authority on psychology and knows what he's talking
about. He studied the Tweenie and he'll tell you that the
Tweenie is the coming race of the Solar System, destined to
take the supremacy away from us pure-bloods as inevitably as
night follows day. Don't you think they deserve equality in
that case?"

"Yes, I do think so,—definitely," replied Johanson. There
was a strange glitter in his eyes, and a crooked smile upon his
Ups, "This is of extreme importance, Scanlon. I shall attend to

HALF-BREED

it immediately. So immediately, in fact, that I believe I had
better leave in half an hour, to catch the 2:10 strato-car."

Johanson had scarcely left, when Max approached Scanlon
and blurted out with no preamble at all, "There is something
I have to show you, father—something you have not known
about before."

Scanlon stared his surprise, "What do you mean?"
"Come with me, please, father. I shall explain." His grave
expression was almost frightening. Madeline joined the two at
the door, and at a sign from Max, seemed to comprehend the
situation. She said nothing but her eyes grew sad and the
lines in her forehead seemed to deepen.

In utter silence, the three entered the waiting Rocko-car
and were sped across the town in the direction of the Hill o'
the Woods. High over Lake Clare they shot to come down
once more in the wooded patch at the foot of the hill.

A tall, burly Tweenie sprang to attention as the car landed,
and started at the sight of Scanlon.

"Good afternoon, father," he whispered respectfully, and
cast a questioning glance at Max as he did so.

"Same to you, Emmanuel," replied Scanlon absently. He
suddenly became aware that before him was a cleverly-cam-
ouflaged opening that led into the very hill itself.

Max beckoned him to follow and led the way into the open-
ing which after a hundred feet opened into an enormous man-
made cavern. Scanlon halted in utter amazement, for before
him were three giant space-ships, gleaming silvery-white and
equipped, as he could plainly see, with the latest atomic
power.

"I'm sorry, father," said Max, "that all this was done with-
out your knowledge. It is the only case of the sort in the
history of Tweenietown." Scanlon scarcely seemed to hear,
standing as if in a daze, and Max continued, "The center one
is the flagship—the Jefferson Scanlon. The one to the right is
the Beulah Goodkin and the one to the left the Madeline."

Scanlon snapped out of his bemusement, "But what does
this all mean and why the secrecy?"

"These ships have been lying ready for five years now,
fully fuelled and provisioned, ready for instant take-off. To-
night. we blast away the side of the hill and shoot for Venus
—tonight. We have not told you till now, for we did not wish
to disturb your peace of mind with a misfortune we knew
long ago to be inevitable. We had thought that perhaps," his
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voice sank lower, "its fulfillment might have been postponed
until after you were no longer with us."

"Speak out," cried Scanlon suddenly. "I want the full de-
tails. Why do you leave just as I feel sure I can obtain full
equality for you?"

"Exactly," answered Max, mournfully. "Your words to
Johanson swung the scale. As long as Earthmen and Martians
merely thought us different and inferior, they despised us and
tolerated us. You have told Johanson we were superior and
would ultimately supplant Mankind. They have no alternative
now but to hate us. There shall be no further toleration; of
that I can assure you. We leave before the storm breaks."

The old man's eyes widened as the truth of the other's
statements became apparent to him, "I see. I must get in
touch with Johanson. Perhaps, we can together correct that
terrible mistake." He clapped a hand to his forehead.

"Oh, Max," interposed Madeline, tearfully, "why don't you
come to the point? We want you to come with us, father. In
Venus, which is so sparsely settled, we can find a spot where
we can develop unharmed for an unlimited time. We can
establish our nation, free and untrammeled, powerful in our
own right, no longer dependent on—"

Her voice died away and she gazed anxiously at Scanlon's
face, now grown drawn and haggard. "No," he whispered,
"no! My place is here with my own kind. Go, my children,
and establish your nation. In the end, your descendants shall
rule the System. But I—I shall stay here."

"Then I shall stay, too," insisted Max. "You are old and

someone must care for you. I owe you my life a dozen times
over."

Scanlon shook his head firmly, "I shall need no one. Dayton
is not far. I shall be well taken care of there or anywhere else

I go. You, Max, are needed by your race. You are their
leader. Gol"

Scanlon wandered through the deserted streets of Tweenie-
town and tried to take a grip upon himself. It was hard. Yes-
terday, he had celebrated the fortieth anniversary of its

founding—it had been at the peak of its prosperity. Today,
it was a ghost town.

Yet, oddly enough, there was a spirit of exultation about
him. His dream had shattered—but only to give way to a
brighter dream. He had nourished foundlings and brought up
a race in its youth and for that he was someday to be recog-

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nized as the founder of the superrace.

It was his creation that would someday rule the system.
Atomic power—gravity nullifiers—all faded into insignifi-
cance. This was his real gift to the Universe.

This, he decided, was how a God must feel.

THE END

As in "The Weapon Too Dreadful to Use," the story dealt
with racial prejudice on an interplanetary scale. I kept com-
ing back to this theme very frequently—something not sur-
prising in a Jew growing up during the Hitler era.

Once again my naivete shows, since I assume not only an
intelligent race on Mars, where such a thing is most unlikely
even by 1939 evidence, but assume the Martians to be
sufficiently like Earthmen to make interbreeding possible.
(I can only shake my head wearily. I knew better in 1939;

I really did. I just accepted science fictional cliches, that's
all. Eventually, I stopped doing that.)

My treatment of atomic power was also primitive in the
extreme, and I knew better than that, too, even though at
the time I wrote the story, uranium fission had not been
discovered. The Tweenie's mysterious reference to "a func-
tion of x" plus y" plus z"' merely means that I had taken
analytic geometry at Columbia not long before and was
flaunting my knowledge of the equation for the sphere.

This was the first story in which I tried to introduce the
romantic motif, however light. It had to be a failure. At the
time of the writing of this story, I had still never had a date

with a girl.

And yet the greatest embarrassment in a story simply
littered with embarrassments was the following line in the
seventh paragraph: "... For it, he had become a middle-
aged man at thirty—the first flush of youth long gone—"

Well, I wrote it at nineteen. To me, the first flush of youth
was long gone by the time one reached thirty. I know better
now, of course, since more than thirty years later, I find
that I am still in the first flush of youth.

There was some reason for self-congratulation in connec-
tion with "Half-Breed," however. My fourth published story,
it was the longest to appear up to then. With a length of

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nine thousand words, it was listed on the table of contents
as a "novelette," my first published story in that class.

My name also appeared on the cover of the magazine.
It was the first time that had ever happened.

Almost immediately after finishing "Half-Breed," I began
"The Secret Sense," submitting it to John Campbell on June
21, 1939, and receiving it back on the twenty-eighth. Pohl
could not place it either.

Toward the end of 1940, however, a pair of sister maga-
zines, Cosmic Stories and Stirring Science Stories, were
being planned, with Don Wollheim, a fellow Futurian, se-
lected as editor. The magazines were starting on a micro-
budget, however, and the only way they could come into
being was to get stories for nothing—at least for the initial
issues. For the purpose, Wollheim appealed to the Futurians
and they came through. The first issues consisted entirely
(I think) of stories by Futurians, under their own names or
pseudonyms.

I, too, was asked, and since by that time I was convinced
I could sell "The Secret Sense" nowhere, I donated it to
Wollheim, who promptly accepted it.

That was that, except that, at the time, yet another maga-
zine, Comet Stories, was coming into existence, under the
editorship of F. Orlin Tremaine, who had been Campbell's
predecessor at Astounding.

I went to see Tremaine several times, since I thought I
might sell him a story or two. On the second visit, on
December 5, 1940, Tremaine spoke with some heat con-
cerning the forthcoming birth of Wollheim's magazines.
While he himself was paying top rates, he said, Wollheim was
getting stories for nothing and with these could put out
magazines that would siphon readership from those maga-
zines that paid. Any author who donated stories to Woll-
heim, and thus contributed to the destruction of competing
magazines who paid, should be blacklisted in the field.

I listened with horror, knowing that I had donated a story
for nothing. It was a story, to be sure, that I had felt to be
worth nothing, but it had not occurred to me that I was
undercutting other authors by setting up unfair competition.

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HALF-BREED

1 did not quite have the nerve to tell Tremaine I was one
of the guilty ones, but as soon as I got home I wrote to
Wollheim asking him to accept one of two alternatives:

either he could run the story under a pseudonym so that
my guilt would be hidden, or if he insisted on using my
name he could pay me five dollars so that if the question
ever arose I could honestly deny having given him the story
for nothing.

Wollheim chose to use my name and sent me a check for
five dollars, but did so with remarkably poor grace (and, to
be sure, he was not, in those days, noted for any suavity of
character). He accompanied the check with an angry letter
that said, in part, that I was being paid an enormous word
rate because it was only my name that had value and for
that I was receiving $2.50 a word. Perhaps he was correct.
If so, the word rate was indeed a record, one that I have
not surpassed to this very day. On the other hand, the total
payment also set a record. No other story I have written
commanded so low a payment.

Years later, the well-known science fiction historian Sam
Moskowitz wrote a short biography of me, which appeared in
the April 1962 Amazing. In the course of the biography, he
describes a version of the above events and mistakenly
states that it was John Campbell who was angry at the
donation of stories without pay and that it was he who
threatened me with blacklisting.

Not so!

Campbell had nothing to do with it, and, what's more,
would have been incapable of making threats. If he had
known in advance that I intended to donate a story for
nothing to a competing magazine, he would have pointed out
my stupidity to me in a perfectly friendly way and would have
let it go at that.

As a matter of fact, while I tried to keep my guilt a secret
from Tremaine, I had no intention of hiding it from Camp-
bell. On my very next visit to him, on December 16, 1940,
1 confessed in full, and he shrugged it off.

" Campbell, I imagine, was quite certain that no magazine
that had to depend on free stories could last for long,
since the only stories so available would have been rejected
182

HALF-BREED

by everyone else. And he would be right. Cosmic Stories
lasted only three issues, and Stirring Science Stories only
four. "The Secret Sense" remained the only story of mine
they published.

As for Comet .Stories, that lasted five issues, and though
Tremaine hesitated over a couple of my stories, he never
bought one.

183










8

The Secret Sense

The lilting strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room. The
music waxed and waned beneath the sensitive fingers of
Lincoln Fields, and through half-closed eyes he could almost
see whirling figures pirouetting about the waxed floor of some
luxurious salon.

Music always affected him that way. It filled his mind with
dreams of sheer beauty and transformed his room into a
paradise of sound. His hands flickered over the piano in the
last delicious combinations of tones and then slowed reluc-
tantly to a halt.

He sighed and for a moment remained absolutely silent as
if trying to extract the last essence of beauty from the dying
echoes. Then he turned and smiled faintly at the other occu-
pant of the room.

Garth Jan smiled in turn but said nothing. Garth had a
great liking for Lincoln Fields, though little understanding.
They were worlds apart—literally—for Garth hailed from the
giant underground cities of Mars while Fields was the product
of sprawling Terrestrial New York.

"'How was that. Garth, old fellow?" questioned Fields doubt-
fully.

Gaith shook his head. He spoke in his precise, painstaking
manner, "I listened attentively and can truly say that it was
not unpleasant. There is a certain rhythm, a cadence of sorts,
which, indeed, is rather soothing. But beautiful? Nol"

Cosmic Stories, March 1941

Copyright © 1941 by Albing Publications

Copyright renewed © 1968 by Isaac Asimov

184

THE SECRET SENSE

There was pity in Fields' eyes—pity almost painful in its
intensity. The Martian met the gaze and understood all that
it meant, yet there was no answering spark of envy. His bony
giant figure remained doubled up in a chair that was too small
for him and one thin leg swung leisurely back and forth.

Fields lunged out of his seat impetuously and grasped his
companion by the arm. "Here! Seat yourself on the bench."

Garth obeyed genially. "I see you want to carry out some
little experiment."

"You've guessed it. I've read scientific works which tried
to explain all about the difference in sense-equipment between
Earthman and Martian, but I never could quite grasp it all."

He tapped the notes C and F in a single octave and
glanced at the Martian inquiringly.

"If there's a difference," said Garth doubtfully, "it's a very
slight one. If I were listening casually, I would certainly say
you had hit the same note twice."

The Earthman marvelled. "How's this?" He tapped C and
G.

"I can hear the difference this time."

"Well, I suppose all they say about your people is true. You
poor fellows—to have such a crude sense of bearing. You
don't know what you're missing."

The Martian shrugged his shoulders fatalistically. "One
misses nothing that one has never possessed."

Garth Jan broke the short silence that followed. "Do you
realize that this period of history is the first in which two
intelligent races have been able to communicate with each
other? The comparison of sense equipment is highly inter-
esting—and rather broadens one's views on life."

^That's right," agreed the Earthman, "though we seem to
have all the advantage of the comparison. You know a Ter-
restrial biologist stated last month that he was amazed that a
race so poorly equipped in the matter of sense-perception
could develop so high a civilization as yours."

"All is relative, Lincoln. What we have is sufficient for us."

Fields felt a growing frustration within him. "But if you
only knew, Garth, if you only knew what you were missing.

"You've never seen the beauties of a sunset or of dancing
fields of flowers. You can't admire the blue of the sky, the
green of the grass, the yellow of ripe corn. To you the
world consists of shades of dark and light." He shuddered
at the thought "You can't smell a flower or appreciate its
delicate perfume. You can't even enjoy such a simple thing as

185




THE SECRET SENSE
a good, hearty meal. You can't taste nor smell nor see color.
I pity you for your drab world."

"What you say is meaningless, Lincoln. Waste no pity on
me, for I am as happy as you." He rose and reached for his
cane—necessary in the greater gravitational field of Earth.

"You must not judge us with such easy superiority, you
know." That seemed to be the galling aspect of the matter.
"We do not boast of certain accomplishments of our race of
which you know nothing."

And then, as if heartily regretting his words, a wry grimace
overspread his face, and he started for the door.

Fields sat puzzled and thoughtful for a moment, then
jumped up and ran after the Martian, who was stumping his
way towards the exit. He gripped Garth by the shoulder and
insisted that he return.

"What did you mean by that last remark?"

The Martian turned his face away as if unable to face his
questioner. "Forget it, Lincoln. That was just a moment of in-
discretion when your unsolicited pity got on my nerves."

Fields gave him a sharp glance. "It's true, isn't it? It's logi-
cal that Martians possess senses Earthmen do not, but it passes
the bounds of reason that your people should want to keep it
secret."

"That is as it may be. But now that you've found me out
through my own utter stupidity, you will perhaps agree to let
it go no further?"

"Of course! I'll be as secret as the grave, though I'm darned
if I can make anything of it. Tell me, of what nature is this
secret sense of yours?"

Garth Jan shrugged listlessly. "How can I explain? Can
you define color to me, who cannot even conceive it?"

"I'm not asking for a definition. Tell me its uses. Please,"
he gripped the other's shoulder, "you might as well. I have
given my promise of secrecy."

The Martian sighed heavily. "It won't do you much good.
Would it satisfy you to know that if you were to show me two
containers, each filled with a clear liquid, I could tell you at
once whether either of the two were poisonous? Or, if you
were to show me a copper wire, I could tell instantly whether
an electric current were passing through it, even if it were as
little as a thousandth of an ampere? Or I could tell you the
temperature of any substance within three degrees of the true

186

THE SECRET SENSE
value even if you held it as much as five yards away? Or I
could—well, I've said enough."

"Is that all?" demanded Fields, with a disappointed cry.
"What more do you wish?"

"All you've described is very useful—but where is the
beauty in it? Has this strange sense of yours no value to the
spirit as well as to the body?"

Garth Jan made an impatient movement. "Really, Lincoln,
you talk foolishly. I have given you only that for which you
asked—the uses I put this sense to. I certainly didn't attempt
to explain its nature. Take your color sense. As far as I can
see its only use is in making certain fine distinctions which I
cannot. You can identify certain chemical solutions, for in-
stance, by something you call color when I would be forced
to run a chemical analysis. Where's the beauty in that?"

Fields opened his mouth to speak but the Martian motioned
him testily into silence. "I know. You're going to babble fool-
ishness about sunsets or something. But what do you know of
beauty? Have you ever known what it was to witness the beauty
of the naked copper wires when an AC current is turned on?
Have you sensed the delicate loveliness of induced currents
set up in a solenoid when a magnet is passed through it? Have
you ever attended a Martian portwem?"

Garth Jan's eyes had grown misty with the thoughts he was
conjuring up, and Fields stared in utter amazement. The shoe
was on the other foot now and his sense of superiority left
him of a sudden.

"Every race has its own attributes," he mumbled with a
fatalism that had just a trace of hypocrisy in it, "but I 'see no
reason why you should keep it such a blasted secret. We
Earthmen have kept no secrets from your race."

"Don't accuse us of ingratitude," cried Garth Jan vehe-
mently. According to the Martian code of ethics, ingratitude
was the supreme vice, and at the insinuation of that Garth's
caution left him. "We never act without reason, we Martians.
And certainly it is not for our own sake that we hide this
magnificent ability."

The Earthman smiled mockingly. He was on the trail of
something—he felt it in his bones—and the only way to get
it out was to tease it out.

"No doubt there is some nobility behind it all. It is a strange
attribute of your race that you can always find some altruistic
motive for your actions."

187




THE SECRET SENSE

Garth Jan bit his lip angrily. "You have no right to say
that." For a moment he thought of pleading worry over
Fields' future peace of mind as a reason for silence, but the
latter's mocking reference to "altruism" had rendered that im-
possible. A feeling of anger crept over him gradually and that
forced him to his decision.

There was no mistaking the note of frigid unfriendliness
that entered his voice. "I'll explain by analogy." The Martian
stared straight ahead of him as he spoke, eyes half-closed.

"You have told me that I live in a world that is composed
merely of shades of light and dark. You try to describe a
world of your own composed of infinite variety and beauty. I
listen but care little concerning it. I have never known it and
never can know it. One does not weep over the loss of what
one has never owned.

"But—what if you were able to give me the ability to see
color for five minutes? What if, for five minutes, I reveled in
wonders undreamed of? What if, after those five minutes, I
have to return it forever? Would those five minutes of para-
dise be worth a lifetime of regret afterwards—a lifetime of
dissatisfaction because of my own shortcomings? Would it
not have been the kinder act never to have told me of color
in the first place and so have removed its ever-present tempta-
tion?"

Fields had risen to his feet during the last part of the
Martian's speech and his eyes opened wide in a wild surmise.
"Do you mean an Earthman could possess the Martian sense
if so desired?"

"For five minutes in a lifetime," Garth Jan's eyes grew
dreamy, "and in those five minutes sense—"

He came to a confused halt and glared angrily at his com-
panion, "You know more than is good for you. See that you
don't forget your promise."

He rose hastily and hobbled away as quickly as he could,
leaning heavily upon the cane. Lincoln Fields made no move
to stop him. He merely sat there and thought.

The great height of the cavern shrouded the roof in misty
obscurity in which, at fixed intervals, there floated luminescent
globes of radite. The air, heated by this subterranean volcanic
stratum, wafted past gently. Before Lincoln Fields stretched
the wide, paved avenue of the principal city of Mars, fading
away into the distance.

He clumped awkwardly up to the entrance of the home of

188

THE SECRET SENSE
Garth Jan, the six-inch-thick layer of lead attached to each
shoe a nuisance unending. Though it was still better than the
uncontrollable bounding Earth muscles brought about in this
lighter gravity.

The Martian was surprised to see his friend of six months
ago but not altogether joyful. Fields was not slow to notice
this but he merely smiled to himself. The opening formalities
passed, the conventional remarks were made, and the two
seated themselves.

Fields crushed the cigarette in the ash-tray and sat upright
suddenly serious. "I've come to ask for those five minutes you
claim you can give me! May I have them?"

"Is that a rhetorical question? It certainly doesn't seem to
require an answer." Garth's tone was openly contemptuous.

The Earthman considered the other thoughtfully. "Do you
mind if I outline my position in a few words?"

The Martin smiled indifferently. "It won't make any differ-
ence," he said.

"I'll take my chance on that. The situation is this: I've been
bom and reared in the lap of luxury and have been most
disgustingly spoiled. I've never yet had a reasonable desire
that I have not been able to fulfill, and I don't know what it
means not to get what I want. Do you see?"

There was no answer and he continued, "I have found my
happiness in beautiful sights, beautiful words, and beautiful
sounds. I have made a cult of beauty. In a word, I am an
aesthete."

"Most interesting," the Martian's stony expression did not
change a whit, "but what bearing has all this on the problem
at hand?"

"Just this: You speak of a new form of beauty—a form un-
known to me at present and entirely inconceivable even, but
one which could be known if you so wished. The notion at-
tracts me. It more than attracts me—it makes its demands
of me. Again I remind you that when a notion begins to make
demands of me, I yield—I always have."

"You are not the master in this case," reminded Garth Jan.
"It is crude of me to remind you of this, but you cannot

force me, you know. Your words, in fact, are almost offen-
sive in their implications."

"I am glad you said that, for it allows me to be crude in
my turn without offending my conscience."
Garth Jan's only reply to this was a self-confident grimace.

189




THE SECRET SENSE                 '•
"I make my demand of you," said Fields, slowly, "in the

name of gratitude."

"Gratitude?" the Martian started violently.

Fields grinned broadly, "It's an appeal no honorable Mar-
tian can refuse—by your own ethics. You owe me gratitude,
now, because it was through me you gained entrance into the
houses of the greatest and most honorable men of Earth."

"I know that," Garth Jan flushed angrily. "You are impo-
lite to remind me of it."

"I have no choice. You acknowledged the gratitude you owe

me in actual words, back on Earth. I demand the chance to
possess this mysterious sense you keep so secret—in the name
of this acknowledged gratitude. Can you refuse now?"
"You know I can't," was the gloomy response. "I hesitated

only for your own sake."

The Martian rose and held out his hand gravely, "You have
me by the neck, Lincoln. It is done. Afterwards, though, I
owe you nothing more. This will pay my debt of gratitude.

Agreed?"

"Agreed!" The two shook hands and Lincoln Fields con-
tinued in an entirely different tone. "We're still friends,
though, aren't we? This little altercation won't spoil things?"

"I hope not. Come! Join me at the evening meal and we
can discuss the time and place of your—er—five minutes."

Lincoln Fields tried hard to down the faint nervousness that
filled him as he waited in Garth Jan's private "concert"-room.
He felt a sudden desire to laugh as the thought came to him
that he felt exactly as he usually did in a dentist's waiting

room.

He lit his tenth cigarette, puffed twice and threw it away,

"You're doing this very elaborately, Garth."

The Martian shrugged, "You have only five minutes so I
might as well see to it that they are put to the best possible
use. You're going to 'hear' part of a portwem, which is to our
sense what a great symphony (is that the word?) is to sound."

"Have we much longer to wait? The suspense, to be trite, is

terrible."

"We're waiting for Novi Lon, who is to play the portwem,

and for Done Vol. my private physician. They'll be along

soon."

Fields wandered onto the low dais that occupied the center

of the room and regarded the intricate mechanism thereupon
with curious interest. The fore-part was encased in gleaming
aluminum leaving exposed only seven tiers of shining black

190

THE SECRET SENSE

knobs above and five large white pedals below. Behind, how-
ever, it lay open, and within there ran crossings and recross-
ings of finer wires in incredibly complicated paths.

"A curious thing, this," remarked the Earthman.

The Martian joined him on the dais, "It's an expensive in-
strument. It cost me ten thousand Martian credits."

"How does it work?"

"Not so differently from a Terrestrial piano. Each of the
upper knobs controls a different electric circuit. Singly and to-
gether an expert portwem player could, by manipulating the
knobs, form any conceivable pattern of electric current. The
pedals below control the strength of the current."

Fields nodded absently and ran his fingers bver the knobs
at random. Idly, he noticed the small galvanometer located
just above the keys kick violently each time he depressed a
knob. Aside from that, he sensed nothing.

"Is the instrument really playing?"

The Martian smiled, "Yes, it is. And a set of unbelievably
atrocious discords too."

He took a seat before the instrument and with a murmured
"Here's howl" his fingers skimmed rapidly and accurately over
the gleaming buttons.

The sound of a reedy Martian voice crying out in strident
accents broke in upon him, and Garth Jan ceased in sudden
embarrassment. "This is Novi Lon," he said hastily to Fields,
"As usual, he does not like my playing."

Fields rose to meet the newcomer. He was bent of shoulder
and evidently of great age. A fine tracing of wrinkles, espe-
cially about eyes and mouth, covered his face.

"So this is the young Earthman," he cried, in strongly-
accented English. "I disapprove your rashness but sympathize
with your desire to attend a portwem. It is a great pity you
can own our sense for no more than five minutes. Without it
no one can truly be said to live."

Garth Jan laughed, "He exaggerates, Lincoln. He's one of
the greatest musicians of Mars, and thinks anyone doomed
to damnation who would not rather attend a portwem than
breathe." He hugged the older man warmly, "He was my
teacher in my youth and many were the long hours in which
he struggled to teach me the proper combination of circuits."

"And I have failed after all, you dunce," snapped the old
Martian. "I heard your attempt at playing as I entered. You
still have not learned the proper fortgass combination. You

191




THE SECRET SENSE

were desecrating the soul of the great Bar Damn. My pupil!

Bah! It is a disgrace!"

The entrance of the third Martian, Done Vol, prevented
Novi Lon from continuing his tirade. Garth, glad of the re-
prieve, approached the physician hastily.

"Is all ready?"

"Yes," growled Vol surlily, "and a particularly uninterest-
ing experiment this will be. We know all the results before-
hand." His eyes fell upon the Earthman, whom he eyed con-
temptuously. "Is this the one who wishes to be inoculated?"

Lincoln Fields nodded eagerly and felt his throat and mouth
go dry suddenly. He eyed the newcomer uncertainly and felt
uneasy at the sight of a tiny bottle of clear liquid and a hypo-
dermic which the physician had extracted from a case he was

carrying.

"What are you going to do?" he demanded.

"He'll merely inoculate you. It'll take a second," Garth Jan
assured him. "You see, the sense-organs in this case are sev-
eral groups of cells in the cortex of the brain. They are ac-
tivated by a hormone, a synthetic preparation of which is used
to stimulate the dormant cells of the occasional Martian who
is bom—er—'blind.' You'll receive the same treatment."

"Oh!—then Earthmen possess those cortex cells?"

"In a very rudimentary state. The concentrated hormone
will activate them, but only for five minutes. After that time,
they are literally blown out as a result of their unwonted ac-
tivity. After that, they can't be re-activated under any circum-
stances."

Done Vol completed his last-minute preparations and ap-
proached Fields. Without a word. Fields extended his right
arm and the hypodermic plunged in.

With the operation completed, the Terrestrial waited a
moment or two and then essayed a shaky laugh, "I don't feel

any change."

"You won't for about ten minutes," explained Garth. -"It
takes time. Just sit back and relax. Novi Lon has begun Bar
Damn's 'Canals in the Desert'—it is my favorite—and when
the hormone begins its work you will find yourself in the

middle of things."

Now that the die was cast irrevocably. Fields found himself
stonily calm. Novi Lon played furiously, and Garth Jan, at
the Earthman's right, was already lost in the composition.
Even Done Vol, the fussy doctor, had forgotten his peevish-
ness for the nonce.
192

THE SECRET SENSE

Fields snickered under his breath. The Martians listened
attentively but to him the room was devoid of sound and—
almost—of all other sensation as well. What—no, it was im-
possible, of course—but what if it were just an elaborate
practical joke? He stirred uneasily and put the thought from
his mind angrily.

The minutes passed; Novi Lon's fingers flew; Garth Jan's
expression was one of unfeigned delight.

Then Lincoln Fields blinked his eyes rapidly. For a mo-
ment a nimbus of color seemed to surround the musician and
his instrument. He couldn't identify it—but it was there. It
grew and spread until the room was full of it. Other hues
came to join it and still others. They wove and wavered;

expanding and contracting; changing with lightning speed
and yet staying the same. Intricate patterns of brilliant tints
formed and faded, beating in silent bursts of color upon the
young man's eyeballs.

Simultaneously, there came the impression of sound. From
a whisper it rose into a glorious, ringing shout that wavered
up and down the scale in quivering tremolos. He seemed to
hear every instrument from fife to bass viol simultaneously,
and yet, paradoxically, each rang in his ear in solitary clear-
ness.

And together with this, there came the more subtle sensa-
tion of odor. From a suspicion, a mere trace, it waxed into a
phantasmal field of flowers. Delicate spicy scents followed
each other in ever stronger succession; in gentle wafts of
pleasure.

Yet all this was nothing. Fields knew that. Somehow, he
knew that what he saw, heard, and smelt were mere delusions
—mirages of a brain that frantically attempted to interpret
an entirely new conception in the old, familiar ways.

Gradually, the colors and the sounds and the scents died.
His brain was beginning to realize that that which beat upon
it was something hitherto unexperienced. The effect of the
hormone became stronger, and suddenly—in one burst—Fields
realized what it was he sensed.

He didn't see it—nor hear it—nor smell it—nor taste it—
nor feel it. He knew what it was but he couldn't think of the
word for it. Slowly, he realized that there wasn't any word
for it. Even more slowly, he realized that there wasn't even
any concept for it.

Yet he knew what it was.

There beat upon his brain something that consisted of pure

193




THE SECRET SENSE

waves of enjoyment—something that lifted him out of him-
self and pitched him headlong into a universe unknown to
him earlier. He was falling through an endless eternity of—
something. It wasn't sound or sight but it was—something.
Something that enfolded him and hid his surroundings from
him—that's what it was. It was endless and infinite in its
variety, and with each crashing wave, he glimpsed a farther
horizon, and the wonderful cloak of sensation became thicker

—and softer—and more beautiful.

Then came the discord. Like a little crack at first—marring
a perfect beauty. Then spreading and branching and growing
wider, until, finally, if split apart thunderously—though
without a sound.

Lincoln Fields, dazed and bewildered, found himself back
in the concert room again.

He lurched to his feet and grasped Garth Jan by the arm
violently, "Garth! Why did he stop? Tell him to continue! Tell
him!"

Garth Jan's startled expression faded into pity, "He is still
playing, Lincoln."

The Earthman's befuddled stare showed no signs of under-
standing. He gazed about him with unseeing eyes. Novi Lon's
fingers sped across the keyboard as nimbly as ever; the ex-
pression on his face was as rapt as ever. Slowly, the truth
seeped in, and the Earthman's empty eyes filled with horror.

He sat down, uttering one hoarse cry, and buried his head
in his hands.

The five minutes had passed! There could be no return!

Garth Jan was smiling—a smile of dreadful malice, "I had
pitied you just a moment ago, Lincoln, but now I'm glad—
glad! You forced this out of me—you made me do this. I
hope you're satisfied, because I certainly am. For the rest of
your life," his voice sank to a sibilant whisper, "you'll re-
member these five minutes and know what it is you're missing

—what it is you can never have again. You are blind,
Lincoln—blind!"

The Earthman raised a haggard face and grinned, but it
was no more than a horrible baring of the teeth. It took every
ounce of willpower he possessed to maintain an air of com-
posure.

He did not trust himself to speak. With wavering step, he
marched out of the room, head held high to the end.

And within, that tiny, bitter voice, repeating over and over

194

THE SECRET SENSE

again, "You entered a normal man! You leave blind—blind—
BLIND."

THE END

The summer of 1939 was full of doubts and uncertainty for
me.

In June I had graduated from Columbia and obtained my
bachelor of science degree. So far, so good. However, my
second round of attempts to enter medical school had
failed, as the first had. To be sure, I hadn't really been
anxious to go to medical school and I had tried only half-
heartedly, but it still left me at loose ends. .

What did I do now? I did not wish to look for some non-
descript job, even if these were to be found, so I had to
continue with my schooling. I had been majoring in chem-
istry, so, failing medical school, the natural next step was
to go for my degree of doctor of philosophy in that field.

The first question was whether I would be able to swing
this financially. (It would have been the first question, even
more so, if I had gotten into medical school.) College itself
had been touch and go all four years, and my small writing
income of about $200 during my senior year had been
a considerable help.

Naturally, I would have to continue writing and, just as
naturally, my depression made it very difficult to write. I
managed one story during that summer; it was called "Life
Before Birth."

"Life Before Birth" was my first attempt at anything other
than science fiction. It was in the allied field of fantasy
(as imaginative as science fiction, but without the restriction
of requiring scientific plausibility).

The reason for my attempting fantasy was that at the
beginning of 1939, Street & Smith began the publication of
a new magazine, Unknown, of which Campbell was editor.

Unknown caught my fancy at once. It featured stories of
what are now called "adult fantasy," and the writing seemed
to my nineteen-year-old self to be even more advanced and
literate than that in Astounding. Of course I wanted des-
perately to place a story in this new and wonderful magazine.

"Life Before Birth" was an attempt in this direction, but

195




THE SECRET SENSE
aside from the mere fact that it was a fantasy, I remember
nothing more about it. It was submitted to Campbell on
July 11 and was back in my hands on the nineteenth. It
never placed anywhere and no longer exists.

August was even worse. All Europe rang with the hideous
possibility of war, and on September 1, World War II began
with the German Invasion of Poland. I could do nothing
during the crisis but listen to the radio. It was not till
September 11 that i could settle down long enough to start
another story, "The Brothers."

"The Brothers" was science fiction, and all I remember
is that it was about two brothers, a good one and an evil one,
and a scientific invention that one or the other was con-
structing. On October 5 I submitted it to Campbell, and
on October 11 it was rejected. It, too, never placed and no

longer exists.

So the summer had passed fruitlessly and now I had to
face another problem. Columbia University was not in the
least anxious to take me on as a graduate student. They felt
I was going to use the position as a mere way of marking
time till I could try once more to get into medical school.

I swore that this was not so, but my position was vul-
nerable because as a premedical student I had not been
required to take a course in physical chemistry and had
therefore not done so. Physical chemistry was, however,
required for graduate work in chemistry.

I persisted, and finally the admissions board made the
following suggestion: I would have to take a full year's selec-
tion of graduate courses, and, at the same time, I would have
to take physical chemistry and get at least a B in that. If I
failed to get the B, 1 was out on my ear and my tuition money
would, of course, not be refunded.

One of the members of the board told me, some years
later, that I was offered this in the belief that I would not
accept a set of terms so loaded against me. However, since
I had never had trouble with passing courses, it never
occurred to me that a set of requirements that merely asked
that I achieve certain grades, was loaded against me.

I agreed, and when at the end of the first semester there
were only three A's in physical chemistry out of a class of

196

THE SECRET SENSE
sixty, and I was one of them, the probation was lifted.

By December I had gotten deeply enough into my course
work to be quite certain I would fulfill all grade requirements.
The only uncertainty remaining was financial. I had to get
back to writing.

On December 21 I began "Homo Sol" and completed it
on January 1, 1940, the day before my twentieth birthday.
I submitted it on January 4, and on that day, in Campbell's
office, I met Theodore Sturgeon and L. Ron Hubbard, two
established members of Campbell's stable of writers. (Hub-
bard has since then become world famous, in a fashion, as
the originator of the cults of Dianetics and Scientology.)

There is no sign in my diary of any discouragement, but
after a year and a half of assiduous efforts, I had failed to
sell Campbell more than one story out of the eighteen I had
by then written. He had rejected eight stories before buying
"Trends," and he had rejected seven stories since. (Two
stories, which I sold elsewhere, he never saw and had no
chance to reject. Had he seen them he would certainly have
rejected them.)

One factor in the lack of discouragement was Campbell's
unfailing interest. As long as he didn't get tired reading my
stories and advising me about them so kindly, why should I
get tired writing them? Then, too, my occasional sales to
magazines other than Astounding (there had been six by
then) and, especially, the opening up of a new and sym-
pathetic market in the form of Pohl's magazines, helped keep
my spirits up.

For "Homo Sol," my nineteenth story, there was no out-
right rejection. Again, Campbell asked for revisions. I had to
revise it twice, but it was not to be another "Black Friar of
the Flame." The second revision was satisfactory, and on
April 17, 1940, I received my second check from Campbell
(and, by that time, my seventh check, all told). What's more,
it was for seventy-two dollars, the story being 7,200 words
long, and was the largest check I had ever received for a
story up to that time.

Oddly enough, the clearest thing I remember about that
check is an incident that took place that evening in my

197




THE SECRET SENSE
father's candy store, where I still worked every day and
where I was to continue working for two more years. A
customer took offense at my neglecting to say "Thank you"
after his purchase—a crime I frequently committed be-
cause, very often, I was working without conscious attention
but was concentrating deeply on the plot permutations that
were sounding hollowly within the cavern of my skull.

The customer decided to scold me for my obvious inatten-
tion and apparent lack of industry. "My son," he said,
"made fifty dollars through hard work last week. What do
you do to earn a living?"

"1 write," I said, "and 1 got this for a story today," and
I held up the check for him to see.

It was a very satisfactory moment.

9

Homo Sol

198

The seven thousand and fifty-fourth session of the Galactic
Congress sat in solemn conclave in the vast semicircular hall
on Eon, second planet of Arcturus.

Slowly, the president delegate rose to his feet. His broad
Arcturian countenance flushed slightly with excitement as he
surveyed the surrounding delegates. His sense of the dramatic
caused him to pause a moment or so before making the official
announcement—for, after all, the entrance of a new planetary
system into the great Galactic family is not a thing likely to
happen twice in any one man's lifetime.

A dead silence prevailed during that pause. The two hun-
dred and eighty-eight delegates—one from each of the two
hundred and eighty-eight oxygen-atmosphere, water-chemistry
worlds of the System—waited patiently for him to speak.

Beings of every manlike type and shape were there. Some
were tall and polelike, some broad and burly, some short and
stumpy. There were those with long, wiry hair, those with
scanty gray fuzz covering head and face, others with thick,
blond curls piled high, and still others entirely bald. Some
possessed long, hair-covered trumpets of ears, others had
tympanum membranes flush with their temples. There were
those present with large gazellelike eyes of a deep-purple
luminosity, others with tiny optics of a beady black. There
was a delegate with green skin, one with an eight-inch pro-
Astounding Science Fiction, September 1940
Copyright © 1940 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1967 by Isaac Asimov

199




HOMO SOL
boscis and one with a vestigial taiL Internally, variation was
almost infinite.

But all were alike in two things.

They were all Humanoid. They all possessed intelligence.

The president delegate's voice boomed out then: "Dele-
gates! The system of Sol has discovered the secret of inter-
stellar travel and by that act becames eligible for entrance
into the Galactic Federation."

A storm of approving shouts arose from those present and
the Arcturian raised a hand for silence.

"I have here," he continued, "the official report from Alpha
Centauri, on whose fifth planet the Humanoids of Sol have
landed. The report is entirely satisfactory and so the ban upon
travel into and communication with the Solarian System is
lifted. Sol is free, and open to the ships of the Federation.
Even now, there is in preparation an expedition to Sol, under
the leadership of Joselin Arn of Alpha Centauri, to tender
that System the formal invitation into the Federation."

He paused, and from two hundred and eighty-eight throats
came the stentorian shout: "Hail, Homo Sol! Hail, Homo Sol!
Hail!

It was the traditional welcome of the Federation for all
new worlds.

Tan Porus raised himself to his full height of five feet two
—he was tall for a Rigellian—and his sharp, green eyes
snapped with annoyance.

"There it is, Lo-fan. For six months that damned freak
squid from Beta Draconis IV has stumped me."

Lo-fan stroked his forehead gently with one long finger,
and one hairy ear twitched several times. He had traveled
eighty-five light years to be here on Arcturus II with the great-
est psychologist of the Federation—and, more specifically, to
see this strange mollusk whose reactions had stumped the
great Rigellian.

He was seeing it now: a puffy, dull-purple mass of soft flesh
that writhed its tentacular form in placid unconcern through
the huge tank of water that held it. With unruffled serenity, it
fed on the green fronds of an underwater fern.

"Seems ordinary enough," said Lo-fan.

"Ha!" snorted Tan Porus. "Watch this."

He drew the curtain and plunged the room into darkness.
Only a dim blue light shone upon the tank, and in the murk
the Draconian squid could barely be discerned.

200

HOMO SOL

"Here goes the stimulus," grunted Porus. The screen above
his head burst into soft green light, focused directly upon the
tank. It persisted a moment and gave way to a dull red and
then almost at once to a brilliant yellow. For half a minute it
shot raggedly through the spectrum and then, with a final
glare of glowing white, a clear bell-like tone sounded.

And as the echoes of the note died away, a shudder passed
over the squid's body. It relaxed and sank slowly to the bot-
tom of the tank.

Porus pulled aside the curtain. "It's sound asleep," he
growled. "Hasn't failed yet. Every specimen we've ever had
drops as if shot the moment that note sounds."

"Asleep, eh? That's strange. Have you got the figures on the
stimulus?"

"Certainly! Right here. The exact wave lengths of the lights
required are listed, plus the length of duration of each light
unit, plus the exact pitch of the sounded note at the end."

The other surveyed the figures dubiously. His forehead
wrinkled and his ears rose in surprise. From an. inner pocket,
he drew forth a slide rule.

"What type nervous system has the animal?"
"Two-B. Plain, simple, ordinary Two-B. I've had the anato-
mists, physiologists, and ecologists check that until they were
blue in the face. Two-B is all they get. Damn fools!"

Lo-fan said nothing, but pushed the center bar of the rule
back and forth carefully. He stopped and peered closely,
shrugged his shoulders, and reached for one of the huge vol-
umes on the shelf above his head. He leafed through the pages
and picked out numbers from among the close print. Again
the slide rule.

Finally he stopped. "It doesn't make sense," he said help-
lessly.

"I know that! I've tried six times in six different ways to
explain that reaction—and I failed each time. Even. if I rig up
a system that will explain its going to sleep, I can't get it to
explain the specificity of the stimulus."

"It's highly specific?" questioned Lo-fan, his voice reaching
the higher registers.

"That's the worst part of it," shouted Tan Porus. He leaned
forward and tapped the other on the knee. "If you shift the
wave length of any of the light units by fifty angstroms either
way—any one of them—it doesn't sleep. Shift the length of
duration of a light unit two seconds either way—it doesn't
sleep. Shift the pitch of the tone at the end an eighth of an

201




HOMO SOL

octave either way—itv doesn't sleep. But get the right combina-
tion, and it goes straight into a coma."

Lo-fan's ears were two hairy trumpets, stiffly erect. "Gal-
axy!" he whispered. "How did you ever stumble on the com-
bination?"

"I didn't. It happened at Beta Draconis. Some hick college

was putting its freshmen through a lab period on light-sound
reactions of molluscoids—been doing it for years. Some stu-
dent runs through his light-sound combinations and his blasted
specimen goes to sleep. Naturally, he's scared out of his wits
and brings it to the instructor. The instructor tries it again on
another squid—it goes to sleep. They shift the combination—
nothing happens. They go back to the original—it goes to
sleep. After they fooled around with it long enough to know
they couldn't make head or tail of it, they sent it to Arcturus
and wished it on me. It's six months since / had a real night's
sleep."

A musical note sounded and Porus turned impatiently.

"What is it?"

"Messenger from the president delegate of Congress, sir,"
came in metallic tones from the telecaster on his desk.

"Send him up."

The messenger stayed only long enough to hand Porus an
impressively sealed envelope and to say in hearty tone:

"Great news, sir. The system of Sol has qualified for entrance."

"So what?" snorted Porus beneath his breath as the other
left "We all knew it was coming."

He ripped off the outer sheath of cello-fiber from the en-
velope and removed the sheaf of papers from within. He
glanced through them and grimaced.

"Oh, Rigel!"

"What's wrong?" asked Lo-fan.

"Those politicians keep bothering me with the most incon-
sequential things. You'd think there wasn't another psycholo-
gist on Eron. Look! We've been expecting the Solarian System
to solve the principle of the hyperatomo any century now.
They've finally done it and an expedition of theirs landed on
Alpha Centauri. At once, there's a politicians' holiday! We
must send an expedition of our own to ask them to join the
Federation. And, of course, we must have a psychologist along
to ask them in a nice way so as to be sure of getting the right
reaction, because, to be sure, there isn't a man in the army
that ever gets proper training in psychology."

202

HOMO SOL

Lo-fan nodded seriously. "I know, I know. We have the
same trouble out our way. They don't need psychology until
they get into trouble and then they come running."

"Well, it's a cinch I'm not going to Sol. This sleeping squid
is too important to neglect. It's a routine job, anyway—this
business of raking in new worlds; a Type A reaction that any
sophomore can handle."

"Whom will you send?"

"I don't know. I've got several good juniors under me that
can do this sort of thing with their eyes closed. I'll send one
of them. And meanwhile, I'll be seeing you at the faculty
meeting tomorrow, won't I?"

"You will—and hearing me, too. I'm making a speech on
the finger-touch stimulus."

"Good! I've done work on it, so I'll be interested in hearing
what you have to say. Till tomorrow, then."

Left alone, Porus turned once more to the official report on
the Solarian System which the messenger had handed him. He
leafed through it leisurely, without particular interest, and
finally put it down with a sigh.

''Lor Haridin could do it," he muttered to himself. "He's a
good kid—deserves a break."

He lifted his tiny bulk out of the chair and, with the report
under his arm, left his office and trotted down the long corri-
dor outside. As he stopped before a door at the far end, the
automatic flash blazed up and a voice within called out to
him to enter.

The Rigellian opened the door and poked his head inside.
"Busy, Haridin?"

Lor Haridin looked up and sprang to his feet at once.
"Great space, boss, no! I haven't had anything to do since I
finished work on anger reactions. You've got something for
me, maybe?"

"I have—if you think you're up to it. You've heard of the
Solarian System, haven't you?"

"Sure! The visors are full of it. They've got interstellar
travel, haven't they?"

"That's right. An expedition is leaving Alpha Centauri for
Sol in a month. They'll need a psychologist to do the fine
work, and I was thinking of sending you."

The young scientist reddened with delight to the very top
of his hairless dome. "Do you mean it, boss?"

"Why not? That is—if you think you can do it."

203




HOMO SOL

"Of course I can." Haridin drew himself up in offended
hauteur. "Type A reaction! I can't miss."

"You'll have to learn their language, you know, and ad-
minister the stimulus in the Solarian tongue. It's not always an
easy job."

Haridin shrugged. "I still can't miss. In a case like this,
translation need only be seventy-five percent effective to get
ninety-nine and six tenths percent of the desired result. That
was one of the problems I had to solve on my qualifying
exam. So you can't trip me up that way."

Porus laughed. "All right, Haridin, I know you can do it.
Clean up everything here at the university and sign up for
indefinite leave. And if you can, Haridin, write some sort of
paper on these Solarians. If it's any good, you might get senior
status on the basis of it."

The junior psychologist frowned, "But, boss, that's old stuff.
Humanoid reactions are as well known as ... as— You can't
write anything on them."

"There's always something if you look hard enough, Hari-
din. Nothing is well known; remember that. If you'll look at
Sheet 25 of the report, for instance, you'll find an item con-
cerning the care with which the Solarians armed themselves
on leaving their ship."

The other turned to the proper page. "That's reasonable,"
said he. "An entirely normal reaction."

"Certainly. But they insisted on retaining their weapons
throughout their stay, even when they were greeted and wel-
comed by fellow Humanoids. That's quite a perceptible devia-
tion from the normal. Investigate it—it might be worth while."

"As you say, boss. Thanks a lot for the chance you're
giving me. And say—how's the squid coming along?"

Porus wrinkled his nose. "My sixth try folded up and died
yesterday. It's disgusting." And with that, he was gone.

Tan Porus of Rigel trembled with rage as he folded the
handful of papers he held in two and tore them across. He
plugged in the telecaster with a jerk.

"Get me Santins of the math department immediately," he
snapped.

His green eyes shot fire at the placid figure that appeared
on the visor almost at once. He shook his fist at the image.

"What on Eron's the idea of that analysis you sent me just
now, you Betelgeusian slime worm?"

The image's eyebrows shot up in mild surprise. "Don't
204

HOMO SOL

blame me, Porus. They were your equations, not mine. Where
did you get them?"

"Never mind where I got them. That's the business of the
psychology department."

"All right! And solving them is the business of the mathe-
matics department. That's the seventh set of the damnedest
sort of screwy equations I've ever seen. It was the worst yet.
You made at least seventeen assumptions which you had no
right to make. It took us two weeks to straighten you out, and
finally we boiled it down—"

Porus jumped as if stung. "I know what you boiled it down
to. I just tore up the sheets. You take eighteen independent
variables in twenty equations, representing two months of
work, and solve them out at the bottom of the last, last page
with that gem of oracular wisdom—'a' equals 'a.' All that
work—and all I get is an identity."

"It's still not my fault, Porus. You argued in circles, and in
mathematics that means an identity and there's nothing you
can do about it." His lips twitched in a slow smile. "What are
you kicking about, anyway? 'A' does equal 'a,' doesn't it?"

"Shut up!" The telecaster went dead, and the psychologist
closed his lips tightly and boiled inwardly. The light signal
above the telecaster flashed to life again.

"What do you want now?"

It was the calm, impersonal voice of the receptionist below
that answered him. "A messenger from the government, sir."

"Damn the government! Tell them I'm dead."

"It's important, sir. Lor Haridin has returned from Sol and
wants to see you."

Porus frowned. "Sol? What Sol? Oh, I remember. Send him
up, but tell him to make it snappy."

"Come in, Haridin," he said a little later, voice calmer, as
the young Arcturian, a bit thinner, a bit more weary than he

had been six months earlier when he left the Arcturian Sys-
tem, entered.

"Well, young man? Did you write the paper?"

The Arcturian gazed intently upon his fingernails. "No,

sir!"

"Why not?" Porus' green eyes peered narrowly at the other.
"Don't tell me you've had trouble."

"Quite, a bit, boss." The words came with an effort. "The
psychological board itself has sent for you after hearing my
report. The fact of the matter is that the Solarian System has
... has refused to join the Federation."

HOMO SOL

Tan Porus shot out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box and
landed, purely by chance, on his feet.

"What!!"

Haridin nodded miserably and cleared his throat.

"Now, by the Great Dark Nebula," swore the Rigellian,
distractedly, "if this isn't one sweet day! First, they tell me
that 'a' equals 'a,' and then you come in and tell me you
muffed a Type A reaction—muffed it completely!"

The junior psychologist fired up. "I didn't muff it. There's
something wrong with the Solarians themselves. They're not
normal. When I landed they went wild over us. There was a
fantastic celebration—entirely unrestrained. Nothing was too
good for us. I delivered the invitation before their parliament
in their own language—a simple one which they call Espe-
ranto. I'll stake my life that my translation was ninety-five
percent effective."

"Well? And then?"

"I can't understand the rest, boss. First, there was a neutral
reaction and I was a little surprised, and then"—he shuddered
in retrospect—"in seven days—only seven days, boss—the
entire planet had reversed itself completely. I couldn't follow
their psychology, not by a hundred miles. I've brought home
copies of their newspapers of the time in which they objected
to joining with 'alien monstrosities' and refused to be 'ruled
by inhumans of worlds parsecs away.' I ask you, does that

make sense?

"And that's only the beginning. It was light years worse
than that. Why, good Galaxy, I went all the way into Type G
reactions, trying to figure them out, and couldn't. In the end,
we had to leave. We were in actual physical danger from
those . . . those Earthmen, as they call themselves."

Tan Porus chewed his lip a while. "Interesting! Have you

your report with you?"

"No. The psychological board has it. They've been going
over it with a microscope all day."

"And what do they say?"

The young Arcturian winced. "They don't say it openly,
but they leave a strong impression of thinking the report an

inaccurate one."

"Well, I'll decide about that after I've read it. Meanwhile,
come with me to Parliamentary Hall and you can answer a
few questions on the way."

Joselin Arn of Alpha Centauri rubbed stubbled jaws with
206

HOMO SOL

his huge, six-fingered hand and peered from under beetling
brows at the semicircle of diversified faces that stared down
upon him. The psychological board was composed of psychol-
ogists of a score of worlds, and their united gaze was not
the easiest thing in the world to withstand.

"We have been informed," began Frian Obel, head of the
board and native of Vega, home of the green-skinned men,
"that those sections of the report dealing with Sol's military
state are your work."

Joselin Arn inclined his head in silent agreement.

"And you are prepared to confirm what you have stated
here, in spite of its inherent improbability? You are no psy-
chologist, you know."

"No! But I'm a soldier!" The Centaurian's jaws set stub-
bornly as his bass voice rumbled through the hall. "I don't
know equations and I don't know graphs—but I do know
spaceships. I've seen theirs and I've seen ours, and theirs are
better. I've seen their first interstellar ship. Give them a hun-
dred years and they'll have a better hyperatomos than we
have. I've seen their weapons. They've got almost everything
we have, at a stage in their history millennia before us. What
they haven't got—they'll get, and soon. What they have got,
they'll improve.

"I've seen their munitions plants. Ours are more advanced,
but theirs are more efficient. I've seen their soldiers—and I'd
rather fight with them than against them.

"I've said all that in the report. I say it again now."

His brusque sentences came to an end and Frian Obel
waited for the murmur from the men about him to cease.

"And the rest of their science; medicine, chemistry, phys-
ics? What of them?"

"I'm not the best judge of those. You have the report there
of those who know, however, and to the best of my knowl-
edge I confirm them."

"And so these Solarians are true Humanoids?"

"By the circling worlds of Centauri, yes!"

The old scientist drew himself back in his chair with a
peevish gesture and cast a rapid, frowning glance up and down
the length of the table.

"Colleagues," he said, "we make little progress by rehash-
ing this mess of impossibilities. We have a race of Humanoids
of a superlatively technological turn; possessing at the same
time an intrinsically unscientific belief in supernatural forces,
an incredibly childish predilection toward individuality, singly

207




HOMO SOL

and in groups, and, worst of all, lack of sufficient vision to

embrace a galaxy-wide culture."

He glared down upon. the lowering Centaurian before him.
"Such a race must exist if we are to believe the report—and
fundamental axioms of psychology must crumble. But I, for
one, refuse to believe any such—to be vulgar about it—comet
gas. This is plainly a case of mismanagement to be investi-
gated by the proper authorities. I hope you all agree with me
when I say that this report be consigned to the scrap heap
and that a second expedition led by an expert in his line, not
by an inexperienced junior psychologist or a soldier—"

The drone of the scientist's voice was buried suddenly in
the crash of an iron fist against the table. Joselin Am, his
huge bulk writhing in anger, lost his temper and gave vent to

martial wrath.

"Now, by the writhing spawn of Templis, by the worms
that crawl and the gnats that fly, by the cesspools and the
plague spots, and by the hooded death itself, / won't allow
this. Are you to sit there with your theories and your long-
range wisdom and deny what I have seen with my eyes? Are
my eyes"—and they flashed fire as he spoke—"to deny them-
selves because of a few wriggling marks your palsied hands

trace on paper?

"To the core of Centauri with these armchair wise men,
say I—and the psychologists first of all. Blast these men who
bury themselves in their books and their laboratories and are
blind to what goes on in the living world outside. Psychology,
is it? Rotten, putrid—"

A tap on his belt caused him to whirl, eyes staring, fists
clenched. For a moment, he looked about vainly. Then, turn-
ing his gaze downward, he found himself looking into the enig-
matic green eyes of a pygmy of a man, whose piercing stare
seemed to drench his anger with ice water.

"I know you, Joselin Am," said Tan Porus slowly, picking
his words carefully. "You're a brave man and a good soldier,
but you don't like psychologists, I see. That is wrong of you,
for it is on psychology that the political success of the Fed-
eration rests. Take it away and our Union crumbles, our great
Federation melts away, the Galactic System is shattered." His
voice descended into a soft, liquid croon. "You have sworn
an oath to defend the System against all its enemies, Joselin
Am—and you yourself have now become its greatest. You
strike at its foundations. You dig at its roots. You poison it

208

HOMO SOL
at its source. You are dishonored. You are disgraced. You are
a traitor."

The Centaurian soldier shook his head helplessly. As Poms
spoke, deep and bitter remorse filled him. Recollection of his
words of a moment ago lay heavy on his conscience. When
the psychologist finished, Am bent his head and wept. Tears
ran down those lined, war-scarred cheeks, to which for forty
years now they had been a stranger.

Porus spoke again, and this time his voice boomed like a
thunderclap: "Away with your mewling whine, you coward.
Danger is at hand. Man the guns!"

Joselin Am snapped to attention; the sorrow that had filled
him a bare second before was gone as if it had never existed.

The room rocked with laughter and the soldier grasped the
situation. It had been Poms' way of punishing him. With his
complete knowledge of the devious ins and outs of the Hu-
manoid mind, he had only to push the proper button, and—

The Centaurian bit his lip in embarrassment, but said
nothing.

But Tan Poms, himself, did not laugh. To tease the soldier
was one thing; to humiliate him, quite another. With a bound,
he was on a chair and laid his small hand on the other's
massive shoulder.

"No offense, my friend—a little lesson, that is all. Fight
the sub-humanoids and the hostile environments of fifty worlds.
Dare space in a leaky rattletrap of a ship. Defy whatever
dangers you wish. But never, never offend a psychologist. He
might get angry in earnest the next time."

Arn bent his head back and laughed—a gigantic roar of
mirth that shook the room with its earthquakelike lustiness.

"Your advice is well taken, psychologist. Bum me with an
atomo, if I don't think you're right." He strode from the room
with his shoulders still heaving with suppressed laughter.

Porus hopped off the chair and turned to face the board.

"This is an interesting race of Humanoids we have stumbled
upon, colleagues."

"Ah," said Obel, dryly, "the great Poms feels bound to
come to his pupil's defense. Your digestion seems to have im-
proved, since you feel yourself capable of swallowing Hari-
din's report."

Haridin, standing, head bowed, in the corner, reddened
angrily, but did not move.

Poms frowned, but his voice kept to its even tone. "I do,

HOMO SOL

and the report, if properly analyzed, will give rise to a revolu-
tion in the science. It is a psychological gold mine; and Homo
Sol, the find of the millenium."

"Be specific. Tan Porus," drawled someone. "Your tricks
are all very well for a Centaurian blockhead, but we remain
unimpressed."

The fiery little Rigellian emitted a gurgle of anger. He
shook one tiny fist in the direction of the last speaker.

"I'll be more specific, Inar Tubal, you hairy space bug."
Prudence and anger waged a visible battle within him. "There
is more to a Humanoid than you think—certainly far more
than you mental cripples can understand. Just to show you
what you don't know, you desiccated group of fossils, I'll un-
dertake to show you a bit of psycho-technology that'll knock
the guts right out of you. Panic, morons, panic! Worldwide
panic!"

There was an awful silence. "Did you say world-wide
panic?" stuttered Frian Obel, his green skin turning gray.
"Panic?"

"Yes, you parrot. Give me six months and fifty assistants
and I'll show you a world of Humanoids in panic."

Obel attempted vainly to answer. His mouth worked in a
heroic attempt to remain serious—and failed. As though by
signal, the entire board dropped its dignity and leaned back
in a single burst of laughter.

"I remember," gasped Inar Tubal of Sirius, his round face
streaked with tears of pure joy, "a student of mine who once
claimed to have discovered a stimulus that would induce
world-wide panic. When I checked his results, I came across
an exponent with a misplaced decimal point. He was only ten
orders of magnitude out of the way. How many decimal points
have you misplaced, Colleague Porus?"

"What of Kraut's Law, Porus, which says you can't panic
more than five Humanoids at a time? Shall we pass a resolu-
tion repealing it? And maybe the atomic theory as well, while
we're about it?" and Semper Gor of Capella cackled glee-
fully.

Porus climbed onto the table and snatched Obel's gavel.
"The next one who laughs is getting this over his empty head."
There was sudden silence.

"I'm taking fifty asistants," shouted the green-eyed Rigellian,
"and Joselin Am is taking me to Sol. I want five of you to
come with me—Inar Tubal, Semper Gor and any three others
—so that I can watch their stupid faces when I've done what
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HOMO SOL

I said I would." He hefted the gavel, threateningly. "Well?"

Frian Obel gazed at the ceiling placidly. "All right, Porus.
Tubal. Gor. Helvin, Prat, and Winson can go with you. At
the end of the specified time, we'll witness world-wide panic
which will be very gratifying—or we'll watch you eat your
words, and how much more gratifying that would be." And
with that, he chuckled very quietly to himself.

Tan Porus stared thoughtfully out the window. Terrapolis,
capital city of Earth, sprawled beneath him to the very edge
of the horizon. Its muted roar reached even to the half-mile
height at which he stood.

There was something over that city, invisible and intangible
but none the less real. Its presence was only too evident to the
small psychologist. The choking, cloak of dank fear that
spread over the metropolis beneath was one of his own weav-
ing—a horrible cloak of dark uncertainty, that clutched with
clammy fingers at the hearts of Mankind and stopped short
—just short—of actual panic.

The roar of the city had voices in it, and the voices were
tiny ones of fear.

The Rigellian turned away in disgust. "Hey, Haridin," he
roared.

The young Arcturian turned away from the televisor. "Call-
ing me, boss?"

"What do you think I'm doing? Talking to myself? What's
the latest from Asia?"

"Nothing new. The stimuli just aren't strong enough. The
yellow men seem to be more stolid of disposition than the
white dominants of America and Europe. I've sent out orders
not to increase the stimuli, though."

"No, they mustn't," agreed Porus. "We can't risk active
panic." He ruminated in silence. "Listen, we're about through.
Tell them to hit a few of the big cities—they're more suscep-
tible—and quit."

He turned to the window again. "Space, what a world—
what a world! An entirely new branch of psychology has
opened up—one we never dreamed of. Mob psychology,
Haridin, mob psychology." He shook his head impressively.

"There's lots of suffering, though, boss," muttered the
younger man. "This passive panic has completely paralyzed
trade and commerce. The business life of the entire planet is
stagnant. The poor government is helpless—they don't know
what's wrong."

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HOMO SOL

"They'll find out—when I'm ready.~A'nd, as for the suffer-
ing—well, I don't like it, either, but it's all a means to an end,

a damned important end."

There followed a short silence, and then Porus' lips
twitched into a nasty smile. "Those five nitwits returned from
Europe yesterday, didn't they?"

Haridin smiled in turn and nodded vigorously, "And hop-
ping sore! Your predictions have checked to the fifth decimal
place. They're fit to be tied."

"Good! I'm only sorry I can't see Obel's face right now,
after the last message I sent him. And, incidentally"—his
voice dropped lower—"what's the latest on them?"

Haridin raised two fingers. "Two weeks, and they'll be

here."

"Two weeks . . . two weeks," gurgled Porus jubilantly. He

rose and made for the door. "I think I'll find my dear, dear
colleagues and pass the time of day."

The five scientists of the board looked up from their notes
and fell into an embarrassed silence as Porus entered.

The latter smiled impishly. "Notes satisfactory, gentlemen?
Found some fifty or sixty fallacies in my fundamental assump-
tions, no doubt?"

Hybron Prat of Alpha Cepheus rumpled the gray fuzz he
called hair. "I don't trust the unholy tricks this crazy mathe-
matical notation of yours plays."

The Rigellian emitted a short bark of laughter. "Invent a
better, then. So far, it's done a good job of handling reactions,

hasn't it?"

There was an unmusical chorus of throat-clearings but no

definite answer.

"Hasn't it?" thundered Porus.

"Well, what if it has," returned Kim Winson, desperately.
"Where's your panic? All this is well and good. These Huma-
noids are cosmic freaks, but where's the big show you were
going to put on? Until you break Kraut's Law, this entire
exhibition of yours isn't worth a pinhead meteor."

"You're beaten, gentlemen, you're beaten," crowed the
small master psychologist. "I've proven my point—this passive
panic is as impossible according to classic psychology as the
active form. You're trying to deny facts and save face now, by
harping on a technicality. Go home; go home, gentlemen, and

hide under the bed."

Psychologists are only human. They can analyze the motives

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HOMO SOL

that drive them, but they are the slave of those motives just
as much as the commonest mortal of all. These galaxy-famous
psychologists writhed under the lash of wounded pride and
shattered vanity, and their blind stubbornness was the me-
chanical reaction due therefrom. They knew it was and they
knew Porus knew it was—and that made it all the harder.

Inar Tubal stared angrily from red-rimmed eyes. "Active
panic or nothing. Tan Porus. That's what you promised, and
that's what we'll have. We want the letter of the bond or, by
space and time, we'll balk at any technicality. Active panic or
we report failurel"

Porus swelled ominously and, with a tremendous effort,
spoke quietly. "Be reasonable, gentlemen. We haven't the
equipment to handle active panic. We've never come up
against this superform they have here on Earth. What if it
gets beyond control?" He shook his head violently.

"Isolate it, then," snarled Semper Gor. "Start it up and put
it out. Make all the preparations you want, but do it!"

"If you can," grunted Hybron Prat.

But Tan Porus had his weak point. His brittle temper lay in
splintered shards about him. His agile tongue blistered the
atmosphere and inundated the sullen psychologist with wave
after wave of concentrated profanity.

"Have your way, vacuumheads! Have your way and to
outer space with you!" He was breathless with passion. "We'll
set it off right here in Terrapolis as soon as all the men are
back home. Only you'd all better get from under!"

And with one last parting snarl, he stalked from the room.

Tan Porus parted the curtains with a sweep of his hand,
and the five psychologists facing him averted their eyes. The
streets of Earth's capital were deserted of civilian population.
The ordered tramp of the military patrolling the highways of
the city sounded like a dirge. The wintry sky hung low over
a scene of strewn bodies—and silence; the silence that follows
an orgy of wild destruction.

"It was touch and go for a few hours there, c'olleagues."
Porus' voice was tired. "If it had passed the city limits, we
could never have stopped it."

"Horrible, horrible!" muttered Hybron Prat. "It was a scene
a psychologist would have given his right arm to witness—
and his life to forget."

"And these are Humanoids!" groaned Kim Winson.

Semper Gor rose to his feet in sudden decision. "Do you

213




HOMO SOL

see the significance of this, Porus? These Earthmen are sheer
uncontrolled atomite. They can't be handled. Were they twice
the technological geniuses they are, they would be useless.
With their mob psychology, their mass panics, their superemo-
tionalism, they simply won't fit into the Humanoid picture."

Porus raised an eyebrow. "Comet gas! Individually, we are
as emotional as they are. They carry it into mass action and
we don't; that's the only difference."

"And that's enough!" exclaimed Tubal. "We've made our
decision, Porus. We made it last night, at the height of the
... the ... of it. The Solar System is to be left to itself. It is
a plague spot and we want none of it. As far as the Galaxy is
concerned. Homo Sol will be placed in strict quarantine. That
is final!"

The Rigellian laughed softly. "For the Galaxy, it may be
final. But for Homo Sol?"

Tubal shrugged. "They don't concern us."

Porus laughed again. "Say, Tubal. Just between the two of
us, have you tried a time integration of Equation 128 fol-
lowed by expansion with Karolean tensors?"

"No-o. I can't say I have."

"Well, then, just glance up and down these calculations
and enjoy yourself."

The five scientists of the board grouped themselves about
the sheets of paper Porus had handed them. Expressions
changed from interest to bewilderment and then to something
approaching panic.

Nam Helvin tore the sheets across with a spasmodic move-
ment. "It's a lie," he screeched.

"We're a thousand years ahead of them now, and by that
time we'll be advanced another two hundred years!" Tubal
snapped. "They won't be able to do anything against the mass
of the Galaxy's people."

Tan Porus laughed in a monotone, which is hard to do, but
very unpleasant to hear. "You still don't believe mathematics.
That's in your behavior pattern, of course. All right, let's see
if experts convince you—as they should, unless contact with
these off-normal Humanoids has twisted you. Joselin—Joselin
Am—come in herel"

The Centaurian commander came in, saluted automatically,
and looked expectant.

"Can one of your ships defeat one of the Sol ships in battle,
if necessary?"
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HOMO SOL

Arn grinned sourly. "Not a chance, sir. These Humanoids
break Kraut's Law in panic—and also in fighting. We have a
corps of experts manning our ships; these people have a
single crew that functions as a unit, without individuality.
They manifest a form of fighting—panic, I imagine, is the best
word. Every individual on a ship becomes an organ of the
ship. With us, as you know, that's impossible.

"Furthermore, this world's a mass of mad geniuses. They
have, to my certain knowledge, taken no less than twenty-two
interesting but useless gadgets they saw in the Thalsoon
Museum when they visited us, turned 'em inside out, and pro-
duced from them some of the most unpleasant military de-
vices I've seen. You know of Julmun Thill's gravitational line
tracer? Used—rather ineffectively—for spotting ore deposits
before the modem electric potential method came in?

"They've turned it—somehow—into one of the deadliest
automatic fire directors it's been my displeasure to see. It will
automatically lay a gun or projector on a completely invisible
target in space, air, water or rock, for that matter."

"We," said Tan Porus, gleefully, "have far greater fleets
than they. We could overwhelm them, could we not?"

Joselin Am shook his head. "Defeat them now—probably.
It wouldn't be overwhelming, though, and I wouldn't bet on
it too heavily. Certainly wouldn't invite it. The trouble is, in a
military way, this collection of gadget maniacs invent things at
a horrible rate. Technologically, they're as unstable as a wave
in water; our civilization is more like a sanddune. I've seen
their ground-car plants install a complete plant of machine
tools for production of a new model of automobile—and rip
it out in six months because it's completely obsolete!

"Now we've come in contact with their civilization briefly.
We've learned the methods of one new civilization to add to
our previous two hundred and eighty-odd—a small percentage
advantage. They've added one new civilization to their pre-
vious one—a one-hundred-percent advance!"

"How about," Porus asked gently, "our military position if
we simply ignore them completely for two hundred years?"

Joselin Am gave an explosive little laugh. "// we could—
which means if they'd let us—I'd answer offhand and with
assurance. They're all I'd care to tackle right now. Two hun-
dred years of exploring the new tracks suggested by their brief
contact with us and they'd be doing things I can't imagine.
Wait two hundred years and there won't be a battle; there'll
be an annexation."

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HOMO SOL

Tan Porus bowed formally. "Thank you, Joselin Arn. That
was the result of my mathematical work."

Joselin Arn saluted and left the room.

Turning to the five thoroughly paralyzed scientists, Porus
went on: "And I hope these learned gentlemen still react in a
vaguely Humanoid way. Are you convinced that it is not up
to us to decide to end all intercourse with this race? We' may
—but they won't!

"Fools"—he spat out the word—"do you think I'm going to
waste time arguing with you? I'm laying down the law, do
you understand? Homo Sol shall enter the Federation. They
are going to be trained into maturity in two hundred years.
And I'm not asking you; I'm telling you!" The Rigellian stared
up at them truculently.

"Come with me!" he growled brusquely.

They followed in tame submission and entered Tan Porus'
sleeping quarters. The little psychologist drew aside a curtain
and revealed a life-size painting.

"Make anything of that?"

It was the portrait of an Earthman, but of such an Earth-
man as none of the psychologists had yet seen. Dignified and
sternly handsome, with one hand stroking a regal beard, and
the other holding the single flowing garment that clothed him,
he seemed personified majesty.

"That's Zeus," said Porus. "The primitive Earthmen created
him as the personification of storm and lightning." He whirled
upon the bewildered five. "Does it remind you of anybody?"

"Homo Canopus?" ventured Helvin uncertainly.

For a moment, Porus' face relaxed in momentary gratifica-
tion and then it hardened again. "Of course," he snapped.
"Why do you hesitate about it? That's Canopus to the life,
down to the full yellow beard."

Then: "Here's something else." He drew another curtain.

The portrait was of a female, this time. Full-bosomed and
wide-hipped she was. An ineffable smile graced her face and
her hands seemed to caress the stalks of grain that sprang
thickly about her feet.

"Demeter!" said Porus. "The personification of agricultural
fertility. The idealized mother. Whom does that remind you

of?"

There was no hesitation this time. Five voices rang out as

one: "Homo Betelgeuse!"

Tan Porus smiled in delight. "There you have it Well?"

216

HOMO SOL

"Well?" said Tubal.

"Don't you see?" The smile faded. "Isn't it clear? Nitwit!
If a hundred Zeuses and a hundred Demeters were to land on
Earth as part of a 'trade mission,' and turned out to be trained
psychologists—Now do you see?"

Semper Gor laughed suddenly. "Space, time, and little
meteors. Of course! The Earthmen would be putty in the
hands of their own personifications of storm and motherhood
come to life. In two hundred years—why, in two hundred
years, we could do anything."

"But this so-called trade mission of yours, Porus," inter-
posed Prat. "How would you get Homo Sol to accept it in the
first place?"

Porus cocked his head to one side. "Dear Colleague Prat,"
he murmured, "do you suppose that I created the passive
panic just for the show—or just to gratify five woodenheads?
This passive panic paralyzed industry, and the Terrestrial
government is faced with revolution—another form of mob
action that could use investigation. Offer them Galactic trade
and eternal prosperity and do you think they'd jump at it?
Has matter mass?"

The Rigellian cut short the excited babble that followed
with an impatient gesture. "If you've nothing more to ask,
gentlemen, let's begin our preparations to leave. Frankly, I'm
tired of Earth, and, more than that, I'm blasted anxious to get
back to that squid of mine."

He opened the door and shouted down the corridor: "Hey,
Haridini Tell Arn to have the ship ready in six hours. We're
leaving."

"But . . . but—" The chorus of puzzled objections crystal-
lized into sudden action as Semper Gor dashed at Porus and
snatched him back as he was on the point of leaving. The little
Rigellian struggled vainly in the other's powerful grasp.

"Let go!"

"We've endured enough, Porus," said Gor, "and now you"ll
just calm down and behave like a Humanoid. Whatever you
say, we're not leaving until we're finished. We've got to ar-
range with the Terrestrial government concerning the trade
mission. We've got to secure approval of the board. We've
got to pick our psychologist. We've got to—"

Here Porus, with a sudden jerk, freed himself. "Do you
suppose for one moment that I would wait for your precious
board to start to begin to commence to- consider doing some-
thing about the situation in two or three decades?

217




HOMO SOL

"Earth agreed to my terms unconditionally a month ago.
The squad of Canopans and Betelgeusans set sail five months
ago, and landed day before yesterday. It was only with their
help that we managed to stop yesterday's panic—though you
never suspected it. You probably thought you did it yourself.
Today, gentlemen, they have the situation in full control and
your services are no longer needed. We're going home."

THE END

"Homo Sol" has a plot of a sort that particularly appealed
to Campbell. Although the human beings in the story are far
behind the other intelligences of the Galaxy, it is clear that
there is something special about them, that they have an
unusual ability to move ahead very quickly, and that every-
one else had better watch out for them.

Campbell liked stories in which human beings proved
themselves superior to other intelligences, even when those
others were further advanced technologically. It pleased him
to have human beings shown to possess a unique spirit of
daring, or a sense of humor, or a ruthless ability to kill
when necessary, that always brought them victory over other

intelligences, even against odds.

I sometimes got the uncomfortable notion> however, that
this attitude reflected Campbell's feelings on the smaller,
Earth scale. He seemed to me to accept the natural superior-
ity of Americans over non-Americans, and he seemed au-
tomatically to assume the picture of an American as one
who was of northwest European origin.

I cannot say that Campbell was racist in any evil sense of
the term. 1 cannot recall any act of his that could be con-
strued as unkind, and certainly he never, not once, made
me feel uncomfortable over the fact that I was Jewish.
Nevertheless, he did seem to take for granted, somehow, the
stereotype of the Nordic white as the true representative of
Man the Explorer, Man the Darer, Man the Victor,

I argued with him strenuously on the subject, or as
violently as I dared, and in years to come our relationship
was to be as nearly strained as it could be (considering
our mutual affection, and all that I owed him) over the
civil rights issue. I was on the liberal side of the issue, he

218

HOMO SOL

on the conservative, and our minds never met on that
subject.

All this had an important bearing on my science fiction
work. I did not like Campbell's attitude concerning humanity
vis-a-vis other intelligences and it took two revisions of
"Homo Sol" before Campbell could move me close enough
to what he wanted. Even then, he inserted several para-
graphs, here and there, without consulting me, in the final
version.

I tried to avoid such a situation in future. One way out
was to depart from the traditions of those writers who wove
plots against the gigantic web of entire galaxies containing
many intelligences—notably those of E. E. Smith and of
Campbell himself. Instead, I began to think of stories in-
volving a galaxy populated by human intelligences only.

This came to fruit, soon enough, in. the "Foundation"
series. Undoubtedly the Smith-Campbell view makes more
sense. It is almost certain that among the hundreds of
billions of worlds in a large galaxy there ought to be
hundreds or even thousands of different intelligent species.
That there should be only one, ourselves, as 1 postulated, is
most unlikely.

Some science fiction critics (notably Sam Moskowitz) have
given me credit for inventing the human-only galaxy, as
though it were some kind of literary advance. Others may
have thought privately (I have never heard it stated openly)
that I had only human intelligences in my galaxy because 1
lacked the imagination to think up extraterrestrials.

But the fact is that I was only trying to avoid a collision
with Campbell's views; I did not want to set up a situation
in which I would be forced to face the alternatives of
adopting Campbell's views when 1 found them repugnant and
failing to sell a story (which I also found repugnant).

On March 25, 1940, the day I put through my final sub-
mission of "Homo Sol," I went on to visit Fred Pohl at his
office. He told me that the response to "Half-Breed" had
been such that he felt justified in asking for a sequel. It
was the first time I had ever been requested to write a
219







HOMO SOL

specific story with acceptance virtually guaranteed in ad-
vance.

I spent April and May working on the sequel, "Half-
Breeds on Venus," and submitted it to Pohl on June 3. On
June 14, he accepted it. The story was ten thousand words
long, the longest I had ever sold up to that time. What's
more, Pohl's magazines were doing so well that his budget
had been increased and he was able to pay me five eighths
of a cent a word for it—$62.50.

It appeared in the issue of Astonishing that reached the
stands on October 24, 1940, two years almost to a day
since my first sale. This was a red-letter day for me, too,
since it was the first time that the cover painting on a
magazine was ever taken from one of my stories. I had
"made the cover."

The title of the story and my name were on the cover in
bold letters. It was a flattering indication that my name
could be counted on to sell magazines by this time.

220

10

Half-Breeds on Venus

The damp, somnolent atmosphere stirred violently and
shrieked aside. The bare plateau shook three times as the
heavy eggshaped projectiles shot down from outer space. The
sound of the landing reverberated from the mountains on one

side to the lush forest on the other, and then all was silent
again.

One by one, three doors clanged open, and human figures
stepped out in hesitant single file. First slowly, and then with
impatient turbulence, they set first foot upon the new world,
until the space surrounding the ships was crowded.

A thousand pairs of eyes gazed upon the prospect and a
thousand mouths chattered excitedly. And in the other-world

wind, a thousand crests of foot-high white hair swayed grace-
fully.

The Tweenies had landed on Venus t

Max Scanlon sighed wearily, "Here we are!"

He turned from the porthole and slumped into his own
special arm-chair. "They're as happy as children—and I don't
blame them. We've got a new world—one all for ourselves—
and that's a great thing. But just the same, there are hard days
ahead .of us. I am almost afraid! It is a project so lightly em-
barked upon, but one so hard to carry out to completion."

A gentle arm stole about his shoulder and he grasped it
tightly, smiling into the soft, blue eyes that met his. "But

Astonishing Stories, December 1940
Copyright © 1940 by Fictioneers, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1967 by Isaac Asimov

221




HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

you're not afraid, are you, Madeline?"

"Certainly not!" And then her expression grew sadder, "If
only father had come with us. You—you know that he meant
more to us than to the others. We were the—the first he took
under his wing, weren't we?"

There was a long silence after that as each fell into deep
thought.

Max sighed, "I remember him that day forty years ago—
old suit, pipe, everything. He took me in. Me, a despised half-
breed! And—and he found you for me, Madeline!"

"I know," there were tears in her eyes. "But he's still with
us, Max, and always will be—here, and there." Her hand
crept first to her own heart and then to Max's.

"Hey, there, Dad, catch her, catch her!"

Max whirled at the sound of his elder son's voice, just in
time to catch up the little bundle of flying arms and legs that
catapulted into him.

He held her gravely up before him, "Shall I give you to
your papa, Elsie? He wants you."

The little girl kicked her legs ecstatically. "No, no. I want
you, grand-daddy. I want you to give me a piggy-back and
come out with grandmamma to see how nice everything is."

Max turned to his son, and motioned him sternly away,
"Depart, despised father, and let old grand-dad have a
chance."

Arthur laughed and mopped a red face, "Keep her, for
Heaven's sake. She's been leading me and the wife a merry
chase outside. We had to drag her back by the dress to keep
her from running off into the forest. Didn't we, Elsie?"

Elsie, thus appealed to, suddenly recalled a past grievance.
"Grand-daddy, tell him to let me see the pretty trees. He
doesn't want me to." She wriggled from Max's grasp and ran
to the porthole. "See them, grand-daddy, see them. It's all
trees outside. It's not black anymore. I hated it when it was
black, didn't you?"

Max leaned over and ruffled the child's soft, white hair
gravely, "Yes, Elsie, I hated it when it was black. But it isn't
black anymore, and it won't ever be black again. Now go run
to grandmamma. She'll get some cake specially for you. Go
ahead, run!"

He followed the departing forms of his wife and grand-
daughter with smiling eyes, and then, as they turned to his
son, they became serious once more.

222

HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
"Well, Arthur?"
"Well, dad, what now?"

"There's no time to waste, son. We've got to start building
immediately—underground!"

Arthur snapped into an attentive attitude, "Underground!"
He frowned his dismay.

"I know, I know. I said nothing of this previously, but it's
got to be done. At all costs we must vanish from the face of
the System. There are Earthmen on Venus—purebloods.
There aren't many, it's true, but there are some. They mustn't
find us—at least, not until we are prepared for whatever may
follow. That will take years."

"But father, underground! To live like moles, hidden from
light and air. I don't'like that." -

"Oh, nonsense. Don't overdramatize. Well live on the
surface—but the city; the power-stations, the food and water
reserves, the laboratories—all that must be below and im-
pregnable."

The old Tweenie gestured the subject away with impatience,
"Forget that, anyway. I want to talk about something else—
something we've discussed already."

Arthur's eyes hardened and he shifted his glance to the
ceiling. Max rose and placed his bands upon his son's brawny
shoulders.

"I'm past sixty, Arthur. How long I have yet to live, I
don't know. In any case, the best of me belongs to the past
and it is better that I yield the leadership to a younger, more
vigorous person."

"Dad, that's sentimental bosh and you know it. There isn't
one of us that's fit to wipe your shoes and no one is going to
listen for a second to any plan of appointing a successor
while you're still alive."

"I'm not going to ask them to listen. It's done—and you're
the new leader."

The younger man shook his head firmly, "You can't make
me serve against my will."

Max smiled whimsically, "I'm afraid you're dodging re-
sponsibility, son. You're leaving your poor old father to the
strains and hardships of a job beyond his aged strength."

"Dad!" came the shocked retort. "That's not so. You know
it isn't. You—"

"Then prove it. Look at it this way. Our race needs active
leadership, and I can't supply it. I'll always be here—while I
live—to advise you and help you as best I can, but from now

223




HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

on, you must take the initiative."

Arthur frowned and the words came from him reluctantly,
"All right, then. I take the job of field commander. But re-
member, you're commander-in-chief."

"Good! And now let's celebrate the occasion." Max opened
a cupboard and withdrew a box, from which he abstracted a
pair of cigars. He sighed, "The supply of tobacco is down to
the vanishing point and we won't have any more until we
grow our own, but— we'll smoke to the new leader."

Blue smoke curled upwards and Max frowned through it
at his son, "Where's Henry?"

Arthur grinned, "Dunno! I haven't seen hirri since we
landed. I can tell you with whom he is, though."

Max grunted, "I know that, too."

"The kid's making hay while the sun shines. It won't be
many years now. Dad, before you'll be spoiling a second set
of grandchildren."

"If they're as good as the three of my first set, I only hope
I live to see the day."

And father and son smiled affectionately at each other and
listened in silence to the muted sound of happy laughter from
the hundreds of Tweenies outside.

Henry Scanlon cocked his head to one side, and raised his
hand for silence, "Do you hear running water, Irene?"

The girl at his side nodded, "Over in that direction."

"Let's go there, then. A river flashed by just before we
landed and maybe that's it."

"All right, if you say so, but I think we ought to be getting
back to the ships."

"What for?" Henry stopped and stared. "I should think
you'd be glad to stretch your legs after weeks on a crowded
ship."

"Well, it might be dangerous."

"Not here in the highlands, Irene. Venusian highlands are
practically a second Earth. You can see this is forest and not
jungle. Now if we were in the coastal regions—" He broke
off short, as if he had just remembered something. "Besides,
what's there to be afraid of? I'm with you, aren't I?" And he
patted the Tonite gun at his hip.

Irene repressed a sudden smile and shot an arch glance at
her strutting companion, "I'm quite aware that you're with me.
That's the danger."

Henry's chest deflated with an audible gasp. He frowned.

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"Very funny—And I on my best behavior, too." He drifted
away, brooded sulkily awhile, and then addressed the trees in
a distant manner, "Which reminds me that tomorrow is
Daphne's birthday. I've promised her a present."

"Get her a reducing belt," came the quick retort. "Fat
thing!"

"Who's fat? Daphne? Oh—I wouldn't say so." He consid-
ered matters carefully, one thoughtful eye upon the young girl
at his side. "Now my description of her would be—shall we
say—'pleasingly plump,' or, maybe, 'comfortably uphol-
stered.' "

"She's fat," Irene's voice was suddenly a hiss, and something
very like a frown wrinkled her lovely face, "and her eyes are
green." She swung on ahead, chin high, and superbly con-
scious of her own little figure.

Henry hastened his steps and caught up, "Of course, I
prefer skinny girls any day.

Irene whirled on him and her little fists clenched, "I'm not
skinny, you incredibly stupid ape."

"But Irene, who said I meant you?" His voice was solemn,
but his eyes were laughing,

The girl reddened to the ears and turned away, lower lip
trembling. The smile faded from Henry's eyes and was re-
placed by a look of concern. His arm shot out hesitantly and
slipped about her shoulder.

"Angry, Irene?"

The smile that lit her face of a sudden was as brilliant as
the sparkling sheen of her silvery hair in the bright sun.

"No," she said.

Their eyes met and, for a moment, Henry hesitated—and
found that he who hesitates is lost; for with a sudden twist and
a smothered laugh, Irene was free once more.

Pointing through a break in the trees, she cried, "Look, a
lake!" and was off at a run.

Henry scowled, muttered something under his breath, and
ran after.

The scene was truly Earthly. A rapids-broken stream wound
its way through banks of slender-trunked trees and then
spread into a placid lake some miles in width. The brooding
quiet was unbroken save by the muffled beat that issued from
the throat-bags of the frilled lizards that nested in the upper
reaches of the trees.

The two Tweenies—boy and girl—stood hand in hand
upon the bank and drank in the beauty of the scene.




HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

Then there was a muffled splash near by and Irene shrank
into the encircling arms of her companion.

"What's the matter?"

"N—nothing. Something moved in the water, I think."

"Oh, imagination, Irene."

"No. I did see something. It came up and—oh, goodness,
Henry, don't squeeze so tightly—"

She almost lost her balance as Henry suddenly dropped her
altogether and jerked at his Tonite gun.

Immediately before them, a dripping green head lifted out
of the water and regarded them out of wide-set, staring
goggle-eyes. Its broad lipless mouth opened and closed rapidly,
but not a sound issued forth.

Max Scanlon stared thoughtfully at the rugged foot-hills
ahead and clasped his hands behind his back.

"You think so, do you?"

"Certainly, Dad," insisted Arthur, enthusiastically. "If we
burrow under these piles of granite, all Earth couldn't get at
us. It wouldn't take two months to form the entire cavern,
with our unlimited power."

"Hmph! It will require carel"

"It will get it!"

"Mountainous regions are quake regions."

"We can rig up enough stat-rays to hold up all Venus,
quakes or no quakes."

"Stat-rays eat up energy wholesale, and a breakdown that
will leave us energyless would mean the end."

"We can hook up five separate power-houses,—as foolproof
as we can make them. All five won't break down at once."

The old Tweenie smiled, "All right, son. I see you've got it
planned thoroughly. Go ahead! Start whenever you want—and
remember, it's all up to you."

"Good! Let's get back to the ships." They picked their way
gingerly down the rocky, slope.

"You know, Arthur," said Max, stopping suddenly, "I've
been thinking about those stat-beams."

"Yes?" Arthur offered his arm, and the two resumed their

walk.

"It's occurred to me that if we could make them two-di-
mensional in extent and curve them, we'd have the perfect
defense, as long as our energy lasted—a stat-field."

"You need four-dimensional radiation for that. Dad—nice
to think about but can't be done."
226                                                    ,

HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
. "Oh, is that so? Well, listen to this—"

What Arthur was to listen to remained hidden, however—
for that day at least. A piercing shout ahead jerked both their
heads upward. Up towards them came the bounding form of
Henry Scanlon, and following him, at a goodly distance and
a much more leisurely pace, came Irene.

"Say, Dad, I had a devil of a time finding you. Where were
you?"

"Right here, son. Where were you?"

"Oh, just around. Listen, Dad. You know those amphibians
the explorers talk about as inhabiting the highland lakes of
Venus, don't you? Well, we've located them, lots of them, a
regular convoy of them. Haven't we, Irene?"

Irene paused to catch her breath and nodded her head,
"They're the cutest things, Mr. Scanlon. All green." She
wrinkled her nose laughingly.

Arthur and his father exchanged glances of doubt. The
former shrugged. "Are you sure you haven't been seeing
things? I remember once. Henry, when you sighted a meteor
in space, scared us all to death, and then had it turn out to
be your own reflection in the port glass."

Henry, painfully aware of Irene's snicker, thrust out a bel-
ligerent lower lip, "Say, Art, I guess you're looking for a
shove in the face. And I'm old enough to give it to you, too."

"Whoa there, quiet down," came the peremptory voice of
the elder Scanlon, "and you, Arthur, had better leam to re-
spect your younger brother's dignity. Now here. Henry, all
Arthur meant was that these amphibians are as shy as rabbits.
No one's ever caught more than a glimpse of them."

"Well, we have. Dad. Lots of them. I guess they were at-
tracted by Irene. No one can resist her."

"I know you can't," and Arthur laughed loudly.
Henry stiffened once more, but his father stepped between.
"Grow up, you two. Let's go and see these amphibians."

"This is amazing," exclaimed Max Scanlon. "Why, they're
as friendly as children. I can't understand it."

Arthur-shook his head, "Neither can I, Dad. In fifty years,
no explorer has ever gotten a good look at one, and here they
are—thick as flies."

Henry was throwing pebbles into the lake. "Watch this, all
of you."

A pebble curved its way into the water, and as it splashed
six green forms turned a back somersault and slid smoothly

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HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
below the surface. With no time for a breath between, one was
up again and the pebble arced back to fall at Henry's feet.

The amphibians were crowding closer in ever increasing
numbers now, approaching the very edge of the lake, where
they grasped at the coarse reeds on the bank and stared
goggle-eyed at the Tweenies. Their muscular webbed, legs
could be seen below the surface of the water, moving back
and forth with lazy grace. Without cessation, the lipless
mouths opened and closed in a queer, uneven rhythm.

"I think they're talking, Mr. Scanlon," said Irene, suddenly.

"It's quite possible," agreed the old Tweeriie, thoughtfully.
"Their brain-cases are fairly large, and they may possess con-
siderable intelligence. If their voice boxes and ears are tuned
to sound waves of higher or lower range than our own, we
would be unable to hear them—and that might very well ex-
plain their soundlessness."

"They're probably discussing us as busily as we are them,"

said Arthur.

"Yes, and wondering what sort of freaks we are," added

Irene.

Henry said nothing. He was approaching the edge of the
lake with cautious steps. The ground grew muddy beneath
his feet, and the reeds thick. The group of amphibians nearest
turned anxious eyes toward him, and one or two loosened
their hold and slipped silently away.

But the nearest held his ground. His wide mouth was
clamped tight; his eyes were wary—but he did not move.

Henry, paused, hesitated, and then held out his hand, "Hiya,

Phib!"

The "Phib" stared at the outstretched hand. Very cau-
tiously, his own webbed forelimb stretched out and touched
the Tweenie's fingers. With a jerk, they were drawn back, and
the Phib's mouth worked in soundless excitement.

"Be careful," came Max's voice from behind. "You'll scare
him that way. His skin is terribly sensitive and dry objects
must irritate him. Dip your hand in the water."

Slowly, Henry obeyed. The Phib's muscles tensed to escape
at the slightest sudden motion, but none came. Again the
Tweenie's hand was held out, dripping wet this time.

For a long minute, nothing happened, as the Phib seemed
to debate within itself the future course of action. And then,
after two false starts and hasty withdrawals, fingers touched
again.
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"Ataphib," said Henry, and clasped the green hand in his
own.

A single, startled jerk followed and then a lusty return of
pressure to an extent that numbed the Tweenie's fingers. Evi-
dently encouraged by the first Phib's example, his fellows were
crowding close now, offering hosts of hands.

The other three Tweenies slushed up through the mud now,
and offered wetted hands in their turn.

"That's funny," said Irene. "Everytime I shake hands I
seem to keep thinking of hair."

Max turned to her, "Hair?"

"Yes, ours. I get a picture of long, white hair, standing
straight up and shining in the sun." Her hand rose uncon-
sciously to her own smooth tresses.

"Say!" interrupted Henry suddenly, "I've been noticing that,
too, now that you mention it. Only when I shake hands,
though."

"How about you, Arthur?" asked Max.

Arthur nodded once, his eyebrows climbing.

Max smiled and pounded fist into palm. "Why, it's a primi-
tive sort of telepathy—too weak to work without physical
contact and even then capable of delivering only a few simple
ideas."

"But why hair, dad?" asked Arthur.

"Maybe it's our hair that attracted them in the first place.
They've never seen anything like it and—and—well, who can
explain their psychology?"

He was down on his knees suddenly, splashing water over
his high crest of hair. There was a frothing of water and a
surging of green bodies as the Phibs pressed closer. One green
paw passed gently through the stiff white crest, followed by
excited, if noiseless, chattering. Struggling amongst themselves
for favored vantage-points, they competed for the privilege of

touching the hair until Max, for sheer weariness, was forced
to rise again.

"They're probably our friends for life now," he said. "A
pretty queer set of animals."

It was Irene, then, who noticed the group of Phib? a hun-
dred yards from shore. They paddled quietly, making no effort
to approach closer, "Why don't they come?" she asked.

She turned to one of the foremost Phibs and pointed, mak-
ing frantic gestures of dubious meaning. She received only
solemn stares in return.

'That's not the way, Irene," admonished Max, gently. He
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held out his hand, grasped that of a willing Phib and stood
motionless for a moment. When he loosed his grip, the Phib
slid into the water and disappeared. In a moment, the laggard
Phibs were approaching shore slowly.

"How did you do it?" gasped Irene.

"Telepathyl I held on tightly and pictured an isolated group
of Phibs and a long hand stretching out over the water to
shake theirs." He smiled gently, "They are quite intelligent, or
they would not have understood so readily."

"Why, they're females," cried Arthur, in sudden breathless
astonishment "By all that's holy,—they suckle their young!"

The newcomers were slenderer and lighter in color than the
others. They advanced shyly, urged on by the bolder males
and held out timid hands in greeting.

"Oh-h," Irene cried in sudden delight. "Look at this!"

She was down on her knees in the mud. arms outstretched
to the nearest female. The other three watched in fascinated
silence as the nervous she-Phib clasped its tiny armful closer
to its breast.

But Irene's arms made little inviting gestures, "Please,
please. It's so cute. I won't hurt him."

Whether the Phib mother understood is doubtful, but with
a sudden motion, she held out a little green bundle of squirm-
ing life and deposited it in the waiting arms.

Irene rose, squealing with delight. Little webbed feet kicked
aimlessly and round frightened eyes stared at her. The other
three crowded close and watched it curiously.

"Its the dearest little thing, it is. Look at its funny little
mouth. Do you want to hold it. Henry?"

Henry jumped backwards as if stung, "Not on your life!
I'd probably drop it."

"Do you get any thought images, Irene?' asked Max,
thoughtfully.

Irene considered and frowned her concentration, "No-o. It's
too young, mayb—oh, yes! It's—it's—" She stopped, and
tried to laugh. "It's hungry!"

She returned the little baby Phib to its mother, whose
muscular arms clasped the little mite close. The tiny Phib
swiveled its little green head to bend one last goggling look at
the creature that had held it for an instant.

"Friendly creatures," said Max, "and intelligent. They can
keep their lakes and rivers. We'll take the land and won't in-
terfere with them."

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HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

A lone Tweenie stood on Scanlon Ridge and his field-glass
pointed at the Divide ten miles up the hills. For five minutes,
the glass did not waver and the Tweenie stood like some
watchful statue made of the same rock as formed the moun-
tains all about.

And then the field-glass lowered, and the Tweenie's face
was a pale thin-lipped picture of gloom. He hastened down the
slope to the guarded, hidden entrance to Venustown.

He shot past the guards without a word and descended
into the lower levels where solid rock was still being puffed
into nothingness and shaped at will by controlled blasts of
super-energy.

Arthur Scanlon looked up and with a sudden premonition
of disaster, gestured the Disintegrators to a halt.
"What's wrong, Sorrell?"

The Tweenie leant over and whispered a single word into
Arthur's ear.

"Where?" Arthur's voice jerked out hoarsely.
"On the other side of the ridge. They're coming through
the Divide now in our direction. I spotted the blaze of sun on
metal and—" he held up his field-glass significantly.

"Good Lord!" Arthur nibbed his forehead distractedly and
then turned to the anxiously-watching Tweenie at the controls
of the Disinto. "Continue as planned! No change!"

He hurried up the levels to the entrance, and snapped out
hurried orders, "Triple the guard immediately. No one but
me or those with me, are to be permitted to leave. Send out
men to round up any stragglers outside immediately and order
them to keep within shelter and make no unnecessary sound."

Then, back again through the central avenue to his father's
quarters.

Max Scanlon looked up from his calculations and his grave
forehead smoothed out slowly.

"Hello, son. Is anything wrong? Another resistant stratum?"
"No, nothing like that." Arthur closed the door carefully
and lowered his voice. "Earthmen!"

For a moment. Max made no movement. The expression on
his face froze for an instant, and then, with a sudden ex-
halation, he slumped in his chair and the lines in his forehead
deepened wearily.

"Settlers?"

"Looks so. Sorrell said women and children were among
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HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
them. There were several hundred in all, equipped for a stay

—and headed in this direction."

Max groaned, "Oh, the luck, the luck! All the vast empty

spaces of Venus to choose and they come here. Come, let's
get a firsthand look at this."

They came through the Divide in a long, snaky line. Hard-
bitten pioneers with their pinched work-worn women and their
carefree, half-barbarous, wilderness-bred children. The low,
broad "Venus Vans" joggled clumsily over the untrodden
ways, loaded down with amorphous masses of household

necessities.

The leaders surveyed the prospect and one spoke in clipped,

jerky syllables, "Almost through, Jem. We're out among the

foothills now."

And the other replied slowly, "And there's good new grow-
ing-land ahead. We can stake out farms and settle down." He
sighed, "It's been tough going this last month. I'm glad it's

over!"

And from a ridge ahead—the last ridge before the valley—

the Scanlons, father and son, unseen dots in the distance,

watched the newcomers with heavy hearts.

'The one thing we could not prepare for—and it's hap-
pened."

Arthur spoke slowly and reluctantly, "They are few and

unarmed. We can drive them out in an hour." With sudden

fierceness, "Venus is ours!"

"Yes, we can drive them out in an hour—in ten minutes.
But they would return, in thousands, and armed. We're not

ready to fight all Earth, Arthur."

The younger man bit his lip and words were muttered
forth half in shame, "For the sake of the race. Father—we

could kUl them all."

"Neveri" exclaimed Max, his old eyes flashing. "We will

not be the first to strike. If we kill, we can expect no mercy

from Earth; and we will deserve none,"

"But, father, what else? We can expect no mercy from
Earth as it is. If we're spotted,—if they ever suspect our exis-
tence, our whole hegira becomes pointless and we lose out at

the very beginning."

"I know. I know."
"We can't change now," continued Arthur, passionately.

"We've spent months preparing Venustown. How could we

start over?"

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"We can't," agreed Max, tonelessly. "To even attempt to
move would mean sure discovery. We can only—"

"Live like moles after all. Hunted fugitives! Frightened
refugees! Is that it?"

"Put it any way you like—but we must hide, Arthur, and
bury ourselves."

"Until—?"

"Until I—or we—perfect a curved two-dimensional stat-
beam. Surrounded by an impermeable defense, we can come
out into the open. It may take years; it may take one week. I
don't know."

"And every day we run the risk of detection. Any day the
swarms of purebloods can come down upon us and wipe us
out. We've got to hang by a hair day after day, week after
week, month after month—"

"We've got to." Max's mouth was clamped shut, and his
eyes were a frosty blue.

Slowly, they went back to Venustown.

Things were quiet in Venustown, and eyes were turned to
the top-most level and the hidden exits. Out there was air and
the sun and space—and Earthnaen.

They had settled several miles up the river-bed. Their rude
houses were springing up. Surrounding land was being cleared.
Farms were being staked out. Planting was taking place.

And in the bowels of Venus, eleven hundred Tweenies
shaped their home and waited for an old man to track down
the elusive equations that would enable a stat-ray to spread
in two dimensions and curve.

Irene brooded somberly as she sat upon the rocky ledge and
stared ahead to where the dim gray light indicated the
existence of an exit to the open. Her shapely legs swung
gently back and forth and Henry Scanlon, at her side, fought
desperately to keep his gaze focussed harmlessly upon air.

"You know what. Henry?"

"What?"

"I'll bet the Phibs could help us."

"Help us do what, Irene?"

"Help us get rid of the Earthmen."

Henry thought it over carefully, "What makes you think
that?"

"Well, they're pretty clever—cleverer than we think. Their
minds are altogether different, though, and maybe they could
fix it. Besides—I've just got a feeling." She withdrew her hand

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suddenly, "You don't have to hold it. Henry."

Henry swallowed, "I—I thought you had a sort of unsteady
seat there—might fall, you know."

"Ohi" Irene looked down the terrific three-foot drop.
'There's something in what you say. It does look pretty high

here."

Henry decided he was in the presence of a hint, and acted
accordingly. There was a moment's silence while he seriously
considered the possibility of her feeling a bit chilly—but be-
fore he had quite decided that she probably was, she spoke

again,

"What I was going to say, Henry, was this. Why don't we

go out and see the Phibs?"

"Dad would take my head off if I tried anything like that."

"It would be a lot of fun."

"Sure, but it's dangerous. We can't risk anyone seeing us."

Irene shrugged resignedly, "Well, if you're afraid, we'll say
no more about it."

Henry gasped and reddened. He was off the ledge in a
bound, "Who's afraid? When do you want to go?"

"Right now, Henry. Right this very minute." Her cheeks
flushed with enthusiasm.

"All right then. Come on." He started off at a half-run,
dragging her along.—And then a thought occurred to him and
he stopped short.

He turned to her fiercely, "I'll show you if I'm afraid."
His arms were suddenly about her and her little cry of sur-
prise was muffled effectively.

"Goodness," said Irene, when in a position to speak once
more. "How thoroughly brutal!"

"Certainly. I'm a very well-known brute," gasped Henry, as
he uncrossed his eyes and got rid of the swimming sensation
in his head. "Now let's get to those Phibs; and remind me,
when I'm president, to put up a memorial to the fellow who
invented kissing."

Up through the rock-lined corridor, past the backs of out-
ward-gazing sentries, out through the carefully camouflaged
opening, and they were upon the surface.

The smudge of smoke on the southern horizon was grim
evidence of the presence of man, and with that in mind, the
two young Tweenies slithered through the underbrush into the
forest and through the forest to the lake of the Phibs.

Whether in some strange way of their own the Phibs sensed

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the presence of friends, the two could not tell, but they had
scarcely reached the banks when approaching dull-green
smudges beneath water told of the creatures' coming.

A wide, goggle-eyed head broke the surface, and, in a sec-
ond, bobbing frogheads dotted the lake.

Henry wet his hand and seized the friendly forelimb out-
stretched to him.
"Hi there, Phib."

The grinning mouth worked and made its soundless answer.
"Ask him about the Earthmen, Henry," urged Irene. Henry
motioned impatiently.

"Wait a while. It takes time. I'm doing the best I can."
For two slow minutes, the two, Tweenie and Phib, remained
motionless and stared into each other's eyes. And then the
Phib broke away and, at some silent order, every lake-creature
vanished, leaving the Tweenies alone.

Irene stared for a moment, nonplussed, "What happened?"
Henry shrugged, "I don't know. I pictured the Earthmen
and he seemed to know who I meant. Then I pictured Earth-
men fighting us and killing us—and he pictured a lot of us
and only a few of them and another fight in which we killed
them. But then I pictured us killing them and then a lot more
of them coming—hordes and hordes—and killing us and
then—"

But the girl was holding her hands to her tortured ears,
"Oh, my goodness. No wonder the poor creature didn't under-
stand. I wonder he didn't go crazy."

"Well, I did the best I could," was the gloomy response.
"This was all your nutty idea, anyway."

Irene got no further with her retort than the opening syl-
lable, for in a moment the lake was crowded with Phibs once
more. "They've come back," she said instead.

A Phib pushed forward and seized Henry's hand while the
others crowded around in great excitement. There were sev-
eral moments of silence and Irene fidgeted.

"Well?" she said.

"Quiet, please. I don't get it. Something about big animals,
or monsters, or—" His voice trailed away, and the furrow
between his eyes deepened into painful concentration.

He nodded, first abstractedly, then vigorously.

He broke away and seized Irene's hands. "I've got it—and
it's the perfect solution. We can save Venustown all by our-
selves, Irene, with the help of the Phibs—if you want to come
to the Lowlands with me tomorrow. We can take along a

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pair of Tonite pistols and food supplies and if we follow the
river, it oughtn't to take us more than two or three days there
and the same time back. What do you say, Irene?"

Youth is not noted for forethought. Irene's hesitation was
for effect only, "Well—maybe we shouldn't go ourselves, but
—but I'll go—with you." There was the lightest accent on the

last word.

Ten seconds later, the two were on their way back to Venus-
town, and Henry was wondering, if on the whole, it weren't
better to put up two memorials to the fellow who invented
kissing.

The nickering red-yellow of the fire sent back ruddy high-
lights from Henry's lordly crest of hair and cast shifting shad-
ows upon his brooding face.

It was hot in the Lowlands, and the fire made it worse, yet
Henry huddled close and kept an anxious eye upon the
sleeping form of Irene on the other side. The teeming life of
the Venusian jungle respected fire, and the flames spelt
safety.

They were three days from the plateau now. The stream
had become a lukewarm, slowly-moving river, the shores of
which were covered with the green scum of algae. The pleas-
ant forests had given way to the tangled, vine-looped growths
of the jungle. The mingled sounds of life had grown in volume
and increased to a noisy crescendo. The air became warmer
and damper; the ground swampier; the surroundings more

fantastically unfamiliar.

And yet there was no real danger—of that, Henry was con-
vinced. Poisonous life was unknown on Venus, and as for the
tough-skinned monsters that lorded the jungles, the fire at
night and the Phibs during day would keep them away.

Twice the ear-splitting shriek of a Centosaur had sounded
in the distance and twice the sound of crashing trees had
caused the two Tweenies to draw together in fear. Both times,   'I
the monsters had moved away again.                           •

This was the third night out, and Henry stirred uneasily.
The Phibs seemed confident that before morning they could
start their return trip, and somehow the thought of Venus-
town was rather attractive. Adventure and excitement are fine
and with every passing hour the glory of his scintillating
bravery grew in Irene's eyes—which was wonderful—but still
Venustown and the friendly Highlands were nice to think
about.
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He threw himself on his stomach and gazed morosely into
the fire, thinking of his twenty years of age—almost twenty
years.

"Why, heck," he tore at the rank grass beneath. "It's about
time I was thinking of getting married." And his eye strayed
involuntarily to the sleeping form beyond the fire.

As if in response, there was a flickering of eyelids and a
vague stare out of deep blue eyes.

Irene sat up and stretched.

"I can't sleep at all," she complained, brushing futilely at
her white hair. "It's so hot" She stared at the fire distaste-
fully.

Henry's good humor persisted. "You slept for hours—and
snored like a trombone."

Irene's eyes snapped wide open. "I did not!" Then, with a
voice vibrant with tragedy, "Did I?"

"No, of course not!" Henry howled his laughter, stopping
only at the sudden, sharp contact between the toe of Irene's
shoe and the pit of his own stomach. "Ouch," he said.

"Don't speak to me anymore. Mister Scanlon!" was the girl's
frigid remark.

It was Henry's turn to look tragic. He rose in panicky dis-
may and took a single step towards the girl. And then he froze
in his tracks at the ear-piercing shriek of a Centosaur. When
he came to himself, he found his arms full of Irene.

Reddening, she disentangled herself, and then the Cento-
saurian shriek sounded again, from another direction,—and
there she was, right back again.

Henry's face was pale, in spite of his fair armful. "I think
the Phibs have snared the Centosaurs. Come with me and I'll
ask them."

The Phibs were dim blotches in the grey dawn that was
breaking. Rows and rows of strained, abstracted individuals
were all that met the eye. Only one seemed to be unoccupied
and when Henry rose from the handclasp, he said, "They've
got three Centosaurs and that's all they can handle. We're
starting back to the Highlands right now."

The rising sun found the party two miles up the river. The
Tweenies, hugging the shore, cast wary eyes towards the
bordering jungle. Through an occasional clearing, vast grey
bulks could be made out The noise of the reptilian shrieks
was almost continuous.

"I'm sorry I brought you, Irene," said Henry. "I'm not so
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HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
sure now that the Phibs can take care of the monsters."

Irene shook her head. "That's all right, Henry. I wanted
to come. Only—I wish we had thought of letting the Phibs
bring the beasts themselves. They don't need us."

"Yes, they dol If a Centosaur gets out of control, it will
make straight for the Tweenies and they'd never get away.
We've got the Tonite guns to kill the 'saurs with if the worst
comes to the worst—" His voice trailed away and he glanced
at the lethal weapon in his hand and derived but cold comfort
therefrom.

The first night was sleepless for both Tweenies. Somewhere,
unseen in the blackness of the river, Phibs took shifts and their
telepathic control over the tiny brains of the gigantic, twenty-
legged Centosaurs maintained its tenuous hold. Off in the
jungle, three hundred-ton monsters howled impatiently against
the force that drove them up the river side against their will
and raved impotently against the unseen barrier that pre-
vented them from approaching the stream.

By the side of the fire, a pair of Tweenies, lost between
mountainous flesh on one side and the fragile protection of a
telepathic web on the other, gazed longingly towards the High-
lands some forty miles off.

Progress was slow. As the Phibs tired, the Centosaurs grew
balkier. But gradually, the air grew cooler. The rank jungle
growth thinned out and the distance to Venustown shortened.

Henry greeted the first signs of familiar temperate-zone
forest with a tremulous sigh of relief. Only Irene's presence
prevented him from discarding his role of heroism.

He felt pitifully eager for their quixotic journey to be over,
but he only said, "It's practically all over but the shouting.
And you can bet there'll be shouting, Irene. We'll be heroes,
you and I."

Irene's attempt at enthusiasm was feeble. "I'm tired. Henry.
Lefs rest." She sank slowly to the ground, and Henry, after
signalling the Phibs, joined her.

"How much longer, Henry?" Almost without volition, she
found her head nestling wearily against his shoulder.

"One more day, Irene. Tomorrow this time, we'll be back."
He looked wretched, "You think we shouldn't have tried to
do this ourselves, don't you?"

"Well, it seemed a good idea at the time."

"Yes, I know," said Henry. "I've noticed that I get lots of
ideas that seem good at the time, but sometimes they turn

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HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

sour." He shook his head philosophically, "I don't know why,
but that's the way it is."

"All I know," said Irene, "is that I don't care if I never
move another step in my life. I wouldn't get up now—"

Her voice died away as her beautiful blue eyes stared off
towards the right. One of the Centosaurs stumbled into the
waters of a small, tributary to the stream they were following.
Wallowing in the water, his huge serpentine body mounted on
the ten stocky pairs of legs, glistened horribly. His ugly head
weaved towards the sky and his terrifying call pierced the air.
A second joined him.

Irene was on her feet. "What are you waiting for. Henry.
Let's gol Hurryl"

Henry gripped his Tonite gun tightly and followed.

Arthur Scanlon gulped savagely at his fifth cup of black
coffee and, with an effort, brought the Audiomitter into opti-
cal focus. His eyes, he decided, were becoming entirely too
balky. He rubbed them into red-rimmed irritation and cast a

glance over his shoulder at the restlessly sleeping figure on the /
couch.

He crept over to her, and adjusted the coverlet.
"Poor Mom," he whispered, and bent to kiss the pale Ups.

He turned to the Audiomitter and clenched a fist at it, "Wait

till I get you, you crazy nut"

Madeline stirred, "Is it dark yet?"

"No," lied Arthur with feeble cheerfulness. "Hell call be-
fore sundown. Mom. You just sleep and let me take care of
things. Dad's upstairs working on the stat-field and he says
he's making progress. In a few days everything will be all
right." He sat silently beside her and grasped her band tightly.
Her tired eyes closed once more.

The signal light blinked on and, with a last look at his
mother, he stepped out into the corridor, "Welll"

The waiting Tweenie saluted smartly, "John Bamo wants
to say that it looks as if we are in for a storm." He handed
over an official report.

Arthur glanced at it peevishly, "What of that? We've had
plenty so far, haven't we? What do you expect of Venus?"

"This will be a particularly bad one, from all indications.
The barometer has fallen unprecedentedly. The ionic con-
centration of the upper atmosphere is at an unequalled maxi-
mum. The Beulah River has overflowed its banks and is
rising rapidly."

HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

The other frowned, "There's not an entrance to Venustown
that isn't at least fifty yards above river level. As for rain—
our drainage system is to be relied upon." He grimaced sud-
denly. "Go back and tell Bamo that it can storm for my part
—for forty days and forty nights if it wants to. Maybe it will
drive the Earthmen away."

He turned away, but the Tweenie held his ground, "Beg
pardon sir, but that's not the worst. A scouting party today—"

Arthur whirled. "A scouting party? Who ordered one to be
sent out?"

"Your father, sir. They were to make contact with the
Phibs,—I don't know why."

"Well, go on."

"Sir, the Phibs could not be located."

And now, for the first time, Arthur was startled out of his
savage ill-humor, 'They were gone?"

The Tweenie nodded, "It is thought that they have sought
shelter from the coming storm. It is that which causes Barno
to fear the worst."

"They say rats desert a sinking ship," murmured Arthur.
He buried his head in trembling hands. "Godi Everything at
once! Everything at once!"

The darkening twilight hid the pall of blackness that low-
ered over the mountains ahead and emphasized the darting
flashes of lightning that flickered on and off continuously.

Irene shivered, "It's getting sort of windy and chilly, isn't
it?"

"The cold wind from the mountains. We're in for a storm,
I guess," Henry assented absently. "I think the river is getting
wider."

A short silence, and then, with sudden vivacity, "But look,
Irene, only a few more miles to the lake and then we're practi-
cally at the Earth village. It's almost over."

Irene nodded, "I'm glad for all of us—and the Phibs, too."

She had reason for the last statement. The Phibs were swim-
ming slowly now. An additional detachment had arrived the
day before from upstream, but even with those reinforce-
ments, progress had slowed to a walk. Unaccustomed cold
was nipping the multi-legged reptiles and they yielded to
superior mental force more and more reluctantly.

The first drops fell just after they had passed the lake.
Darkness had fallen, and in the blue glare of the lightning the

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HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
trees about them were ghostly specters reaching swaying
fingers towards the sky. A sudden flare in the distance marked
the funeral pyre of a lightning-hit tree.

Henry paled. "Make for the clearing just ahead. At a time
like this, trees are dangerous."

The clearing he spoke of composed the outskirts of the
Earth village. The rough-hewn houses, crude and small
against the fury of the elements, showed lights here and there
that spoke of human occupancy. And as the first Centosaur
stumbled out from between splintered trees, the storm sud-
denly burst in all its fury.

The two Tweenies huddled close. "It's up to the Phibs,"
screamed Henry, dimly heard above the wind and rain. "I
hope they can do it."

The three monsters converged upon the houses ahead. They

moved more rapidly as the Phibs called up every last bit of
mental power.

Irene buried her wet head in Henry's equally wet shoulder,

"I can't look! Those houses will go like matehsticks. Oh, the
poor people!"

"No, Irene, no. They've stopped!"

The Centosaurs pawed vicious gouges out of the ground
beneath and their screams rang shrill and clear above the noise
of the storm. Startled Earthmen rushed from their cabins.

Caught unprepared—most having been roused from sleep
—and faced with a Venusian storm and nightmarish Venu-
sian monsters, there was no question of organized action. As

they stood, carrying nothing but their clothes, they broke and
ran.

There was the utmost confusion. One or two, with dim
attempts at presence of mind, took wild, ineffectual pot-shots
at the mountains of flesh before them—and then ran.

And when it seemed that all were gone, the giant reptiles
surged forward once more and where once had been houses,
there were left only mashed splinters.

"They'll never come back, Irene, they'll never come back."
Henry was breathless at the success of his plan. "We're

heroes now, and—" His voice rose to a hoarse shriek, "Irene,
get back! Make for the trees!"

The Centosaurian howls had taken on a deeper note. The
nearest one reared onto his two hindmost pairs of legs and his
great head, two hundred feet above ground, was silhouetted
horribly against the lightning. With a rumbling thud, he came
down on all feet again and made for the river—which under

241

HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
the lash of the storm was now a raging flood.

The Phibs had lost control!

Henry's Tonite gun flashed into quick action as he shoved
Irene away. She, however, backed away slowly and brought
her own gun into line.

The ball of purple light that meant a hit blazed into being
and the nearest Centosaur screamed in agony as its mighty
tail threshed aside the surrounding trees. Blindly, the hole
where once a leg had been gushing blood, it charged.

A second glare of purple and it was down with an earth-
shaking thud, its last shriek reaching a crescendo of shrill
frightfulness.

But the other two monsters were crashing towards them.
They blundered blindly towards the source of the power that,
had held them captive almost a week; driving violently with all
the force of their mindless hate to the river. And in the path
of the Juggernauts were the two Tweenies.

The boiling torrent was at their backs. The forest was a
groaning wilderness of splintered trees and ear-splitting sound.

Then, suddenly, the reports of Tonite guns sounded from
the distance. Purple glares—a flurry of threshing—spasmodic
shrieking—and then a silence in which even the wind, as if
overawed by recent events, held its peace momentarily.

Henry yelled his glee and performed an impromptu war-
dance. "They've come from Venustown, Irene," he shouted.
'They've got the Centosaurs and everything's finishedl We've
saved the Tweeniesi"

It happened in a breath's time. Irene had dropped her gun
and sobbed her relief. She was running to Henry and then she
tripped—and the river had her.

"Henryl" The wind whipped the sound away.

For one dreadful moment. Henry found himself incapable
of motion. He could only stare stupidly, unbelievingly, at the
spot where Irene had been, and then he was in the water. He
plunged into the surrounding blackness desperately.

"Irenel" He caught his breath with difficulty. The current
drove him on.

"Irene!" No sound but the wind. His efforts at swimming
were futile. He couldn't even break surface for more than a
second at a time, his lungs were bursting.

"Irenel" There was no answer. -Nothing but rushing water
and darkness.

And then something touched him. He lashed out at it in-

HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
stinctively, but the grip tightened. He felt himself borne up
into the air. His tortured lungs breathed in gasps. A grinning
Phib face stared into his and after that there were nothing
but confused impressions of cold, dark wetness.

He became aware of his surroundings by stages. First, that
he was sitting on a blanket under the trees, with other blankets
wrapped tightly about him. Then, he felt the warm radiation
of the heatlamps upon him and the illumination of Atomo
bulbs. People were crowding close and he noticed that it was
no longer raining.

He stared about him hazily and then, "Irene!"

She was beside him, as wrapped up as he, and smiling
feebly, "I'm all right, Henry. The Phibs dragged me back,
too."

Madeline was bending over him and he swallowed the hot
coffee placed to his lips. "The Phibs have told us of what you
two have helped them do. We're all proud of you, son—you
and Irene."

Max's smile transfigured his face into the picture of pa-
ternal pride, "The psychology you used was perfect. Venus
is too vast and has too many friendly areas to expect Earth-
men to return to places that have shown themselves to be
infested with Centosaurs—not for a good long while. And
when they do come back, we shall have our stat-field."

Arthur Scanlon hurried up out of the gloom. He thwacked
Henry on the shoulder and then wrung Irene's hand. "Your
guardian and I," he told her, "are fixing up a celebration for
day after tomorrow, so get good and rested. It's going to be
the greatest thing you ever saw."

Henry spoke lip, "Celebration, huh? Well, I'll tell you what
you can do. After it's over, you can announce an engage-
ment"

"An engagement?" Madeline sat up and looked interested.
"What do you mean?"

"An engagement—to be married," came the impatient
answer. "I'm old enough, I suppose. Today proves it!"

Irene's eyes bent in furious concentration upon the grass,
"With whom. Henry?"

"Huh? With you, of course. Gosh, who else could it be?"

"But you haven't asked me." The words were uttered slowly
and with great firmness.

For a moment Henry flushed, and then his jaws grew grim,
243




HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS
"Well, I'm not going to. I'm telling you! And what are you
going to do about it?"

He leaned close to her and Max Scanlon chuckled and mo-
tioned the others away. On tip-toes, they left.

A dim shape hobbled into view and the two Tweenies sep-
arated in confusion. They had forgotten the others.

But it wasn't another Tweenie. "Why—why, it's a Phib!"
cried Irene.

He limped his ungainly way across the wet grass, with the
inexpert aid of his muscular arms. Approaching, he flopped
wearily on his stomach and extended his forearms.

His purpose was plain. Irene and Henry grasped a hand
apiece. There was silence a moment or two and the Phib's
great eyes glinted solemnly in the light of the Atomo lamps.
Then there was a sudden squeal of embarrassment from Irene
and shy laugh from Henry. Contact was broken.

"Did you get the same thing I did?" asked Henry.

Irene was red, "Yes, a long row of little baby Phibs, maybe
fifteen—"

"Or twenty," said Henry.

"—with long white hear!"

THE END

The story, not surprisingly, reflects my personal situation at
the time. I had gone to a boys' high school and to a boys'
college. Now that I was in graduate school, however, the
surroundings were, for the first time, coeducational.

In the fall of 1939, I discovered that a beautiful blond
girl had the desk next to mine in the laboratory of my course
in synthetic organic chemistry. Naturally I was attracted.

I persuaded her to go out with me on simple dates, the
very first being on my twentieth birthday, when I took her
to Radio City Music Hall. For five months, I mooned after
her with feckless, romanticism.

At the end of the school year, though, she had earned her
master of arts degree and, having decided not to go on for
her doctorate, left school and took a job in Wilmington,
Delaware, leaving me behind, woebegone and stricken.

I got over it, of course, but while she was still at school
I wrote "Half-Breeds on Venus." Of all the stories I had yet
written, it was the most heavily boy-and-girl. The heroine's

244

HALF-BREEDS ON VENUS

name was Irene, which was the name of my pretty blond
lab neighbor.

Merely having a few dates on the hand-holding level did
not, however, perform the magic required to make me
capable of handling passion in literature, and I continued
to use girls sparingly in later stories—and a good thing, too,
I think.

The success of "Half-Breeds on Venus" made the notion
of writing sequels generally seem a good idea. A sequel to a
successful story must, after all, be a reasonably sure sale.
So even while I was working on "Half-Breeds on Venus," I
suggested to Campbell that I write a sequel to "Homo Sol."

Campbell's enthusiasm was moderate, but he was willing
to look at such a sequel if I were to write it. I did write it
as soon as "Half-Breeds on Venus" was done and called
it "The Imaginary." Although it used one of the chief charac-
ters of "Homo Sol," the human-nonhuman confrontation
was absent, which probably didn't help it as far as Camp-
bell was concerned. I submitted it to him on June 11, and
received it back—a rejection, sequel or no sequel—on June
19.

Pohl rejected it, too. Tremaine read it with more sym-
pathy and was thinking of taking it for Comet, I heard, but
that magazine ceased publication and the story was back
on the market. Actually, I retired it, but two years later I
sold it to Pohl's magazine after all—but at a time when
Pohl was no longer editor.

But though I had my troubles and didn't click every time,
or even right away, I did manage to make $272 during my
first year as a graduate student, and that was an enormous
help.

245




11

The Imaginary

The telecaster flashed its fitful signal, while Tan Porus sat by
complacently. His sharp, green eyes glittered their triumph,
and his tiny body was vibrant with excitement. Nothing could
have better indicated the greatness of the occasion than his
extraordinary position—Tan Porus had his feet on the desk!

The 'caster glowed into life and a broad Arcturian counte-
nance frowned fretfully out at the Rigellian psychologist.

"Do you have to drag me here straight from bed, Porus?
It's the middle of the night!"

"It's broad daylight in this part of the world. Final. But
I've got something to tell you that'll make you forget all
about sleep."

Gar Final, editor of the J.G.P.—Journal of Galactic Psy-
chology—allowed a look of alertness to cross his face. What-
ever Tan Porus's faults—and Arcturus knew they were many
—he had never issued a false alarm. If he said something
great was in the air, it was not merely great—it was colossal!

It was quite evident that Porus was enjoying himself.
"Final," he said, "the next article I send to your rag is going
to be the greatest thing you've ever printed."

Final was impressed. "Do you really mean what you say?"
he asked idiotically.

"What kind of a stupid question is that? Of course I do.
Listen—" There followed a dramatic silence, while the tense-
ness on Final's face reached painful proportions. Then came

Super Science Stories, November 1942
Copyright © 1942 by Fictioneers, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1969 by Isaac Asimov

246

THE IMAGINARY

Porus's husky whisper—"I've solved the problem of the
squid!"

Of course the reaction was exactly what Porus had ex-
pected. There was a blow-up at the other end, and for thirty
interesting seconds the Rigellian was surprised to learn that
the staid and respectable Final had a blistering vocabulary.

Porus's squid was a by-word throughout the galaxy. For
two years now, he had been fussing over an obscure Dra-
conian animal that persisted in going to sleep when it wasn't
supposed to. He had set up equations and torn them down
with a regularity that had become a standing joke with every
psychologist in the Federation—and none had explained the
unusual reaction. Now Final had been dragged from bed to be
told that the solution had been reached—and that was all.

Final ripped out a concluding phrase that all but put the
'caster out of commission.

Porus waited for the storm to pass and then said calmly,
"But do you know how I solved it?"
The other's answer was an indistinct mumble.
The Rigellian began speaking rapidly. All traces of amuse-
ment had left his face and, after a few sentences, all traces of
anger left Final's.

The Arcturian's expression became one of wide-eyed in-
terest. "No?" he gasped.
"Yes!"

When Porus had finished. Final raced madly to put in rush
calls to the printers to delay publication of the coming issue
of the J.G.P. for two weeks.

Puro Santins, head of the math department of the Uni-
versity of Arcturus, gazed long and steady at his Sirian
colleague.

"No, no, you're wrong! His equations were legitimate. I
checked them myself."

"Mathematically, yes," retorted the round-faced Sirian. "But
psychologically they had no meaning."

Santins slapped his high forehead. "Meaning! Listen to the
mathematician talk. Great space, man, what have mathe-
matics to do with meaning? Mathematics is a tool and as long
as it can be manipulated to give proper answers and to make
correct predictions, actual meaning has no significance. I'll say
this for Tan Porus—most psychologists don't know enough

mathematics to handle a slide-rule efficiently, but he knows
his stuff."

247




THE IMAGINARY

The other nodded doubtfully, "I guess so. I guess so. But
using imaginary quantities in psychological equations stretches
my faith in science just a little bit. Square root of minus one!"

He shuddered. . . .

The seniors' lounge in Psychology Hall was crowded and
a-buzz with activity. The rumor of Porus's solution to the
now-classic problem of the squid had spread fast, and con-
versation touched on nothing else.

At the center of the thickest group was Lor Haridin. He
was young, with but newly acquired Senior status. But as
Porus's assistant he was, under present conditions, master of
the situation.

"Look, fellows—just exactly what it's all about I don't
know. That's the old man's secret. All I can tell you is that
I've got the general idea as to how he solved it."

The others squeezed closer. "I hear he had to make up a
new mathematical notation for the squid," said one, "like that
time we had trouble with the humanoids of Sol."

Lor Haridin shook his head. "Worse! What made him think
of it, I can't imagine. It was either a brainstorm or a night-
mare, but anyway he introduced imaginary quantities—the
square root of minus one."

There was an awful silence and then someone said, "I don't
believe it!"

"Fact!" was the complacent reply.

"But it doesn't make sense. What can the square root of
minus one represent, psychologically speaking? Why, that
would mean—" he was doing rapid calculation in his head, as
were most of the others—"that the neural synapses were
hooked up in neither more nor less than four dimensions!"

"Sure," broke in another. "I suppose that if you stimulate
the squid today, it will react yesterday. That's what an
imaginary would mean. Comet gas! That's what / say."

"That's why you're not the man Tan Porus is," said Haridin.
"Do you suppose he cares how many imaginaries there are in
the intermediate steps if they all square out into minus one
in the final solution. All he's interested in is that they give him
the proper sign in the answer—an answer which will explain
that sleep business. As for its physical significance, what mat-
ter? Mathematics is only a tool, anyway."

The others considered silently and marveled.

Tan Porus sat in his stateroom aboard the newest and most
luxurious interstellar liner and gazed at the young man before

248




THE IMAGINARY

him happily. He was in amazing good humor and, for perhaps
the first time in his life, did not mind being interviewed by
the keen, efficient employees of the Ether Press.

The Ethereporter on his side wondered in silence at the
affability of the scientist. From bitter experience, he had
found out that scientists, as a whole, detested reporters—and
that psychologists, in particular, thought it fun to practice a
bit of applied psych on them and to induce killingly amusing
—to others—reactions.

He remembered the time that the old fellow from Canopus
had convinced him that arboreal life was the greatest good. It
had taken twenty men to drag him down from the tree-tops
and an expert psychologist to bring him back to normal.

But here was the greatest of them all. Tan Porus, actually
answering questions like a normal human being.

"What I would like to know now, Professor," said the re-
porter, "is just what this imaginary quantity is all about. That
is," he interposed hastily, "not the mathematics of it—we'll
take your word on that—but just a general idea that the ordi-
nary humanoid can picture. For instance, I've heard that the
squid has a four-dimensional mind."

Porus groaned, "Oh, Rigel! Four-dimensional poppycock!
To tell the honest truth, that imaginary I used—which seems
to have caught the popular fancy—probably indicates nothing
more than some abnormality in the squid's nervous system,
but just what, I don't know. Certainly, to the gross methods
of ecology and micro-physiology, nothing unusual has been
found. No doubt, the answer would lie in the atomic physics
of the creature's brain, but there I have no hope." There was
a trace of disdain in his voice. "The atomic physicists are too
far behind the psychologists to expect them to catch up at this
late date."

The reporter bore down furiously on his stylus. The next
day's headline was clear in his mind: Noted Psychologist Blasts
Atomic Physicists!

Also, the headline of the day after: Indignant Physicists
Denounce Noted Psychologist!

Scientific feuds were great stuff for the Ether Press, par-
ticularly that between psychologists and physicists, who, it
was well known, hated each other's guts.

The reporter glanced up brightly. "Say, Professor, the
humanoids of the galaxy are very interested, you know, in
the private lives of you scientists. I hope you don't mind if I
ask you a few questions about your trip home to Rigel IV."

249

THE IMAGINARY

"Go ahead," said Porus, genially. "Tell them it's the first
time I'm getting home in two years. I'm sort of looking for-
ward to it. Arcturus is just a bit too yellow for my eyes and
the furniture you have here is too big."

"It's true, isn't it, that you have a wife at home?"

Porus coughed. "Hmm, yes. Sweetest little woman in the
galaxy. I'm looking forward to seeing her, too. Put that down."

The reporter put it down. "How is it you didn't bring her
to Arcturus with you?"

Some of the geniality left the Rigellian's face. "I like to be
alone when I work. Women are all right—in their place. Be-
sides, my idea of a vacation is one by myself. Don't put that
down."

The reporter didn't put it down. He gazed at the other's
little form with open admiration. "Say, Prof, how did you ever
get her to stay home, though? I wish you'd tell me the secret"
Then, with a wealth of feeling he added, "I could use it!",

Porus laughed. "I tell you, son. When you're an ace psy-
chologist, you're master in your own home!"

He motioned the interview to an end and then suddenly
grasped the other by the arm. His green eyes were piercingly
sharp. "And listen, son, that last remark doesn't go into the
story, you know."

The reporter paled and backed away. "No, sir; no sir!
We've got a little saying in our profession that goes: 'Never
monkey around with a psychologist, or he'll make a monkey
of you.'"

"Good! I can do it literally, you know, if I have to."

The young press employee ducked out hastily after that,
wiped the cold perspiration from his brow and left with his
story. For a moment, towards the last, he had felt himself
hanging on the ragged edge. He made a mental note to refuse
all future interviews with psychologists—unless they raised his
pay.

Tens of billions of miles out, the pure white orb of Rigel
had reached Porus's eyes, and something in his heart uplifted
him.

Type B reaction—nostalgia; conditioned reflex through as-
sociation of Rigel with happy scenes of youth—

Words, phrases, equations spun through his keen brain, but
he was happy in spite of them. And in a little while, the
human triumphed over the psychologist and Porus abandoned
analysis for the superior joy of uncritical happiness.

250

THE IMAGINARY

He sat up past the middle of the sleep period two nights
before the landing to catch first glimpse of Hanlon, fourth
planet of Rigel, his home world. Some place on that world,
on the shores of a quiet sea, was a little two-story house. A
little house—not those giant structures fit only for Arcturians
and other hulking humanoids.

It was the summer season now and the houses would be
bathed in the pearly light of Rigel, and after the harsh yellow-
red of Arcturus, how restful that would be.

And—he almost shouted in his joy—the very first night he
was going to insist on gorging himself with broiled tryptex.
He hadn't tasted it for two years, and his wife was the best
hand at tryptex in the system.

He winced a little at the thought of his wife. It had been a
dirty trick, getting her to stay home the last two years, but it
had had to be done. He glanced over the papers before him
once more. There was just a little nervousness in his fingers as
they shuffled the sheets. He had spent a full day in calculating
her reactions at first seeing him after two years' absence and
they were not pleasant

Nina Porus was a woman of untamed emotions, and he
would have to work quickly and efficiently.

He spotted her quickly in the crowd. He smiled. It was nice
to see her, even if his equations did predict long and serious
storms. He ran over his initial speech once more and made a
last-minute change.

And then she saw him. She waved frantically and broke
from the forefront of the crowd. She was on Tan Porus before
he was aware of it and, in the grip of her affectionate em-
brace, he went limp with surprise.

That wasn't the reaction to be expected at all! Something
was wrong!

She was leading him dexterously through the crowd of re-
porters to the waiting stratocar, talking rapidly along the way.

"Tan Porus, I thought I'd never live to see you again. It's
so good to have you with me again; you have absolutely no
idea. Everything here at home is just fine, of course, but it
isn't quite the same without you."

Porus's green eyes were glazed. This speech was entirely
uncharacteristic of Nina. To the sensitive ears of a psycholo-
gist, it sounded little short of the ravings of a maniac. He had
not even the presence of mind to grunt at proper intervals.
Frozen mutely in his seat, he watched the ground rush down-

251

THE IMAGINARY
wards and heard the air shriek backwards as they headed for
their little house by the sea.

Nina Porus prattled on gaily—the one normal aspect of
her conversation being her ability to uphold both ends of a
dialogue with smooth efficiency.

"And, of course, dear, I've fixed up an entire tryptex,
broiled to a turn, garnished with sarnees. And, oh yes, about
that affair last year with that new planet—Earth, do you call
it? I was so proud of you when I heard about it. I said—"

And so on and on, until her voice degenerated into a
meaningless conglomeration of sounds.

Where were her tears? Where were the reproaches, the
threats, the impassioned self-pity?

Tan Porus roused himself to one great effort at dinner. He
stared at the steaming dish of tryptex before him with an odd
lack of appetite and said, "This reminds me of the time at
Arcturus when I dined with the President Delegate—"

He went into details, dilating on the gayety and abandon
of the affair, waxing lyrical over his own enjoyment of it,
stressing, almost unsubtly, the fact that he had not missed his
wife, and finally, in one last wild burst of desperation, men-
tioning casually the presence of a surprising number of Rigel-
lian females in the Arcturian system.

And through it all, his wife sat smiling. "Wonderful,
darling," she'd say. "I'm so glad you enjoyed yourself. Eat
your tryptex."

But Porus did not eat his tryptex. The mere thought of food
nauseated him. With one lingering stare of dismay at his wife,
he arose with what dignity he could muster and left for the
privacy of his room.

He tore up the equations furiously and hurled himself into
a chair. He seethed with anger, for evidently something had
gone wrong with Nina. Terribly wrong! Even interest ia an-
other man—and for just a moment that had occurred to him
as a possible explanation—would not cause such a revolution
in character.

He tore at his hair. There was some hidden factor more
startling than that—but what it was he had no idea. At that
moment Tan Porus would have given the sum total of his
worldly possessions to have his wife enter and make one—just
one—attempt to snatch his scalp off, as of old.

And below, in the dining room, Nina Porus allowed a crafty
gleam to enter her eye.

THE IMAGINARY

LOT Haridin put down his pen and said, "Come in!"

The door opened, and his friend, Eblo Ranin, entered,
brushed off a comer of the desk and sat down.

"Haridin, I've got an idea." His voice was uncommonly
like a guilty whisper.

Haridin gazed at him suspiciously.

"Like the time," he said, "you set up the booby trap for old
man Obel?"

Ranin shuddered. He had spent two days hiding in the ven-
tilator shaft after that brilliant piece of work. "No, this is
legitimate. Listen, Porus left you in charge of the squid,
didn't he?"

"Oh, I see what you're getting at. It's no go. I can feed the
squid, but that's all. If I as much as clapped my hands at it
to induce a color-change tropism, the boss would throw a fit."

"To space with him! He's parsecs away, anyway." Ranin
drew forth a two-month old copy of the J.G.P. and folded the
cover back. "Have you been following Livell's experiments at
Procyon U.? You know—magnetic fields applied with and
without ultra-violet radiation."

"Out of my field," grunted Haridin. "I've beard of it, but
that's all. What about it?"

"Well, it's a type E reaction which gives, believe it or not,
a strong Fimbal Effect in practically every case, especially in
the higher invertebrates."

"Hmm!"

"Now, if we could try it on this squid, we could—"

"No, no, no, no!" Haridin shook his head violently. "Porus
would break me. Great stars and little meteors, how he would
break mel"-

"Listen, you nut—Porus can't tell you what to do with the
squid. It's Frian Obel that has final say. He's head of the
Psychological Board, not Porus. All you have to do is to apply
for his permission and you'll get it. Just between us, since
that Homo Sol affair last year, he can't stand the sight of
Porus anyway."

Haridin weakened. "You ask him."

Ranin coughed. "No. On the whole, perhaps I'd better not.
He's sort of got a suspicion that I set that booby trap, and I'd
rather keep out of his way."

"Hmm. Well—all right!"

Lor Haridin looked as if he had not slept well for a week
—which shows that sometimes appearances are not deceiving.

253

THE IMAGINARY
Eblo Ranin regarded him with patient kindliness and sighed.

"Look! Will you please sit down? Santin said he would have
the final results in today, didn't he?"

"I know, I know, but it's humiliating. I spent seven years on
higher math. And now I make a stupid mistake and can't
even find it!"

"Maybe it's not there to find."

"Don't be silly. The answer is just impossible. It must be
impossible. It must be." His high forehead creased. "Oh, I
don't know what to think."

He continued his concentrated attempt to wear out the nap
of the rug beneath and mused bitterly. Suddenly he sat down.

"It's those time integrals. You can't work with them, I tell
you. You look 'em up in a table, taking half an hour to find
the proper entry, and they give you seventeen possible an-
swers. You have to pick the one that makes sense, and—
Arcturus help me!—either they all do, or none do! Run up
against eight of them, as we do in this problem, and we've got
enough permutations to last us the rest of our life. Wrong
answer! It's a wonder I lived through it at all."

The look he gave the fat volume of Helo's Tables of Time
Integrals did not sear the binding, to Ranin's great surprise.

The signal light flashed, and Haridin leaped to the door.

He snatched the package from the messenger's hand and
ripped open the wrappings frantically.

He turned to the last page and stared at Santin's final note:

Your calculations are correct. Congratulations—
and won't this knock Porus's head right off his shoul-
ders! Better get in touch with him at once.

Ranin read it over the other's shoulder, and for one long
minute the two gazed at each other.

"I was right," whispered Haridin, eyes bulging. "We've
found something in which the imaginary doesn't square out.
We've got a predicted reaction which includes an imaginary

quantity!"

The other swallowed and brushed aside his stupefaction

with an effort. "How do you interpret it?"

"Great space! How in the galaxy should I know? We've got

to get Porus, that's all."

Ranin snapped his fingers and grabbed the other by the
shoulders. "Oh, no, we won't. This is our big chance. If we
can carry this through, we're made for life." He shuttered in

254

THE IMAGINARY
his excitement. "Arcturus! Any psychologist would sell his life
twice over to have our opportunity right now."

The Draconian squid crawled placidly about, unawed by
the huge solenoid that surrounded its tank. The mass of
tangled wires, the current leads, the mercury-vapor lamp up
above meant nothing to it. It nibbled contentedly at the fronds
of the sea fern about it, and was at peace with the world.

Not so the two young psychologists. Eblo Ranin scurried
through the complicated set-up in a last-minute effort at check-
ing everything. Lor Haridin helped him in intervals between
nail-biting.

"Everything's set," said Ranin, and swabbed wearily at his
damp brow. "Let her shoot!"

The mercury-vapor lamp went on and Haridin pulled the
window curtains together. In the cold red-less light, two
green-tinted faces watched the squid closely. It stirred rest-
lessly, its warm pink changing to a dull black in the mercury
light

"Turn on the juice," said Haridin hoarsely.

There was a soft click, and that was all.

"No reaction?" questioned Ranin, half to himself. And then
:   he held his breath as the other bent closer.
(     "Something's happening to the squid. It seems to glow a bit
—or is it my eyes?"

The glow became perceptible and then seemed to detach
itself from the body of the animal and take on a spherical
shape of itself. Long minutes passed.

"It's emitting some sort of radiation, field, force—whatever
you want to call it—and there seems to be expansion with
time."

There was no answer, and none was expected. Again they
waited and watched.

And then Ranin emitted a muffled cry and grasped Hari-
din's elbow tightly. "Crackling comets, what's it doing?"

The globular glowing sphere of whatever it was had thrust
out a pseudopod. A gleaming little projection touched the
swaying branch of the sea-fern, and where it touched the
leaves turned brown and withered!

"Shut off the current!"

The current clicked off; the mercury-vapor lamp went out;

the shades were parted and the two stared at each other ner-
vously.

"What was it?"

255




THE IMAGINARY

Haridin shook his head. "I don't know. It was something
definitely insane. I never saw anything like it"

"You never saw an imaginary in a reaction equation before,
either, did you? As a matter of fact, I don't think that expand-
ing field was any known form of energy at—"

His breath came out in one long whistling exhalation and
he retreated slowly from the tank containing the squid. The
mollusc was motionless, but around it half the fern. in the tank
hung sere and withered.

Haridin gasped. He pulled the shades and in the gloom, the
globe of glowing haze bulked through half the tank. Little
curving tentacles of light reached toward the remaining fem
and one pulsing thread extended through the glass and was
creeping along the table.

That fright in Ranin's voice rendered it a cracked, scarcely-
understood sound.

"It's a lag reaction. Didn't you test it by Wilbon's The-
orem?"

"How could I?" The other's heart pumped madly and his
dry lips fought to form words. "Wilbon's Theorem didn't make
sense with an imaginary in the equation. I let it go."

Ranin sped into action with feverish energy. He left the
room and was back in a moment with a tiny, squealing,
squirrel-like animal from his own lab. He dropped it in the
path of the thread of light stealing along the table, and held
it there with a yard rule.

The glowing thread wavered, seemed to sense the presence
of life in some horribly blind way, and lunged towards it The
little rodent squealed once, a high-pitched shriek of infinite
torture, and went limp. In two seconds it was a shriveled,
shrunken travesty of its former self.

Ranin swore and dropped the rule with a sudden yell, for
the thread, of light—a bit brighter, a bit thicker—began creep-
ing up the wood toward him.

"Here," said Haridin, "let's end this!" He yanked a drawer
open and withdrew the chromium-plated Tonite gun within. Its
sharp thin beam of purple light lunged forward towards the
squid and exploded in blazing, soundless fury against the edge
of the sphere of force. The psychologist shot again and again,
and then compressed the trigger to form one continuous pur-
ple stream of destruction that ceased only when power failed.

And the glowing sphere remained unharmed. It engulfed
the entire tank. The ferns were brown masses of death.

"Get the Board," yelled Ranin. "It's beyond us entirely!"

THE IMAGINARY

There was no confusion—humanoids in the mass are simply
not subject to panic, if you don't count the half-genius, half-
humanoid inhabitants of the planets of Sol—and the evacua-
tion of the University grounds was carried out smoothly.

"One fool," said old Mir Deana, ace physicist of Arcturus
U., "can ask more questions than a thousand wise men can
answer." He fingered his scraggly beard and his button nose
sniffed loudly in disdain.

"What do you mean by that?" questioned Frian Obel
sharply. His green Vegan skin darkened angrily.

"Just that, by analogy, one cosmic fool of a psychologist
can make a bigger mess than a thousand physicists can clear
up."

Obel drew in his breath dangerously. He had his own
opinion of Haridin and Ranin, but no lame-brain physicist
could—

The plump figure of Qual Wynn, university president, came
charging down upon them. He was out of breath and spoke be-
tween puffs.

"I've gotten in touch with the Galactic Congress and they're
arranging for evacuation of all Eron, if necessary." His voice
became pleading. "Isn't there anything that can be done?''

Mir Deana sighed, "Nothing—yet! All we know is this: the
squid is emitting some sort of pseudo-living radiatory field
which is not electromagnetic in character. Its advance cannot
be stopped by anything we have yet tried, material or vacuum.
None of our weapons affect it, for within the field the ordinary
attributes of space-time apparently don't hold."

The president shook a worried head. "Bad, bad! You've
sent for Porus, though?" He sounded as though we were
clutching at a last straw.

"Yes," scowled Frian Obel. "He's the only one that really
knows that squid. If he can't help us, no one can." He stared
off toward the gleaming white of the university buildings,
where the grass over half the campus was brown stubble and
the trees blasted ruins.

"Do you think," said the president, turning to Deana once
more, "that the field can span interplanetary space?"

"Sizzling novae, I don't know what to think!" Deana ex-
ploded, and he turned pettishly away.

There was a thick silence of utter gloom.




THE IMAGINARY
brilliant coruscations of color overhead. He didn't hear a
sound of the melodious tones that filled the auditorium.

He knew only one thing—that he had been talked into at-
tending a concert. Concerts above all were anathema to him,
and in twenty years of married life he had steered clear of
them with a skill and ease that only the greatest psychologist
of them all could have shown. And now—

He was startled out of his stupor by the sudden discordant
sounds that arose from the rear.

There was a rush of ushers to the exit where the disturbance
originated, a waving of protesting uniformed arms and then
a strident voice: "I am here on urgent business direct from
the Galactic Congress on Eron, Arcturus. Is Tan Poms in the
audience?"

Tan Porus was out of his seat with a bound. Any excuse to
leave the auditorium was nothing short of heaven-sent.

He ripped open the communication handed him by the
messenger and devoured its contents. At the second sentence,
his elation left him. When he was finished, he raised a face
in which only his darting green eyes seemed alive.

"How soon can we leave?"

"The ship is waiting now."

"Come, then."

He took one step forward and stopped. There was a hand
on his elbow.

"Where are you going?" asked Nina Porus. There was
hidden steel in her voice.

Tan Porus felt stifled for a moment. He foresaw what would
happen. "Darling, I must go to Eron immediately. The fate of
a world, of the whole galaxy perhaps, is at stake. You don't
know how important it is. I tell you—"

"All right, go! And I'll go with you."

The psychologist bowed his head.

"Yes, dearl" he said. He sighed.

The psychological board hemmed and hawed as one man
and then stared dubiously at the large-scale graph before
them.

"Frankly, gentlemen," said Tan Porus, "I don't feel too
certain about it myself, but—well, you've all seen my results,
and checked them too. And it is the only stimulus that will
yield a canceling reaction."

Frian Obel fingered his chin nervously. "Yes, the mathe-
matics is clear. Increase in hydrogen-ion activity past pH3

258

THE IMAGINARY
would set up a Demane's Integral and that— But listen, Porus,
we're not dealing with space-time. The math might not hold
—perhaps nothing will hold."

"It's our only chance. If we were dealing with normal space-
time, we could just dump in enough acid to kill the blasted
squid or fry it with a Tonite. As it is, we have no choice but
to take our chances with—"

Loud voices interrupted him. "Let me through, I say! I
don't care if there are ten conferences going on!"

The door swung open and Qual Wynn's portly figure made
its entrance. He spied Porus and bore down upon him. "Porus,
I tell you I'm going crazy. Parliament is holding me, as uni-
versity president, responsible for all this, and now Deana says
that—" He sputtered into silence and Mir Deana, standing
composedly behind him, took up the tale.

"The field now covers better than one thousand square
miles and its rate of increase is growing steadily. There seems
to bo no doubt now that it can span interplanetary space if it
wishes to do so—interstellar as well, if given the time."

"You hear that? You hear that?" Wynn was fairly dancing
in his anxiety. "Can't you do something? The galaxy is
doomed, I tell you, doomed!"

"Oh, keep your tunic on," groaned Porus, "and let us
handle this." He turned to Deana. "Didn't your physicist
stooges conduct some clumsy investigations as to the speed
of penetration of the field through various substances?"

Deana nodded stiffly.

"Penetration varies, in general, inversely with density.
Osmium, iridium and platinum are the best. Lead and gold
are fair."

"Good! That checks! What I'll need then is an osmium-
plated suit with a lead-glass helmet. And make both plating
and helmet good and thick."

Qual Wynn stared horrified. "Osmium plating! Osmium! By
the great nebula, think of the expense."

"I'm thinking," said Porus frostily..

"But they'll charge it to the university; they'll—" He re-
covered with difficulty as the somber stares of the assembled
psychologists fastened themselves upon him. "When do you
need it?" he muttered weakly.

"You're really going, yourself?"

"Why not?" asked Porus, clambering out of the suit.

Mir Deana said, "The lead-glass headpiece will hold off the

259




THE IMAGINARY

field not longer than an hour and you'll probably be getting
partial penetration in much shorter time. I don't know if you
can do it."

"/'// worry about that." He paused, and then continued un-
certainly. "I'll be ready in a few minutes. I'd like to speak to
my wife first—alone."

The interview was a short one. It was one of the very few
occasions that Tan Poms forgot that he was a psychologist,
and spoke as his heart moved him, without stopping to con-
sider the natural reaction of the one spoken to.

One thing he did know—by instinct rather than thought—
and that was that his wife would not break down or go senti-
mental on him; and there he was right. It was only in the last
few seconds that her eyes fell and her voice quavered. She
tugged a handkerchief from her wide sleeve and hurried from
the room.

The psychologist stared after her and then stooped to pick
up the thin book that had fallen as she had removed the
handkerchief. Without looking at it, he placed it in the inner
pocket of his tunic.

He smiled crookedly. "A talisman!" he said.

Tan Porus's gleaming one-man cruiser whistled into the
"death field." The clammy sensation of desolation impressed
itself upon him at once.

He shrugged. "Imagination! Mustn't get nervy now."

There was the vaguest glitter—a sparkle that was felt
rather than seen—in the air about him. And then it invaded
the ship itself, and, looking up, the Rigellian saw the five
Eronian ricebirds he had brought with him lying dead on the
floor of their cage, huddled masses of bedraggled feathers.

"The 'death field' is in," he whispered. It had penetrated
the steel hull of the cruiser.

The cruiser bumped to a rather unskillful landing on the
broad university athletic field, and Tan Porus, an incongruous
figure in the bulky osmium suit, stepped out. He surveyed
his depressing surroundings. From the brown stubble under-
foot to the glimmering haze that hid the normal blue of the
sky, all seemed—dead.

He entered Psychology Hall.

His lab was dark; the shades were still drawn. He parted
them and studied the squid's tank. The water replenisher was
still working, for the tank was full. However, that was the only
normal thing about it. Only a few dark-brown, ragged strands

260

THE IMAGINARY

of rot were left of what had once been sea-fern. The squid
itself lay inertly upon the floor of the tank.

Tan Porus sighed. He felt tired and numbed. His mind
was hazy and unclear. For long minutes he stared about him
unseeingly.

Then, with an effort, he raised the bottle he held and
glanced at the label—12 molar hydrochloric acid.

He mumbled vaguely to himself. "Two hundred cc. Just
dump the whole thing in. That'll force the pH down—if only
hydrogen ion activity means something here."

He was fumbling with the glass stopper, and—suddenly—
laughing. He had felt exactly like this the one and only time
he had ever been drunk.

He shook the gathering cobwebs from his brain. "Only got
a few minutes to do—to do what? I don't know—something
anyway. Dump this thing in. Dump it in. Dump! Dump!
Dumpety-dump!" He was mumbling a silly popular song to
himself as the acid gurgled its way into the open tank.

Tan Porus felt pleased with himself and he laughed. He
stirred the water with his mailed fist and laughed some more.
He was still singing that song.

And then he became aware of a subtle change in environ-
ment He fumbled for it and stopped singing. And then it hit
him with the suddenness of a downpour of cold water. The
glitter in the atmosphere had gone!

With a sudden motion, he unclasped the helmet and cast it
off. He drew in long breaths of air, a bit musty, but unkilling.

He had acidified the water of the tank, and destroyed the
field at its source. Chalk up another victory for the pure
mathematics of psychology!

He stepped out of his osmium suit and stretched. The
pressure on his chest reminded him of something. Withdraw-
ing the booklet his wife had dropped, he said, "The talisman
came through!" and smiled indulgently at his own whimsy.

The smile froze as he saw for the first time the title upon
the book.

The tide was Intermediate Course in Applied Psychology—
Volume 5.

It was as if something large and heavy had suddenly fallen
onto Porus's head and driven understanding into it Nina had
been boning up on applied psych for two -whole years.

This was the missing factor. He could allow for it. He would
have to use triple time integrals, but—

He threw the communicator switch and waited for contact




THE IMAGINARY

"Hello! This is Poms! Come on in, all of you! The death
field is gone! I've beaten the squid." He broke contact and
added triumphantly, "—and my wife!"

Strangely enough—or, perhaps, not so strangely—it was
the latter feat that pleased him more.

THE END

The chief interest to me in "The Imaginary" is that it fore-
shadows the "psychohistory" that was to play such a big
role in the "Foundation" series. It was in this story and
in its predecessor, "Homo Sol," that for the first time I
treated psychology as a mathematically refined science.

It was about time that I made another stab at Unknown,
and I did so with a story called "The Oak," which, as I
recall, was something about an oak tree that served as an
oracle and delivered ambiguous statements. I submitted it
to Campbell on July 16, 1940, and it was promptly rejected.

One of the bad things about writing for Unknown was
that the magazine was one of a kind. If Unknown rejected
a story, there was no place else to submit it. It was possible
to try Weird Tales, a magazine that was older than any
science fiction magazine, but it dealt with old-fashioned,
creaky horror tales and paid very little to boot. 1 wasn't
really interested in trying to get into it. (And besides, they
rejected both "Life Before Birth" and "The Oak" when I
submitted them.)

Still, July 29, 1940, was a turning point in my career,
although, of course, I had no way of telling it. I had up to
that point written twenty-two stories in twenty-five months.
Of these I had sold (or was to sell) thirteen, while nine
never sold at all and no longer exist. The record wasn't
abysmal but neither was it great—let's call it mediocre.

However, as it happened, except for two short-short
stories that were special cases, I never again wrote a
science fiction story I could not sell. I had found the range.

But not Campbell's range particularly. In August I wrote
"Heredity," which I submitted to Campbell on August 15,
and which he rejected two weeks later. Fortunately, Pohl
snapped it up at once.

262

12

Heredity

Dr. Stefansson fondled the thick sheaf of typewritten papers
that lay before him, "It's all here, Harvey—twenty-five years
of work."

Mild-mannered Professor Harvey puffed idly at his pipe,
"Well, your part is over—and Markey's, too, on Ganymede.
It's up to the twins, themselves, now."

A short ruminative silence, and then Dr. Stefansson stirred
uneasily, "Are you going to break the news to Alien soon?"

The other nodded quietly, "It will have to be done before
we get to Mars, and the sooner the better." He paused, then
added in a tightened voice, "I wonder how it feels to find out
after twenty-five years that one has a twin brother whom one
has never seen. It must be a damned shock."

"How did George take it?"

"Didn't believe it at first, and I don't blame him. Markey
had to work like a horse to convince him it wasn't a hoax. I
suppose I'll have as hard a job with Alien." He knocked the
dottle from his pipe and shook his head.

"I have half a mind to go to Mars just to see those two get
together," remarked Dr. Stefansson wistfully.
"You'll do no such thing, Stef. This experiment's taken too

long and means too much to have you rum it by any such fool
move."

"I know, I know! Heredity versus environment! Perhaps at
last the definite answer." He spoke half to himself, as if re-
Astonishing Stories, April 1941
Copyright © 1941 by Fictioneers, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1968 by Isaac Asimov

263




HEREDITY
peating an old, familiar formula, "Two identical twins, sep-
arated at birth; one brought up on old, civilized Earth, the
other on pioneer Ganymede. Then, on their twenty-fifth birth-
day brought together for the first time on Mars—God! I wish
Carter had lived to see the end of it They're his children."

'Too badi—But we're alive, and the twins. To carry the
experiment to its end will be our tribute to him."

There is no way of telling, at first seeing the Martian branch
of Medicinal Products, Inc., that it is surrounded by anything
but desert. You can't see the vast underground caverns where
the native fungi of Mars are artificially nurtured into huge
blooming fields. The intricate transportation system that con-
nects all parts of the square miles of fields to the central
building is invisible. The irrigation system; the air-purifiers;

the drainage pipes, are all hidden.

And what one sees is the broad squat red-brick building and
Martian desert, rusty and dry, all about

That had been all George Carter had seen upon arriving via
rocket-taxi, but him, at least, appearances had not deceived.
It would have been strange had it done so, for his life on
Ganymede had been oriented in its every phase towards
eventual general managership of that very concern. He knew
every square inch of the caverns below as well as if he had
been born and raised in them himself.

And now he sat in Professor Lemuel Harvey's small
office and allowed just the slightest trace of uneasiness to cross
his impassive countenance. His ice-blue eyes sought those of
Professor Harvey.

"This—this twin brother o' mine. He'll be here soon?"

Professor Harvey nodded, "He's on his way over right now."

George Carter uncrossed his knees. His expression was
almost wistful, "He looks a lot like me, d'ya rackon?"

"Quite a lot You're identical twins, you know."

"Hmmi Rackon so! Wish I'd known him all the time—on
Gannyl" He frowned. "He's lived on Airth all's life, huh?"

An expression of interest crossed Professor Harvey's face.
He said briskly, "You dislike Earthmen?"

"No, not exactly," came the immediate answer. "It's just
the Airthmen are tanderfeet All of 'm I know are."

Harvey stifled a grin, and conversation languished.

The door-signal snapped Harvey out of his reverie and
George Carter out of his chair at the same instant. The pro-
fessor pressed the desk-button and the door opened.

264

HEREDITY

The figure on the threshold crossed into the room and then
stopped. The twin brothers faced each other.

It was a tense, breathless moment, and Professor Harvey
sank into his soft chair, put his finger-tips together and
watched keenly.

The two stood stiffly erect, ten feet apart, neither making a
move to lessen the distance. They made a curious contrast—a
contrast all the more marked because of the vast similarity
between the two.

Eyes of frozen blue gazed deep into eyes of frozen blue.
Each saw a long, straight nose over full, red lips pressed
firmly together. The high cheekbones were as prominent in
one as in the other, the jutting, angular chin as square. There
was even the same, odd half-cock of one eyebrow in twin ex-
pressions of absorbed, part-quizzical interest.

But with the face, all resemblance ended. Alien Carter's
clothes bore the New York stamp on every square inch. From
his loose blouse, past his dark purple knee breeches, salmon-
colored cellulite stockings, down to the glistening sandals on
his feet, he stood a living embodiment of latest Terrestrial
fashion.

For a fleeting moment, George Carter was conscious of a
feeling of ungainliness as he stood there in his tight-sleeved,
close-necked shirt of Ganymedan linen. His unbuttoned vest
and his voluminous trousers with their ends tucked into high-
laced, heavy-soled boots were clumsy and provincial. Even he
felt it—for just a moment

From his sleeve-pocket Alien removed a cigarette case—it
was the first move either of the brothers had made—opened
it, withdrew a slender cylinder of paper-covered tobacco that
spontaneously glowed into life at the first puff.

George hesitated a fraction of a second and his subsequent
action was almost one of defiance. His hand plunged into his
inner vest pocket and drew therefrom the green, shriveled
form of a cigar made of Ganymedan greenleaf. A match
flared into .flame upon his thumbnail and for a long moment,
he matched, puff for puff, the cigarette of his brother.

And then AUen laughed—a queer, high-pitched laugh,
"Your eyes are a little closer together, I think."

"Rackon 'tis, maybe. Y'r hair's fixed sort o' different."
There was faint disapproval in his voice. Alien's hand went
self-consciously to his long, light-brown hair, carefully curled
at the ends, while his eyes flickered over the carelessly-bound
queue into which the other's equally long hair was drawn.

265




HEREDITY

"I suppose we'll have to get used to each other. —I'm willing
to try." The Earth twin was advancing now, hand outstretched.
George smiled, "Y' bet. 'At goes here, too."
The hands met and gripped.
"Y'r name's All'n, huh?" said George.
"And yours is George, isn't it?" answered Alien.
And then for a long while they said nothing more. They
just looked—and smiled as they strove to bridge the twenty-
five year gap that separated them.

George Carter's impersonal gaze swept over the carpet of
low-growing purple blooms that stretched in plot-path bor-
dered squares into the misty distance of the caverns. The
newspapers and feature writers might rhapsodize over the
"Fungus Gold" of Mars—about the purified extracts, in yields
of ounces to acres of blooms, that had become indispensable
to the medical profession of the System. Opiates, purified
vitamins, a new vegetable specific against pneumonia—the
blooms were worth their weight in gold, almost.

But they were merely blooms to George Carter—blooms
to be forced to full growth, harvested, baled, and shipped to
the Aresopolis labs hundreds of miles away.

He cut his little ground car to half-speed and leant furiously
out the window, "Hi y' mudcat there. Y' with the dairty face.
Watch what y'r doing—keep the domned water in the
channel."

He drew back and the ground car leapt ahead once more.
The Ganymedan muttered viciously to himself, "These
domned men about here are wairse than useless. So many ma-
chines t' do their wairk for 'm they give their brains a pair-
menent vacation, I rackon."

The ground car came to a halt and he clambered out. Pick-
ing his way between the fungus plots, he approached the clus-
tered group of men about the spider-armed machine in the
plotway ahead.

"Well, here I am. What is 't, All'n?"

Alien's head bobbed up from behind the other side of the
machine. He waved at the men about him, "Stop it for a
second!" and leaped toward his twin.

"George, it works. It's slow and clumsy, but it works. We can
improve it now that we've got the fundamentals down. And
in no time at all, we'll be able to—"

"Now wait a while, All'n. On Ganny, we go slow. Y' live
long, that way. What y' got there?"
266

HEREDITY

Alien paused and swabbed at his forehead. His face shone
with grease, sweat, and excitement. "I've been working on this
thing ever since I finished college. It's a modification of some-
thing we have on Earth—but it's no end improved. It's a
mechanical bloom picker."

He had fished a much-folded square of heavy paper from
his pocket and talked steadily as he spread it on the plotway
before them, "Up to now, bloom-picking has been the bottle-
neck of production, to say nothing of the 15 to 20% loss due
to picking under- and over-ripe blooms. After all, human
eyes are only human eyes, and the blooms—Here, look!"

The paper was spread flat and Alien squatted before it
George leaned over his shoulder, with frowning watchfulness.

"You see. It's a combination of fluoroscope and photo-
electric cell. The ripeness of the bloom can be told by the
state of the spores within. This machine is adjusted so that
the proper circuit is tripped upon the impingement of just that
combination of light and dark formed by ripe spores within
the bloom. On the other hand, this second circuit—but look,
it's easier to show you."

He was up again, brimming with enthusiasm. With a jump,
he was in the low seat behind the picker and had pulled the
lever.

Ponderously, the picker turned towards the blooms and its
"eye" travelled sideways six inches above the ground. As it
passed each fungus bloom, a long spidery arm shot out, lop-
ping it cleanly half an inch from the ground and depositing
it neatly in the downward sloping slide beneath. A pile of
blooms formed behind the machine.

"We can hook on a binder, too, later on. Do you notice
those blooms it doesn't touch? Those are unripe. Just wait till
it comes to an over-ripe one and see what it does."

He yelled in triumph a moment later when a bloom was
torn out and dropped on the spot.

He stopped the machine, "You see? In a month, perhaps, we
can actually start putting it to work in the fields."

George Carter gazed sourly upon his twin, "Take more 'n
a month, I rackon. It'll take foraver, more likely."

"What do you mean, forever. It just has to be sped up—"

"I don't care if 't just has t' be painted pairple. 'Tisn't going
t' appear on my fields."

"Your fields?"

"Yup, mine," was the cool response. "I've got veto pow'r
here same as you have. Y' can't do anything 'thout my say-so

267

HEREDITY

—and y* won't get it f'r this. In fact, I want y' t' clear that
thing out o' here, altogether. Got no use f'r 't."

Alien dismounted and faced his brother, "You agreed to let
me have this plot to experiment on, veto-free, and I'm hold-
ing you to that agreement."

"All right, then. But keep y'r domned machine out o' the
rest o' the fields."

The Earthman approached the other slowly. There was a
dangerous look in his eyes. "Look, George, I don't like your
attitude—and I don't like the way you're using your veto
power. I don't know what you're used to running on Gany-
mede, but you're in the big time now, and there are a lot of
provincial notions you'll have to get out of your head."

"Not unless I want to. And if y' want t' have 't out with
me, we'd better go t' y'r office. Spatting before the men 'd be
bad for discipline."

The trip back to Central was made in ominous silence.
George whistled softly to himself while Alien folded his arms
and stared with ostentatious indifference at the narrow, twist-
ing plotway ahead. The silence persisted as they entered the
Earthman's office. Alien gestured shortly towards a chair and
the Ganymedan took it without a word. He brought out his
ever-present green-leaf cigar and waited for the other to speak.

Alien hunched forward upon the edge of his seat and
leaned both elbows on his desk. He began with a rush.

"There's lots to this situation, George, that's a mystery to
me. I don't know why they brought up you on Ganymede
and me on Earth, and I don't know why they never let us
know of each other, or made us co-managers now with veto-
power over one another—but I do know that the situation is
rapidly growing intolerable.

"This corporation needs modernization, and you know that.
Yet you've been wielding that veto-power over every trifling
advance I've tried to initiate. I don't know just what your
viewpoint is, but I've a suspicion that you think you're still
living on Ganymede. If you're still in the sticks,—I'm warning
you—get out of them fast. I'm from Earth, and this corpora-
tion is going to be run with Earth efficiency and Earth organi-
zation. Do you understand?"

George puffed odorous tobacco at the ceiling before answer-
ing, but when he did, his eyes came down sharply, and there
was a cutting edge to his voice.

"Airth, is it? Airth efficiency, no less? Well, All'n, I like ye.

268

HEREDITY

I can't help it Y'r so much like me, that disliking y' would
be like disliking myself, I rackon. I hate t' say this, but y'r up-
bringing's all wrong."

His voice became sternly accusatory, "Y'r an Airthman.
Well, look at y'. Airthman's but half a man at best, and
naturally y' lean on machines. But d' y' suppose / want the
corporation to be run by machines—just machines? What're
the men t' do?"

'The men run the machines," came the clipped, angry
response.

The Ganymedan rose, and a fist slammed down on the
desk, "The machines run the men, and y" know it. Fairst, y'
use them; then y' depend on them; and finally y'r slaves t'
them. Over on y'r pracious Airth, it was machines, machines,
machines—and as a result, what are y"! I'll tell y'. Half a
man!"

He drew himself up, "I still like y'. I like y' weU enough f
wish y"d lived on Gannie with me. By Jupe 'n' domn, 'twould
have made a man o' y'."

"Finished?" said Alien.

"Rackon sol"

"Then I'll tell you something. There's nothing wrong with
you that a life time on a decent planet wouldn't have fixed. As
it is, however, you belong on Ganymede. I'd advise you to go
back there."

George spoke very softly, "Y'r not thinking o' taking a
punch at me, are y'?"

"No. I couldn't fight a mirror image of myself, but if
your face were only a little different, I would enjoy splashing
it about the premises a bit."

"Think y' could do it—an Airthman like you? Here, sit
down. We're both getting a bit too excited, I rackon. Nothing'!!
be settled this way."

He sat down once more, puffed vainly at his dead cigar,
and tossed it into the incinerator chute in disgust.

"Where's y'r water?" he grunted.

Alien grinned with sudden delight, "Would you object to
having a machine supply it?"

"Machine? What d' y' mean?" The Ganymedan gazed about
him suspiciously.

"Watch! I had this installed a week ago." He touched a
button on his desk and a low click sounded below. There was
the sound of pouring water for a second or so and then a cir-

269

HEREDITY

cular metal disk beside the Earthman's right hand slid aside
and a cup of water lifted up from below.

"Take it," said Alien.

George lifted it gingerly and drank it down. He tossed the
empty cup down the incinerator shaft, then stared long and
thoughtfully at his brother, "May I see this water feeder o*
y'rs?"

"Surely. It's just under the desk. Here, I'll make room for
you."

The Ganymedan crawled underneath while Alien watched
uncertainly. A brawny hand was thrust out suddenly and a
muffled voice said, "Hand me a screwdriver."

"Here! What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Nothing 't all. Just want t' investigate this con-
traption."

The screw-driver was handed down and for a few minutes
there was no other sound than an occasional soft scraping
of metal on metal. Finally, George withdrew a flushed face
and adjusted his wrinkled collar with satisfaction.

"Which button do I press for the water?"

Alien gestured and the button was pressed. The gurgling
of water sounded. The Earthman stared in mystification from
his desk to his brother and back again. And then he became
aware of a moistness about his feet.

He jumped, looked downwards, and squawked in dismay,
"Why, damn you, what have you done?" A snaky stream of
water wriggled blindly out from under the desk and the pour-
ing sound of water still continued.

George made leisurely for the door, "Just short-caircuited
it. Here's y'r screw-driver; fix 't up again." And just before
he slammed the door, "So much f'r y'r pracious machines.
They go wrong at the wrong times."

The sounder was buzzily insistent and Alien Carter opened
one eye peevishly. It was still dark.

With a sigh, he lifted one arm to the head of his bed and
put the Audiomitter into commission.

The treble voice of Amos Wells of the night shift squawked
excitedly at him. Alien's eyes snapped open and he sat up.

"You're crazy!" But he was plunging into his breeches even
as he spoke. In ten seconds, he was careening up the steps
three at a time. He shot into the main office just behind the
charging figure of his twin brother.

The place was crowded;—its occupants in a jitter.

270                                          J

HEREDITY

Alien brushed his long hair out of his eyes, "Turn on the
turret searchlight!"

"It's on," said someone helplessly.

The Earthman mshed to the window and looked out. The
yellow beam reached dimly out a few feet and ended in a
muddy murkiness. He pulled at the window and it lifted up-
wards grittily a few inches. There was a whistle of wind and
a tornado of coughing from within the room. Alien slammed
it down again and his hands went at once to his tear-filled eyes.

George spoke between sneezes, "We're not located in the
sandstorm zone. This can't be one."

"It is," asserted Wells in a squeak. "It's the worst I've ever
seen. Started full blast from scratch just like that. It caught
me flat-footed. By the time I closed off all exits to above, it
was too late."

"Too late!" Alien withdrew his attention from his sand-
filled eyes and snapped out the words, "Too late for what?"

"Too late for our rolling stock. Our rockets got it worst of
all. There isn't one that hasn't its propulsives clogged with
sand. And that goes for our irrigation pumps and the ventilat-
ing system. The generators below are safe but everything else
will have to be taken apart and put together again. We're
stalled for a week at least. Maybe more."

There was a short, pregnant silence, and then Alien said,
"Take charge. Wells. Put the men on double shift and tackle
the irrigation pumps first. They've got to be in working order
inside of twenty-four hours, or half the crop will dry up and
die on us. Here—wait, I'll go with you."

He turned to leave, but his first footstep froze in midair
at the sight of Michael Anders, communications officer, rush-
ing up the stairs.

"What's the matter?"

Anders spoke between gasps, "The damned planet's gone
crazy. There's been the biggest quake in history with its
center not ten miles from Aresopolis."

There was a chorus of "What?" and a ragged follow-up of
blistering imprecations. Men crowded in anxiously;—many
had relatives and wives in the Martian metropolis.

Anders went on breathlessly, "It came all of a sudden.
Aresopolis is in ruins and fires have started. There aren't any
details but the transmitter at our Aresopolis labs went dead
five minutes ago."

There was a babel of comment The news spread out into
the furthest recesses of Central, and excitement waxed to

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HEREDITY

dangerously panicky proportions. Alien raised his voice to a
shout.

"Quiet, everyone. There's nothing we can do about Ares-
opolis. We've got our own troubles. This freak storm is con-
nected with the quake some way—and that's what we have to
take care of. Everyone back to his work now—and work fast.
They'll be needing us at Aresopolis damned soon." He turned
to Anders, "You! Get back to that receiver and don't knock
off until you've gotten in touch with Aresopolis again. Coming
with me, George?"

"No, rackon not," was the response. "Y* tend t' y'r ma-
chines. I'll go down with Anders."

Dawn was breaking, a dusky, lightless dawn, when Alien
Carter returned to Central. He was weary—weary in mind
and body—and looked it. He entered the radio room.

"Things are a mess. If—"

There was a "Shhh" and George waved frantically. Alien
fell silent. Anders bent over the receiver, turning tiny dials
with nervous fingers.

Anders looked up, "It's no use, Mr. Carter. Can't get them."

"All right. Stay here and keep y'r ears open. Let me know if
anything turns up."

He walked out, hooking an arm underneath his brother's
and dragging the latter out.

"When c'n we get out the next shipment, All'n?"

"Not for at least a week. We haven't a thing that'll either
roll or fly for days, and it will be even longer before we can
start harvesting again."

"Have we any supplies on hand now?"

"A few tons of assorted blooms—mainly the red-purples.
The Earth shipment last Tuesday took off almost everything."

George fell into a reverie.

His brother waited a moment and said sharply, "Well,
what's on your' mind? What's the news from Aresopolis?"

"Domned bad! The quake's leveled three-fourths o' Ares-
opolis and the rest's pretty much gutted with fire, I rackon.
There 're fifty thousand that'll have t' camp out nights.—That's
no fun in Martian autumn weather with the Airth gravity
system broken down."

Alien whistled, "Pneumonia!"

"And common colds and influenza and any o' half doz'n
diseases t' say nothing o' people bairnt. —Old Vincent is
raising cain."

272

HEREDITY

"Wants blooms?"

"He's only got a two-day supply on hand. He's got t' have
more."

Both, were speaking quietly, almost with indifference, with
the vast understatement that is all that makes great crises
bearable.

There was a pause and then George spoke again, "What's
the best we c'n do?"

"Not under a week—not if we kill ourselves to do it. If
they could send over a ship as soon as the storm dies down,
we might be able to send what we have as a temporary
supply until we can get over with the rest."

"Silly even t' think o' that. The Aresopolis port is just ruins.
They haven't a ship t' their names."

Again silence. Then Alien spoke in a low, tense voice.
"What are you waiting for? What's that look on your face
for?"

"I'm waiting fr y' t' admit y'r domned machines have failed
y' in the fairest emairgency we've had t' meet."

"Admitted," snarled the Earthman.

"Good! And now its up t' me t' show y' what human in-
genuity can do." He handed a sheet of paper to his brother,
"There's a copy of the message I sent Vincent."

Alien looked long at his brother and slowly read the pen-
cilled scribbling.

"Will deliver all we have on hand in thirty-six hours. Hope
it will keep you going the few days until we can get a real
shipment out. Things are a little rough out here."

"How are you going to do it?" demanded Alien, upon fin-
ishing.

"I'm trying to show y'," answered George, and Alien real-
ized for the first time that they had left Central and were out
in the caverns.

George led the way for five minutes and stopped before an
object bulking blackly in the dimness. He turned on the sec-
tion lights and said, "Sand truck!"

The sand truck was not an imposing object. With the low
driving car in front and the three squat, open-topped freight-
cars behind, it presented a picture of obsolete decrepitude.
Fifteen years ago, it had been relegated to the dust-heap by
the sand-sleds and rocket-freights.

The Ganymedan was speaking, "Checked it an hour ago,
m'self, and 'tis still in wairking order. It has shielded bearings,

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HEREDITY

air conditioning unit f'r the driving car, and an intairnal com-
bustion engine."

The other looked up sharply. There was an expression of
distaste on his face. "You mean it burns chemical fuel."

"Yup! Gas'line. That's why I like it. Reminds me o' Gany-
mede. On Gannie, I had a gas engine that—"

"But wait a while. We haven't any of that gasoline."

"No, rackon not. But we got lots o' liquid hydrocarbons
round the place. How about Solvent D? That's mostly octane.
We've got tanks o' it."

Alien said, "That's so;—but the truck holds only two."

"I know it. I'm one."

"And I'm the other."

George grunted, "I rackond y'd say that—but this isn't
going t' be a push-button machine job. Rackon y'r up t' it,—
Airthman?"

"I reckon I am—Gannie."

The sun had been up some two hours before the sand-
truck's engine whirred into life, but outside, the murk had
become, if anything, thicker.

The main driveway within the caverns was ahum with
activity. Grotesque figures with eyes peering through the thick
glass of improvised air-helmets stepped back as the truck's
broad, sand-adapted wheels began their slow turn. The three
cars behind had been piled high with purple blooms, canvas
covers had been thrown over them and bound down tightly,—
and now the signal was given to open the doors.

The lever was jerked downwards and the double doors sep-
arated with sand-clogged protests. Through a gray whirl of
inblown sand, the truck made its way outwards, and behind
it sand-coated figures brushed at their air-helmets and closed
the doors again.

George Carter, inured by long Ganymedan custom, met
the sudden gravity change as they left the protective Gravitor
fields of the caverns, with a single long-drawn breath. His
hands held steady upon the wheels. His Terrestrial brother,
however, was in far different condition. The hard nauseating
knot into which his stomach tied itself loosened only very
gradually, and it was a long time before his irregular sterto-
rous breathing approached anything like normality again.

And throughout, the Earthman was conscious of the other's

274

HEREDITY

side-long glance and of just a trace of a smile about the other's
lips.

It was enough to keep the slightest moan from issuing forth,
though his abdominal muscles cramped and icy perspiration
bathed his face.

The miles clicked off slowly, but the illusion of motionless-
ness was almost as complete as that in space. The surroundings
were gray—uniform, monotonous and unvarying. The noise of
the engine was a harsh purr and the clicking of the air-purifier
behind like a drowsy tick. Occasionally, there was an espe-
cially strong gust of wind, and a patter of sand dashed against
the window with a million tiny, separate pings.

George kept his eye strictly upon the compass before him.
The silence was almost oppressive.

And then the Ganyrnedan swivelled his head, and growled,
"What's wrong with the domned vent'lator?"

Alien squeezed upward, head against the low top, and then
turned back, pale-faced, "It's stopped."

"It'll be hours 'fore the storm's over. Ye've got t' have air
till then. Craw] in back there and start it again." His voice
was flat and final.

"Here," he said, as the other crawled over his shoulder into
the back of the car. "Here's the tool-kit. Y'v got 'bout twenty
minutes 'fore the air gets too foul t' breathe. 'Tis pretty bad
now."

The clouds of sand hemmed in closer and the dim yellow
light above George's head dispelled only partially the darkness
within.

There was the sound of scrambling from behind him and
then Alien's voice, "Damn this rope. What's it doing here?"
There was a hammering and then a disgusted curse.

"This thing is choked with rust."

"Anything else wrong?" called out the Ganymedan.

"Don't know. Wait till I clear it out." More hammering
and an almost continuous harsh, scraping sound followed.

Alien backed into his seat once more. His face dripped
rusty perspiration and a swab with the back of an equally
damp, rust-covered hand did it no good.

"The pump is leaking like a punctured kettle, now that the
rust's been knocked loose. I've got it going at top speed, but
the only thing between it and a total breakdown is a prayer."

"Start praying," said George, bruskly. "Pray for a button to
push."

The Earthman frowned, and stared ahead in sullen silence.

275

HEREDITY

At four in the afternoon, the Ganymedan drawled, "Air's
beginning t' thin out, looks like."

Alien snapped to alertness. The air was foul and humid
within. The ventilator behind swished sibilantly between each
click and the clicks were spacing themselves further apart. It
wouldn't hold out much longer now.

"How much ground have we covered?"

" 'Bout a thaird o' the distance," was the reply. "How 'r y*
holding out?"

"Well enough," Alien snapped back. He retired once more
into his shelL

Night came and the first brilliant stars of a Martian night
peeped out when with a last futile and long-sustained
swi-i-i-s-s-sh, the ventilator died.

"Domn!" said George. "I can't breathe this soup any
longer, anyway. Open the windows."

The keenly cold Martian wind swept in and with it the last
traces of sand. George coughed as he pulled his woolen cap
over his ears and turned on the heaters.

"Y' can still taste the grit."

Alien looked wistfully up into the skies, "There's Earth—
with the moon hanging right onto her tail."

"Airth?" repeated George with fine contempt. His finger
pointed horizonwards, "There's good old Jupe for y'."

And throwing back his head, he sang in a full throated
baritone:

"When the golden orb o' Jove
Shines down from the skies above,
Then my spirit longs to go
To that happy land I know,
Back t' good, old Ganyme-e-e-e-ede."

The last note quavered and broke, and quavered and broke
again and still again in an ever increasing rapidity of tempo
until its vibrating ululation pierced the air about ear-shatter-
ingly.

Alien stared at his brother wide-eyed, "How did you do
that?"

George grinned, "That's the Gannie quaver. Didn't y' ever
hear it before?"
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The Earthman shook his head, "I've head of it, but that's
all."

The other became a bit more cordial, "Well, o' course y'
can only do it in a thin atmosphere. Y' should hear me on
Gannie. I c'd shake y' right off y'r chair when I'm going good.
Here! Wait till I gulp down some coffee, and then I'll sing y'
vairse twenty-four o' the 'Ballad o' Ganymede.' "

He took a deep breath:

"There's a fair-haired maid I love

Standing in the light o' Jove
And she's waiting there for me-e-e-e-e.

Then—"

Alien grasped him by the arm and shook him. The Gany-
medan choked into silence.

"What's the matter?" he asked sharply.

"There was a thumping sound on the roof just a second
ago. There's something up there."

George stared upwards, "Grab the wheel. I'll go up."

Alien shook his head, "I'm going myself. I wouldn't trust
myself running this primitive contraption."

He was out on the running board the next instant.

"Keep her going," he shouted, and threw one foot up onto
the roof.

He froze in that position when he became aware of two
yellow slits of eyes staring hard into his. It took not more than
a second for him to realize that he was face to face with a
keazel, a situation which for discomfort is about on a par with
the discovery of a rattlesnake in one's bed back on Earth.

There was little time for mental comparisons of his position
with Earth predicaments, however, for the keazel lunged for-
ward, its poisonous fangs agleam in the starlight.

Alien ducked desperately and lost his grip. He hit the sand
with a slow-motion thud and the cold, scaly body of the
Martian reptile was upon him.

The Earthman's reaction was almost instinctive. His hand
shot out and clamped down hard upon the creature's narrow
muzzle.

In that position, beast and man stiffened into breathless
statuary. The man was trembling and within him his heart
pounded away with hard rapidity. He scarcely dared move. In
the unaccustomed Martian gravity, he found he could not

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judge movements of his limbs. Muscles knotted almost of their
own accord and legs swung when they ought not to.

He tried to lie still—and think.

The keazel squirmed, and from its lips, clamped shut by
Earth muscles, issued a tremulous whine. Alien's hand grew
slick with perspiration and he could feel the beast's muzzle
turn a bit within his palm. He clamped harder, panic-stricken.
Physically, the keazel was no match for an Earthman, even a
tired, frightened, gravity-unaccustomed Earthman—but one
bite, anywhere, was all that was needed.

The keazel jerked suddenly; its back humped and its legs
threshed. Alien held on with both hands and could not let go.
He had neither gun nor knife. There was no rock on the level
desert sands to crack its skull against. The sand-truck had
long since disappeared into the Martian night, and he was
alone—alone with a keazel.

In desperation, he twisted. The keazel's head bent. He
could hear its breath whistling forth harshly—and again there
was that low whine.

Alien writhed above it and clamped knees down upon its
cold, scaly abdomen. He twisted the head, further and further.
The keazel fought desperately, but Alien's Earthly biceps
maintained their hold. He could almost sense the beast's agony
in the last stages, when he called up all his strength,—some-
thing snapped.

And the beast lay still.

He rose to his feet, half-sobbing. The Martian night wind
knifed into him and the perspiration froze on his body. He
was alone in the desert.

Reaction set in. There was an intense buzzing in his ears.
He found it difficult to stand. The wind was biting—but
somehow he didn't feel it any more.

The buzzing in his ears resolved itself into a voice—a voice
calling weirdly through the Martian wind.

"All'n, where are y'? Domn y', y' tanderfoot, where are y'?
All'n! A ll'n!"

New life swept into the Earthman. He tossed the keazel's
carcass onto his shoulders and staggered on towards the voice.

"Here I am, G—Gannie. Right here."

He stumbled blindly into his brother's arms.

George began harshly, "Y' blasted Airthman, can't y' even
keep y'r footing on a sandtruck moving at ten miles per? Y'
might've—"

His voice died away in a semi-gurgle.

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Alien said tiredly, "There was a keazel on the roof. He
knocked me off. Here, put it somewhere. There's a hundred
dollar bonus for every keazel skin brought in to Aresopolis."

He had no clear recollection of anything for the next half
hour. When things straightened out, he was in the truck
again with the taste of warm coffee in his mouth. The engine
was rumbling once more and the pleasant warmth of the
heaters surrounded him.

George sat next to him silently, eyes fixed on the desert
ahead. But once in a while, he cleared his throat and shot a
lightning glance at his brother. There was a queer look in his
eyes.

Alien said, "Listen, I've got to keep awake,—and you look
half dead yourself—so how about teaching me that 'Gannie
quaver' of yours. That's bound to wake the dead."

The Ganymedan stared even harder and then said gruffly,
"Sure, watch m' Adam's apple while I do 't again."

The sun was half-way to zenith when they reached the
canal.

An hour before dawn there had come the crackling sound
of hoarfrost beneath the heavy wheels and that signified the
end of the desert area and the approach of the canal oasis.
With the rising of the sun, the crackling disappeared and the
softening mud underneath slowed the sand-adapted truck. The
pathetic clumps of gray-green scrub that dotted the flat land-
scape were the first variant to eternal red sand since the two
had started on their journey.

And then Alien had leaned forward and grasped his brother
by the arm, "Look, there's the canal itself right ahead."

The "canal"—a small tributary of the mighty Jefferson
Canal—contained a mere trickle of water at this season of the
year. A dirty winding line of dampness, it was, and little more.
Surrounding it on both sides were the boggy areas of black
mud that were to fill up into a rushing ice-cold current an
Earth-year hence.

The sand-truck nosed gingerly down the gentle slope,
weaving a tortuous path among the sparsely-strewn boulders
brought down by the spring's torrents and left there as the
sinking waters receded.

It slopped through the mud and splashed clumsily through
the puddles. It jounced noisily over rocks, muddied itself past
the hubs as it made its way through the murky mid-stream
channel and then settled itself for the upward pull out.

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And then, with a suddenness that tossed the two drivers
out of their seats, it sideslipped, made one futile effort to pro-
ceed onwards, and thereafter refused to budge.

The brothers scrambled out and surveyed the situation.
George swore lustily, voice more thickly accented than ever.

"B' Jupe 'n' domn, we're in a pickled situation f'r fair. Tis
wallowing in the mud there like a blasted pig."

Alien shoved his hair back wearily, "Well, don't stand there
looking at it. We're still a hundred miles or better from Are-
sopolis. We've got to get it out of there."

"Sure, but how?" His imprecations dropped to sibilant
breathings as he reached into the truck for the coil of rope in
the back. He looked at it doubtfully.

"Y' get in here, All'n, and when I pull, press down with y'r
foot on that pedal."

He was tying the rope to the front axle even as he spoke.
He played it out behind him as he slogged out through ankle-
deep mud, and stretched it taut.

"All right, now, give!" he yelled. His face turned purple
with effort as his back muscles ridged. Alien, within the car,
pressed the indicated pedal to the floor, heard a loud roar
from the engine and a spinning whir from the back wheels.
The truck heaved once, and then sank back.

" 'Tis no use," George called. "I can't get a footing. If the
ground were dry, I c'd do it."

"If the ground were dry, we wouldn't be stuck," retorted
Alien. "Here, give me that rope.'

"D' y' think y' can do it, if / can't?" came the enraged cry,
but the other had already left the car.

Alien had spied the large, deep-bedded boulder from the
truck, and it was with relief that he found it to be within
reaching distance of the rope. He pulled it taut and tossed its
free end about the boulder. Knotting it clumsily, he pulled,
and it held.

His brother leaned out of the car window, as he made his
way, back, with one lumped Ganymedan fist agitating the air.

"Hi, y' nitwit. What're y' doing? D' y' expect that over-
grown rock t' pull us out?"

"Shut up," yelled back Alien, "and feed her the gas when
I pull."

He paused midway between boulder and truck and seized
the rope.

"Give!" he shouted in his turn, and with a sudden jerk
pulled the rope towards him with both hands.

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HEREDITY

The truck moved; its wheels caught hold. For a moment it
hesitated with the engine blasting ahead full speed, and
George's hands trembling upon the wheel. And then it went
over. And almost simultaneously, the boulder at the other end
of the taut rope lifted out of the mud with a liquid smacking
sound and went over on its side.

Alien slipped the noose off it and ran for the truck.

"Keep her going," he shouted, and hopped onto the running
board, rope trailing.

"How did y' do that?" asked George, eyes round with awe.

"I haven't got the energy to explain it now. When we get to
Aresopolis and after we've had a good sleep, I'll draw the
triangle of forces for you, and show you what happened. No
muscles were involved. Don't look at me as if I were Her-
cules."

George withdrew his gaze with an effort, "Triangle o' forces,
is it? I never heard o' it, but if that's what it c'n do, educa-
tion's a great thing."

"Comet-gas I Is any coffee left?" He stared at the last ther-
mos-bottle, shook it near his ear dolefully, and said, "Oh,
well, let's practice the quaver. It's almost as good and I've
practically got it perfected."

He yawned prodigiously, "Will we make it by nightfall?"

"Maybe!"

The canal was behind them now.

The reddening sun was lowering itself slowly behind the
Southern Range. The Southern Range is one of the two
"mountain chains" left on Mars. It is a region of hills; ancient,
time-worn, eroded hills behind which lies Aresopolis.

It possesses the only scenery worth mentioning on all Mars
and also the golden attribute of being able, through the up-
drafts along its sides, to suck an occasional ram out of the
desiccated Martian atmosphere.

Ordinarily, perhaps, a pair from Earth and Ganymede
might have idled through this picturesque area, but this was
definitely not the case with the Carter twins.

Eyes, puffed for lack of sleep, glistened once more at the
sight of hills on the horizons. Bodies, almost broken for sheer
weariness, tensed once more when they rose against the sky.

And the truck leaped ahead,—for just behind the hills lay
Aresopolis. The road they travelled was no longer a rule-
edge straight one, guided by the compass, over table-top-flat
land. It followed narrow, twisting trails over rocky ground.

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HEREDITY

They had reached Twin Peaks, then, when there was a
sudden sputter from the motor, a few halting coughs and
then silence.

Alien sat up and there was weariness and utter disgust in
his voice, "What's wrong with this everiastingly-to-be-damned
machine now?"

His brother shrugged, "Nothing that I haven't been expect-
ing for the last hour. We're out o' gas. Doesn't matter at all.
We're at Twin Peaks—only ten miles fr'm the city. We c'n get
there in an hour, and then they c'n send men out here for the
blooms."

"Ten miles in an hour!" protested Alien. "You're crazy."
His face suddenly twisted at an agonizing thought, "My God!
We can't do it under three hours and it's almost night. No one
can last that long in a Martian night. George, we're—"

George was pulling him out of the car by main force, "By
Jupe 'n' domn, All'n, don't let the tenderfoot show through
now. We c'n do it in an hour, I tell y'. Didn't y' ever try run-
ning under sub-normal gravity? It's like flying. Look at me."

He was off, skimming the ground closely, and proceeding
in ground-covering leaps that shrank him to a speck up the
mountain side in a moment.

He waved, and his voice came thinly, "Come on!"

Alien started,—and sprawled at the third wide stride, arms
nailing and legs straddled wide. The Ganymedan's laughter
drifted down in heartless gusts.

Alien rose angrily and dusted himself. At an ordinary walk,
he made his way upwards.

"Don't get sore, All'n," said George. "It's just a knack, and
I've had practice on Gannie. Just pretend y'r running along a
feather bed. Run rhythmically—a sort o' very slow rhythm—
and run close t' the ground; don't leap high. Like this. Watch
me!"

The Earthman tried it, eyes on his brother. His first few un-
certain strides became surer and longer. His legs stretched
and his arms swung as he matched his brother, step for step.

George shouted encouragement and speeded his pace,
"Keep lower t' the ground, All'n. Don't leap 'fore y'r toes hit
the ground."

Alien's eyes shone and, for the moment, weariness was for-
gotten, "This is great; It is like flying—or like springs on your
shoes."

"Y' ought t' have lived on Gannie with me. We've got
special fields f'r subgravity races. An expairt racer c'n do forty

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HEREDITY

miles an hour at times—and I c'n do thirty-five myself. —0'
course, the gravity there's a bit lower than here on Mars."

Long hair streamed backwards in the wind and skin red-
dened at the bittercold air that blew past. The ruddy patches
of sunlight travelled higher and higher up the slopes, lingered
briefly upon the very summits and went out altogether. The
short Martian twilight started upon its rapidly darkening
career. The Evening Star—Earth—was already glimmering
brightly, its attendant moon somewhat closer than the night
previous.

The passing minutes went unheeded by Alien. He was too
absorbed by the wonderful new sensation of sub-gravity run-
ning, to do anything more than follow his brother. Even the
increasing chilliness scarcely registered upon his conscious-
ness.

It was George, then, upon whose countenance a tiny, puck-
ered uneasiness grew into a vast, panicky frown.

"Hi, AU'n, hold up!" he called. Leaning backward, he
brought himself to a short, hopping halt full of grace and ease.
Alien tried to do likewise, broke his rhythm, and went for-
ward upon his face. He rose with loud reproaches.

The Ganymedan turned a deaf ear to them. His gaze was
sombre in the dusk, "D' y' know where we are, All'n?"

Alien felt a cold constriction about his windpipe as he
stared about him quickly. Things looked different in semi-
darkness, but they looked more different than they ought. It
was impossible for things to be so different.

"We should've sighted Old Baldy by now, shouldn't we
have?" he quavered.

"We sh'd've sighted him long ago," came the hard answer.
"'Tis that domned quake. Landslides must've changed the
trails. The peaks themselves must've been screwed up—" His
voice was thin-edged, "Alien, 'tisn't any use making believe.
We're dead lost."

For a moment, they stood silently—uncertainly. The sky
was purple and the hills retreated into the night. Alien licked
bluechilled Ups with a dry tongue.

"We can't be but a few miles away. We're bound to stum-
ble on the city if we look."

"Consider the situation, Airthman," came. the savage,
shouted answer, " 'Tis night, Martian night. The temperature's
down past zero and plummeting every minute. We haven't any
time t' look;—we've got t' go straight there. If we're not there

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HEREDITY

in half an hour, we're not going t' get there at all."

Alien knew that well, and mention of the cold increased his
consciousness of it. He spoke through chattering teeth as he
drew his heavy, fur-lined coat closer about him.

"We might build a fire!" The suggestion was a half-hearted
one, muttered indistinctly, and fallen upon immediately by
the other.

"With what?" George was beside himself with sheer dis-
appointment and frustration. "We've pulled through this far,
and now we'll prob'ly freeze t' death within a mile o' the city.
C'mon keep running. It's a hundred-t'-one chance."

But Alien pulled him back. There was a feverish glint in
the Earthman's eye, "Bonfires!" he said irrelevantly. "It's a
possibility. Want to take a chance that might do the trick?"

"Nothin else t' do," growled the other. "But hurry. Every
minute I—"

"Then run with the wind—and keep going."

"Why?"

"Never mind why. Do what I say—run with the wind!"

There was no false optimism in Alien as he bounded
through the dark, stumbling over loose stones, sliding down
declivities,—always with the wind at his back. George ran at
his side, a vague, formless blotch in the night.

The cold was growing more bitter, but it was not quite as
bitter as the freezing pang of apprehension gnawing at the
Earthman's vitals.

Death is unpleasant!

And then they topped the rise, and from George's throat
came a loud "B' Jupe 'n' domn!" of triumph.

The ground before them, as far as the eye could see, was
dotted by bonfires. Shattered Aresopolis lay ahead, its home-
less inhabitants making the night bearable by the simple agency
of burning wood.

And on the hilly slopes, two weary figures slapped each
other on the backs, laughed wildly, and pressed half-frozen,
stubbly cheeks together for sheer, unadulterated joy.

They were there at last!

The Aresopolis lab, on the very outskirts of the city, was
one of the few structures still standing. Within, by makeshift
light, haggard chemists were distilling the last drops of extract.
Without, the city's police-force remnants were clearing des-
perate way for the precious flasks and vials as they were dis-
tributed to the various emergency medical centers set up in

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HEREDITY

various regions of the bonfire-pocked ruins that were once
the Martian metropolis.

Old Hal Vincent supervised the process and his faded eyes
ever and again peered anxiously into the hills beyond, watch-
ing hopefully but doubtfully for the promised cargo of blooms.

And then two figures reeled out of the darkness and col-
lapsed to halt before him.

Chill anxiety clamped down upon him, "The blooms!
Where are they? Have you got them?"

"At Twin Peaks," gasped Alien. "A ton of them and better
in a sand-truck. Send for them."

A group of police ground-cars set off before he had finished,
and Vincent exclaimed bewilderedly, "A sand-truck? Why
didn't you send it in a ship? What's wrong with you out there,
anyway? Earthquake—"

He received no direct answer. George had stumbled to-
wards the nearest bonfire with a beatific expression on his
worn face.

"Ahhh, 'tis warm!" Slowly, he folded and dropped, asleep
before he hit the ground.

Alien coughed gaspingly, "Huh! The Gannie tenderfoot!
Couldn't—ulp—take it!"

And the ground came up and hit him in the face.

Alien woke with the evening sun in his eyes and the odor
of frying bacon in his nostrils. George shoved the frying pan
towards him and said between gigantic, wolfing mouthfuls,
"Help yourself."

He pointed to the empty sand-truck outside the labs, "They
got the stuff all right."

Alien fell to, quietly. George wiped his lips with the back
of his hand and said, "Say, All'n, how 'd y' find the city? Tve
been sitting here trying t' figure it all out"

"It was the bonfires," came the muffled answer. "It was the
only way they could get heat, and fires over square miles of
land create a whole section of heated air, which rises, causing
the cold surrounding air of the hills to sweep in." He suited
his words with appropriate gestures. "The wind in the hills was
heading for the city to replace warm air and we followed the
wind. —Sort of a natural compass, pointing to where we
wanted to go."

George was silent, kicking with embarrassed vigor at the
ashes of the bonfire of the night before.

"Lis'n, All'n, I've had y' a'wrong. Y' were an Airthman

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HEREDITY

tanderfoot t' me till—' He paused, drew a deep breath and
exploded with, "Well, by Jupe n' domn, y'r my twin brother
and I'm proud o' it All Airth c'dn't drown out the Carter
blood in y'."

The Earthman opened his mouth to reply but his brother
clamped one palm over it, "Y' keep quiet, till I'm finished.
After we get back, y' can fix up that mechanical picker or
anything else y' want. I drop my veto. If Airth and machines
c'n tairn out y'r kind o' man, they're all right. But just the
same," there was a trace of wistfulness in his voice, "y' got t"
admit that everytime the machines broke down—from irriga-
tion-trucks and rocket-ships to ventilators and sand-trucks—
t'was men who had t' pull through in spite o' all that Mars
could do."

Alien wrenched his face from out behind the restraining
palm.

"The machines do their best," he said, but not too vehe-
mently.

"Sure, but that's all they can do. When the emairgency
comes, a man's got t' do a damn lot better than his .best or he's
a goner."

The other paused, nodded, and gripped the other's hand
with sudden fierceness, "Oh, we're not so different. Earth and
Ganymede are plastered thinly over the outside of us, but
inside—"

He caught himself.

"Come on, let's give out with that old Gannie quaver."

And from the two fraternal throats tore forth a shrieking
eldritch yell such as the thin, cold Martian air had seldom
before carried.

THE END

I got the cover again with "Heredity."

In connection with that story, I remember best a com-
ment I received from a young fellow named Scott Feldman
(who was then still in his teens but who was later, as Scott
Meredith, to become one of the most important literary
agents in the business). He disapproved of the story because
I introduced two characters at the start who disappeared
from the story and were never heard of again.

Once that was pointed out to me, it seemed to me that
this was indeed a major flaw, and 1 wondered why neither

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HEREDITY

Campbell nor Pohl had specifically pointed it out. 1 never
quite had the courage to ask, however.

But it did cause me to look at my stories more closely
thereafter, and to realize again that writing isn't all inspira-
tion and free flow. You do have to ask yourself pretty
mechanical questions, such as, "What do I do with this
character now that I've taken the trouble to make use of
him?"

By the time Campbell was rejecting, and Pohl accepting
"Heredity," I was writing "History." The same thing hap-
pened. I submitted it to Campbell on September 13. It was
rejected, and, eventually, Pohl took it.

287

13

History

Ullen's lank arm pushed the stylus carefully and painstakingly
across the paper; his near-sighted eyes blinked through thick
lenses. The signal light flashed twice before he answered.

He turned a page, and called out, "Is dat you, Johnnie?
Come in, please."

He smiled gently, his thin, Martian face alight with plea-
sure.

"Sit down, Johnnie—but first lower de window-shade. De
glare of your great Eard sun is annoying. Ah, dat's good, and
sid down and be very, very quiet for just a little while, be-
cause I am busy."

John Brewster shifted a pile of ill-stacked papers and seated
himself. He blew the dust from the edges of an open book in
the next chair and looked reproachfully on the Martian
historian.

"Are you still poking around these musty old things? Don't
you get tired?"

"Please, Johnnie," Ullen did not look up, "you will lose de
page. Dat book dere is William Stewart's 'Hitlerian Era' and
it is very hard to read. So many words he uses which he
doesn't explain."

His expression as it focussed upon Johnnie was one of
frowning petulance, "Never do dey explain deir terms. It is so
unscientific. On Mars, before we even start, we say, 'Dis is a
list of all definitions of terms to be used.' How oderwise can

Super Science Stories, March 1941
Copyright © 1941 by Fictioneers, Inc.
Copyright renewed © 1968 by Isaac Asimov

288

HISTORY

people talk sensibly? Hmp! You crazy Eardmen."

"Oh, nuts, Ullen—forget it. Why don't you look at me.
Don't you even notice anything?"

The Martian sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them
thoughtfully, and carefully replaced them. He stared imper-
sonally at Johnnie, "Well, I think it is new clothes you are
wearing. Is it not so?"

"New clothes! Is that all you can say, Ullen? This is a uni-
form. I'm a member of the Home Defense." He rose to his
feet, a picture of boyish exuberance.

"What is dis 'Home Defense'?" asked Ullen languidly.

Johnnie gulped and sat down helplessly, "You know, I
really think you haven't heard that Earth and Venus have been
at war for the last week. I'll bet money you haven't."

"I've been busy." He frowned and pursed his thin, blood-
less lips, "On Mars, dere is no war—at least, dere isn't any
more. Once, we used to fight, but dat was long ago. Once we
were scientists, too, and dat was long ago. Now, dere are only
a few of us—and we do not fight Dere is no happiness dat
way." He seemed to shake himself, and spoke more briskly,
"Tell me, Johnnie, do you know where it is I can find what
it means, dis 'national honor?' It holds me back. I can't go
furder unless I can understand it."

Johnnie rose to his full height and glittered in the spotless
green of the Terrestrial Service. He laughed with fond in-
dulgence, "You're hopeless, Ullen,—you old coot. Aren't you
going to wish me luck? I'm hitting space tomorrow."

"Oh, is dere danger?"

There was a squawk of laughter, "Danger? What do you
think?"

"Well, den, to seek danger—it is foolish. Why do you do
it?"

"You wouldn't understand, Ullen. Just wish me luck and
say you hope I come through whole."

"Cer-tain-ly! .1 don't want anyone to die." He slipped his
hand into the strong fist held out to him. "Take care of your-
self, Johnnie—and wait, before you go, bring me Stewart's
book. Everything is so heavy here on Eard. Heavy, heavy,—
and de words have no definitions."

He sighed, and was back at his books as Johnnie slipped
quietly out of the room.

"Dese barbarous people," he muttered sleepily to himself.
"War! Dey dink dat by killing—" His voice died away and
289

HISTORY

merged into a slurred mumble as his eyes followed creeping
finger across the page.

" 'From the very moment of the union of the Anglo-Saxon
world into a single governmental entity and even as far back
as the spring of 1941, it was evident that the doom of—' "

"Dese crazy Eardmeni"

Ullen leaned heavily upon his crutches on the steps of the
University library and one thin hand shielded his watering
eyes from the terrible Earthly sun.

The sky was blue, cloudless,—undisturbed. Yet somewhere
up above, beyond the planet's airy blanket, steel-sided ships
were veering and sparkling in vicious combat. And down
upon the city were falling the tiny "Drops of Death," the
highly radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate
out a fifteen foot crater wherever they fell.

The city's population was herding into the shelters and
burying themselves inside the deep-set leaden cells. Upstaring,
silent, anxious, they streamed past UUea. Uniformed guards
invested some sort of order into the gigantic flight, steering
the stragglers and speeding the laggards.

The air was filled with barked orders.

"Hit the shelter, Pop, Better get going. You can't stand
there, you know."

Ullen turned to the guard who addressed him and slowly
brought his wandering thoughts to bear upon the situation.

"I am sorry, Eardman—but I cannot move very fast on
your huge world." He tapped one crutch upon the marble
flags beneath- "Dings are so heavy. If I were to crowd in wid
de rest, I would be crushed."

He smiled gently down from his lank height, and the
guard rubbed a stubbly chin, "All right, pop, I can fix that. It
is tough on you Marsies at that—Here, hold those crutches up
out of the way."

With a heave, he cradled the Martian, "Hold your legs" close
to my body, because we're going to travel fast."

His bulky figure pressed through the line of Earthmen.
Ullen shut his eyes as the rapid motion under supernormal
gravity stirred his stomach into rebellion. He opened them
once again in the dim recesses of the low-ceilinged shelter.

The guard set him down carefully and adjusted the crutches
beneath Ullen's armpits, "O.K. Pop. Take care of yourself."

Ullen took in his surroundings and hobbled to one of the

.290

HISTORY

low benches at the near end of the shelter. From behind him
came the sombre clang of the thick, leaden door.

The Martian historian fished a worn tablet from his pocket
and scribbled slow notes. He disregarded the excited babble
that arose about him and the scraps of heated talk that filled
the air thickly.

And then he scratched at his furrowed forehead with the
stub end of his pencil, meeting the staring eyes of the man
sitting next to him. He smiled abstractedly and returned to
his notes.

"You're a Martian, aren't you?" His neighbor spoke in quick,
squeaky tones. "I don't like foreigners much, but I've got
nothing special against Marsies. These Veenies, now, they—"

Ullen's soft tones interrupted him. "Hate is all wrong, I
dink. Dis war is a great annoyance—a great one. It interferes
wid my work and you Eardmen ought to stop it. Is it not so?"

"You can bet your hide we're going to stop it," came the
emphatic reply. "We're going to bash their planet inside out—
and the dirty Veenies with it."

"You mean attack deir cities like dis?" The Martian
blinked owlishly in thought, "You dink dat would be best?"

"Damn it, yes. It—"

"But look." Ullen placed a skeleton finger in one palm and
continued in gentle argument. "Would it not be easier to get
de ships demselves by de fall-apart weapon?—Don't you dink
so? Or is it dat de Venus people, dey have de screens?"

"What weapon, did you say?"

Ullen ruminated carefully, "I suppose dat isn't de name you
call it by—but I don't know about weapons, anyway. We call
it on Mars de 'skellingbeg' and dat means in English 'fall-
apart weapon.' Now you know?"

There was no direct answer unless a vague under-breath
mutter could be called one. The Earthman pushed away from
his companion and stared at the opposite wall in a fidget.

Ullen sensed the rebuff and shrugged one shoulder wearily,
"It is not dat I care much about de whole ding. It is only dat
de war is a big bodder. It should be ended." He sighed, "But
I don't care!"

His fingers had just begun manipulating the pencil once
more in its travels across the open tablet on his lap, when he
looked up again.

"Tell me, please, what is de name of dat country where
Hitler died. Your Eard names, dey are so complicated some-
times. I dink it begins wid an M."

291




HISTORY

His neighbor ripped him open with a stare and walked
away. Ullen's eyes followed him with a puzzled frown.
And then the all-clear signal sounded.
"Oh, yes," said UUen. "Madagascar 1 Such a silly name!"

Johnnie Brewster's uniform was war-worn now; a bit more
wrinkled about the neck and shoulders, a trace more worn at
knees and elbows.

Ullen ran his finger along the angry scar that ran the
length of Johnnie's right fore-arm, "It hurts no more, John-
nie?"

"Nuts! A scratch! I got the Veenie that did that. He's chas-
ing dreams in the moon now."

"You were in de hospital long, Johnnie?"

"A week!" He lit a cigarette, pushed some of the mess off
the Martian's desk and seated himself. "I've spent the rest
of the time with my family, though I did get around to visit-
ing you, you see."

He leaned over and poked an affectionate hand at the
Martian's leathery cheek, "Aren't you going to say you're
glad to see me?"

Ullen removed his glasses and peered at the Earthman,
"Why, Johnnie, are you so uncertain dat I am glad to see you,
dat you require I should say it in words?" He paused, "I'll
make a note of dat. You silly Eardmen must always be telling
each oder dese simple dings—and den you don't believe it
anyway. On Mars—"

He was rubbing his glasses methodically, as he spoke, and
now he replaced them, "Johnnie, don't you Eardmen have de
'fall-apart' weapon? I met a person once in de raid shelter and
he didn't know what I was talking about."

Johnnie frowned, "I don't either, for that matter. Why do
you ask?"

"Because it seems strange dat you should have to fight so
hard dese Venus men, when dey don't seem to have de
screens to stop it wid. Johnnie, I want de war should be over.
It makes me all de time stop my work to go to a shelter."

"Hold on, now, Ullen. Don't sputter. What is this 'fall-apart'
weapon? A disintegrator? What do you know about it?"

"I? I know nodding about it at all. I dought you knew—
dat's why I asked. Back on Mars, in our histories, dey talk
about using dat kind of weapon in our old wars. But we don't
know nodding about weapons any more. Anyway, dey're so
silly, because de oder side always dinks of someding which
292

HISTORY

protects against it, and den everyding is de same as always.—
Johnnie, do you suppose you could go down to de desk and
ask for a copy of Higginboddam's 'Beginnings of Space
Travel?'"

The Earthman clenched his fists and shook them impotently,
"Ullen, you damned Martian pedant—don't you understand
that this is important? Earth is at war! War! War! War!"

"Well, den, stop de war." There was irritation in Ullen's
voice. "Dere is no peace and quiet anywheres on Eard. I wish
I had dis library—Johnnie, be careful. Please, what are you
doing? You're hurting me."

"I'm sorry, Ullen, but you've got to come with me. We're
going to see about this." Johnny had the feebly protesting
Martian wedged into the wheel-chair and was off with a rush,
before he had finished the sentence.

A rocket-taxi was at the bottom of the Library steps, and
together chauffeur and Spaceman lifted the chair inside. With
a comet-tail of smoke, they were off.

Ullen moaned softly at the acceleration, but Johnnie ignored
him. "Washington in twenty minutes, fellow," he said to the
driver, "and ignore the signal beams."

The starched secretary spoke in a frozen monotone, "Ad-
miral Korsakoff will see you now."

Johnnie wheeled and stamped out the last cigarette butt. He
shot a hasty glance at his watch and grunted.

At the motion of the wheel-chair, Ullen roused himself out
of a troubled sleep. He adjusted his glasses, "Did dey let us
in finally, Johnnie?"

"Shhh!"

Ullen's impersonal stare swept over the rich furnishings of
the room, the huge maps of Earth and Venus on the wall, the
imposing desk in the center. It lingered upon the pudgy,
bearded figure behind this desk and then came to rest upon
the lanky, sandy-haired man at his side.

The Martian attempted to rise from the chair in sudden
eagerness, "Aren't you Dr. Doming? I saw you last year at
Princeton. You remember me, don't you? Dey gave me at dat
time, my honorary degree."

Dr. Thorning had advanced and shook hands vigorously,
"Certainly. You spoke then on Martian historical methods,
didn't you?"

"Oh, you remember. I'm glad! But dis is a great opportunity
for me, meeting you. Tell me, as a scientist, what would be




HISTORY

your opinion of my deory dat de social insecurity of de Hit-
lerian Era was de direct cause for de lag—"

Dr. Thoming smiled, "I'll discuss it with you later, Dr.
Ullen. Right now, Admiral Korsakoff wants information from
you, with which we hope to end the war."

"Exactly," Korsakoff spoke in clipped tones as he met
Ullen's mild gaze. "Although a Martian, I presume you favor
the victory of the principles of freedom and justice over the
foul practices of Venusian tyranny."

Ullen stared uncertainly, "Dat sounds familiar—but I
don't dink about it much. You mean, maybe, de war should
end?"

"With victory, yes."

"Oh, 'victory,' dat is just a silly word. History proves dat a
war decided on military superiority only lays de groundwork
for future wars of retaliation and revenge. I refer you to a
very good essay on de subject by a James Calkins. It was
published all de way back in 2050."

"My dear sir!"

Ullen raised his voice in bland indifference to Johnnie's
urgent whisperings. "Now to end de war—really end it—you
should say to de plain people of Venus, 'It is unnecessary to
fight. Let us just talk'—"

There was the slam of fist on desk and a muttered oath of
frightful import. "For God's sakes, Thoming, get what you
want out of him. I give you five minutes."

Thoming stifled his chuckle, "Dr. Ullen, we want you to
tell us what you know about the disintegrator."

"Disintegrator?" Ullen put a puzzled finger to his cheek.

"The one you told Lieutenant Brewster of."

"Ummmm— Oh! You mean de 'fall-apart' weapon. I don't
know nodding about it De Martian historians mention it some
times, but none of dem know about it—de technical side, dat
is."

The sandy-haired physicist nodded patiently, "I know, I -
know. But what do they say? What kind of a weapon is it?"

"Well, de way dey talk about it, it makes de metals to fall
to pieces. What is it you call de ding dat holds metals toged-
der/now?"

"Infra-molecular forces?"

Ullen frowned and then spoke thoughtfully, "Maybe. I
forgot what de Martian word is—except dat it's long. Any-
way, dis weapon, it makes dis force dat holds de metals to-
294

HISTORY

gedder not to exist anymore and it all falls apart in a powder.
But it only works on de dree metals, Iron, cobalt, and—uh—de

odder one!"

"Nickel," prompted Johnnie, softly.

"Yes, yes, nickel!"

Thorning's eyes glittered, "Aha, the ferromagnetic elements.
There's an oscillating magnetic field mixed up in this, or I'm a
Veenie. How about it, Ullen?"

The Martian sighed, "Such crazy Eard words.—Let's see
now, most of what I know about de weapon is from de work
of Hogel Beg. It was—I'm pretty sure—in his "Cultural and
Social History of de Dird Empire." It was a huge work in
twenty-four volumes, but I always dought it was radder
mediocre. His technique in de presentation of—"

"Please," said Thoming, "the weapon—"

"Oh, yes, dat!" He hitched himself higher in his chair and
grimaced with the effort. "He talks about electricity and it
goes back and ford very fast—very fast, and its pressure—"
He paused hopelessly, and regarded the scowling visage of the
bearded Admiral naively, "I dink de word is pressure, but I
don't know, because it is hard to translate. De Martian word
is 'cranstard.' Does dat help?"

"I think you mean 'potential,' Dr. Ullen!" Thoming sighed
audibly.

"Well, if you say so. Anyway, dis 'potential' changes also
very fast and de two changes are synchronized somehow along
wid magnetism dat—uh—shifts and dat's all I know about it."
He smiled uncertainly, "I would like to go back now. It would
be all right now, wouldn't it?"

The Admiral vouchsafed no answer, "Do you make any-
thing out of that mess. Doctor?"

"Damned little," admitted the physicist, "but it gives me a
lead or two. We might try getting hold of this Beg's book, but
there's not much hope. It will simply repeat what we've just
heard. Dr. Ullen, are there any scientific works on your
planet?"

The Martian saddened, "No, Dr. Doming, dey were all de-
stroyed during de Kalynian reaction. On Mars, we doroughly
disbelieve in science. History has shown dat it comes from
science no happiness." He turned to the young Earthman at
his side, "Johnnie, let us go now, please."

Korsakoff dismissed the two with a wave of the hand.

Ullen bent carefully over the closely-typed manuscript and
295




HISTORY

inserted a word. He glanced up brightly at Johnnie Brewster,
who shook his head and placed a hand on the Martian's arm.
His brow furrowed more deeply.

UUen," he said harshly, "you're in trouble."

"Eh? I? In trouble? Why, Johnnie, dat is not so. My book is
coming along famously. De whole first volume, it is completed
and, but for a bit of polishing, is ready for de printers."

"Ullen, if you can't give the government definite informa-
tion on the disintegrator, I won't answer for the conse-
quences."

"But I told all I knew—"

"It won't do. Ifs not enough. You've got to remember more,
UUen, you've got to."

"But knowledge where dere is none is impossible to have—
dat is an axiom." UUen sat upright in his seat, propping him-
self on a crutch.

"I know it," Johnnie's mouth twisted in misery, "but you've
got to understand.

"The Venusians have control of space; our Asteroid garri-
sons have been wiped out, and last week Phobos and Deimos
fell. Communications between Earth and Luna are broken
and God knows how long the Lunar squadron can hold out.
Earth itself is scarcely secure and their bombings are becom-
ing more serious—.Oh, UUen, don't you understand?"

The Martian's look of confusion deepened, "Eard is losing?"

"God, yes!"

"Den give up. Dat is de logical ding to do. Why did you
start at aU—you stupid Eardmen."

Johnnie ground his teeth, "But if we have the disintegrator,
we won't lose."

UUen shrugged, "Oh, Johnnie, it gets wearisome to listen to
de same old story. You Eardmen have one-track minds. Look,
wouldn't it make you feel better to have me read you some of
my manuscript? It would do your inteUect good."

"AU right, UUen, you've asked for it, and here's everything
right out If you don't teU Thoming what he wants to know,
you're going to be arrested and tried for treason."

There was a short silence, and then a confused stutter, "T—
treason. You mean dat I betray—" The historian removed his
glasses and wiped them with shaking hand, "It's not true.
You're trying to frighten me."

"Oh, no, I'm not Korsakoff thinks you know more than
you're teUing. He's sure that you're either holding out for a
price or, more likely, that you've sold out to the Veenies."

296

HISTORY

"But Doming—"

"Thoming isn't any too secure himself. He has his own skin
to think of. Earth governments in moments of stress are not
famous for being reasonable." There were sudden tears in
his -eyes, "Ullen, there must be something you can do. It's not
only you—it's for Earth."

Ullen's breathing whistled harshly, "Dey tink I would sell
my scientific knowledge. Is dat de kind of insult dey pay my
sense of eddies; my scientific integrity?" His voice was thick
with fury and for the first time since Johnnie knew him, he
lapsed into guttural Martian. "For dat, I say not a word," he
finished. "Let dem put me in prison or shoot me, but dis
insult I cannot forget."

There was no mistaking the firmness in his eyes, and
Johnnie's shoulders sagged. The Earthman didn't move at the
glare of the signal light.

"Answer de light, Johnnie," said the Martian, softly. "Dey
are coming for me."

In a moment, the room was crowded with green uniforms.
Dr. Thoming and the two with him were the only ones
present in civilian clothes.

UUen struggled to his feet, "Gentlemen, say nodding. I
have heard dat it is dought dat I am selling what I know—
selling for money." He spat the words. "It is a ding never be-
fore said of me—a ding-F-bave not deserved. If you wish you
can imprison me immediately, but I shall say nodding more—
nor have anyding furder to do wid de Eard government."

A green-garbed official stepped forward immediately, but
Dr. Thoming waved him back.

"Whoa, there. Dr. UUen," he said jovially, "don't jump too
soon. I've just come to ask if there isn't a single additional
fact that you remember. Anything, no matter how insignifi-
cant—"

There was stony silence. UUen leant heavily on his crutches
but remained stolidly erect.

Dr. Thoming seated himself imperturably upon the his-
torian's desk, picked up the high stack of type-written pages,
"Ah, is this the manuscript young Brewster was telling me
about." He gazed at it curiously, "Well, of course, you realize
that your attitude will force the government to confiscate aU
this."

"Eh?" Ullen's stern expression melted into dismay. His
crutch slipped and he dropped heavily into his seat.

297




HISTORY

The physicist warded off the other's feeble clutch, "Keep
your hands off. Dr. Ullen, I'm taking care of this." He leafed
through the pages with a rustling noise. "You see, if you are
arrested for treason, your writings become subversive."

"Subversive!" Ullen's voice was hoarse, "Dr. Doming, you
don't know what you are saying. It is my—my great labor."
His voice caught huskily, "Please, Dr. Doming, give me my
manuscript."

The other held it just beyond the Martian's shaking fingers.

"//—" he said.

"But I don't know!"

The sweat stood out on the historian's pale face. His voice
came thickly. "Time! Give me time! But let me dink—and
don't, please don't harm dis manuscript"

The other's fingers sank painfully into Ullen's shoulder, "So
nelp me, I burn your manuscript in five minutes, if—"

"Wait, I'll tell you. Somewhere—I don't know where—it
was said dat in de weapon dey used a special metal for some
of de wiring. I don't know what metal, but water spoiled it
and had to be kept away—also air. It—"

"Holy jumping Jupiter," came the sudden shout from one
of Thorning's companions. "Chief, don't you remember Aspar-
tier's work on sodium wiring in argon atmosphere five years

ago—"

Dr. Thoming's eyes were deep with thought, "Wait—wait—
wait—Damn! It was staring us in the face—"

"I know," shrieked Ullen suddenly. "It was in Karisto. He
was discussing de fall of Gallonie and dat was one of de
minor causes—de lack of dat metal—and den he men-
tioned—"

He was talking to an empty room, and for a while he was
silent in puzzled astonishment.

And then, "My manuscripti" He salvaged it from where it
lay scattered over the floor, hobbling painfully about, smooth-
ing each wrinkled sheet with care.

"De barbarians—to treat a great scientific work so!"

Ullen opened still another drawer and scrabbled through its
contents. He closed it and looked about peevishly, "Johnnie,
where did I put dat bibliography? Did you see it?"

He look toward the window, "Johnniel"

Johnnie Brewster said, "Wait a while, Ullen. Here they
come now."

The streets below were a burst of color. In a long, stiffly-

298

HISTORY

moving line the Green of the Navy paraded down the avenue,
-the air above them snow-thick with confetti, hail-thick with
ticker-tape. The roar of the crowd was dull, muted.

"Ah, de foolish people," mused Ullen. "Dey were happy
just like dis when de war started and dere was a parade just
like dis—and now anodder one. Silly!" He stumped back to
his chair.

Johnnie followed, "The government is naming a new mu-
seum after you, isn't it?"

"Yes," was the dry reply. He peered helplessly about under
the desk, "De Ullen War Museum—and it will be filled wid
ancient weapons, from stone knife to anti-aircraft gun. Dat is
your queer Eard sense of de fitness of dings. Where in dun-
deration is dat bibliography?"

"Here," said Johnnie, withdrawing the document from
Ullen's vest pocket. "Our victory was due to your weapon,
ancient to you, so it is fit in a way."

"Victory! Sure! Until Venus rearms and reprepares and
refights for revenge. All history shows—but never mind. It is
useless, dis talk." He settled himself deeply in his chair, "Here,
let me show you a real victory. Let me read you some of de
first volume of my work. It's already in print, you know."

Johnnie laughed, "Go ahead, Ullen. Right now I'm even
willing to listen to you read your entire twelve volumes—
word for word."

And Ullen smiled gently. "It would be good for your in-
tellect," he said.

THE END

"History," you will notice, mentions Hitler's end. It was
written in the first days of September 1940, when Hitler
seemed at the very peak of his success. France was defeated
and occupied and Britain was at bay and seemed unlikely to
survive. —Still, I had no doubt as to his ultimate defeat. I
did not visualize his ending in suicide, however. I thought
that like Napoleon and the Kaiser, he would end his life
in exile. Madagascar was the place I picked.

Also mentioned in the story are "the tiny 'Drops of Death,'
the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and
inexorably ate out a fifteen-foot crater wherever they fell."

By the time I wrote the story, uranium fission had been
discovered and announced. I had not yet heard of it, how-

299

T

HISTORY

ever, and I was unaware that reality was about to outstrip my
prized science fictional imagination.

"History" was the 24th story 1 had written in hope of
possible publication. Of those 24, thirteen had been pub-
lished by early 1941 and two others were to be published in
1942. Nine were doomed to extinction.

The nine which were extinct were of no loss to anybody, I
think, and the remaining fifteen may have been interesting
enough in their way but lacked, I suspect, the mark of great-
ness. The only one of these first 24 stories which proved
memorable was "Robbie," to which I refer on page 157 but
which is not included in this book. And "Robbie" deserves
notice not because of what it was, but because of what it led
to, and that could scarcely be foreseen in 1941.

Since the estimable people at Fawcett have, out of con-
siderations of space, divided this book into two volumes and
are ending the first volume here, it turns out that we are at a
point in my career at which no one could as yet point to
young Isaac (still only 20) as a shining example of greatness
to come.

I was even humble about it. To those who know me only
in these latter days of my self-assurance, it may be hard to
believe but if anyone had shaken my shoulder back in 1941
and said, "Hey, Isaac, how do you rate yourself as a science
fiction writer?" 1 would have answered, defensively, "Well,
I'm trying."

So please don't leave me at this point, folks. There is
Fawcett's second volume coming which will take up the story
at this point and you can follow me on through the remain-
ing years, in which 1 kept on trying.