THE WAITABITS
                     Eric Frank Russell
   Science-fiction authors, however various their output, are not
chameleons. To be sure, in a good cause they can alter certain parts of
their basic colouration with marvellous flexibility and skill; but the
essentials are unchanging - and recurrently we find in their work a
whole-hearted reversion to whatever their true blue may happen to be.
With Eric Frank Russell this hue is a hatred of bullying, of brass-hats, of
bureaucrats and of do-gooders who somehow always seem to end up
doing more good to themselves than to anyone else; and he has added
enormously to the gaiety of nations by envisaging sundry forms of
natural immunity to such plagues. At first sight, Russell's antibodies to
the eternal take-over bid may seem irrelevant for the reason that they
are fanciful, and therefore not, for us-here-now, by any stretch of the
imagination practical politics; we, after all, are not the fortunate
inhabitants of Eterna. Jet we can, and do, delight with Russell in their
oblivious bloodless victory; and in doing so we adopt, or confirm, a
moral attitude which would like to believe in the indefeasibility of all
harmless underdogs, always and everywhere.


  He strode toward the Assignment Office with quiet confidence born of
long service, much experience and high rank. Once upon a time a
peremptory call to this department had made him slightly edgy exactly as
it unnerved the fresh-faced juniors today. But that had been long, long
ago. He was grey-haired now, with wrinkles around the corners of his eyes,
silver oak-leaves on his epaulettes. He had heard enough, seen enough and
learned enough to have lost the capacity for surprise.
   Markham was going to hand him a tough one. That was Markham's
job: to rake through a mess of laconic, garbled, distorted or eccentric
reports, pick out the obvious problems and dump them squarely in the
laps of whoever happened to be hanging around and was considered
suitable to solve them. One thing could be said in favour of this technique:
its victims often were bothered, bedevilled or busted but at least they were
never bored. The problems were not commonplace, the solutions
sometimes fantastic.
  The door detected his body-heat as he approached, swung open with
silent efficiency. He went through, took a chair, gazed phlegmatically at
the heavy man behind the desk.
  "Ah, Commodore Leigh," said Markham pleasantly. He shuffled some
papers, got them in order, surveyed the top one. "I am informed that the
Thunderer's overhaul is complete, the crew has been recalled and
everything is ready for flight."
  "That is correct."
   "Well now, I have a task for you." Markham put on the sinister smile
that invariably accompanied such an announcement. After years of
reading what had followed in due course, he had conceived the notion that
all tasks were funny except when they involved a massacre. "You are ready
and eager for another trip, I trust?"
  "I am always ready," said Commodore Leigh. He had outgrown the
eagerness two decades back.
  "I have here the latest consignment of scout reports," Mark-ham went
on. He made a disparaging gesture. "You know what they're like.
Condensed to the minimum and in some instances slightly mad. Happy
the day when we receive a report detailed with scientific thoroughness."
   "You'll get that only from a trained mind," Leigh commented. "Scouts
are not scientists. They are oddities who like roaming the loneliest reaches
of space with no company but their own. Pilot-trained hoboes willing to
wander at large, take brief looks and tell what they've seen. Such men are
useful and necessary. Their shortcomings can be made up by those who
follow them."
  "Precisely," agreed Markham with suspicious promptness. "So this is
where we want you to do some following."
  "What is it this time?"
  "We have Boydell's latest report beamed through several relay stations.
He is way out in the wilds." Markham tapped the paper irritably. "This
particular scout is known as Gabby Boydell because he is anything but
that. He uses words as if they cost him fifty dollars apiece."
  "Meaning he hasn't said enough?" asked Leigh smiling.
  "Enough? He's told us next to nothing!" He let go an emphatic snort.
"Eighteen planets scattered all over the shop and not a dozen words about
each. He discovers a grand total of eighteen planets in seven previously
unexplored systems and the result doesn't occupy half a page."
  "Going at that speed, he'd not have time for much more," Leigh
ventured. "You can't write a book about a world without taking up
residence for a while."
   "That may be. But these crackpot scouts could do better and it's time
they were told as much." He pointed an accusative finger. "Look at this
item. The eleventh planet he visited. He has named it Pulok for some
reason that is probably crazy. His report employs exactly four words: 'Take
it and welcome.' What do you make of that?"
   Leigh thought it over carefully. "It is inhabitable by humankind. There
is no native opposition, nothing to prevent us grabbing it. But in his
opinion it isn't worth possessing."
  "Why, man, why?"
  "I don't know, not having been there."
  "Boydell knows the reason." Markham fumed a bit and went on, "And
he ought to state it in precise, understandable terms. He shouldn't leave a
mystery hanging in mid-air like a bad smell from nowhere."
  "He will explain it when he returns to his sector headquarters, surely?"
   "That may be months hence, perhaps years, especially if he manages to
pick up fuel and replacement tubes from distant outposts. Those scouts
keep to no schedule. They get there when they arrive, return when they
come back. Galactic gypsies, that's how they like to think of themselves."
  "They've chosen freedom," Leigh offered.
   Ignoring that remark, Markham continued, "Anyway, the problem of
Pulok is a relatively minor one to be handled by somebody else. Ill give it
to one of the juniors; it will do something for his education. The more
complicated and possibly dangerous tangles are for older ones such as
yourself."
  "Tell me the worst."
   "Planet fourteen on Boydell's list. He has given it the name of Eterna
and don't ask me why. The code formula he's registered against it reads
O/ 1 .1 /D.7. That means we can live on it without special equipment, it's an
Earth-type planet of one-tenth greater mass and is inhabited by an
intelligent life form of different but theoretically equal mental power. He
calls this life form the Waitabits. Apparently he tags every thing and
everybody with the first name that pops into his mind."
  "What information does he offer concerning them?"
  "Hah!" said Markham, pulling a face. "One word. Just one word." He
paused, then voiced it. "Unconquerable."
  "Eh?"
  "Unconquerable," repeated Markham. "A word that should not exist in
scout-language." At that point he became riled, jerked open a drawer,
extracted a notebook and consulted it. "Up to last survey, four hundred
and twenty-one planets had been discovered, charted, recorded. One
hundred and thirty-seven found suitable for human life and large or small
groups of settlers placed thereon. Sixty-two alien life forms mastered
during the process." He shoved the book back. "And out there in the dark
a wandering tramp picks a word like unconquerable."
  "I can think of only one reason that makes sense," suggested Leigh.
  "What is that?"
  "Perhaps they really are unconquerable."
   Markham refused to credit his ears. "If that is a joke, commodore, it's
in bad taste. Some might think it seditious."
  "Well, can you think up another and better reason?"
  "I don't have to. I'm sending you there to find out. The Grand Council
asked specifically that you be given this task. They feel that if any yet
unknown aliens have enough to put the wind up one of our own scouts
then we must learn more about them. And the sooner the better."
  "There's nothing to show that they actually frightened Boy-dell. If they
had done so he'd have said more, much more. A genuine first-class
menace is the one thing that would make him talk his head off."
 "That's purely hypothetical," said Markham. "We don't want guesses.
We want facts."
  "All right."
   "Consider a few other facts," Markham added. "So far no other life form
has been able to resist us. I don't see how any can. Any creatures with an
atom of sense soon see which side their bread is buttered, if they eat bread
and like butter. If we step in and provide the brains while they furnish the
labour, with mutual benefit to both parties, the aliens are soon doing too
well for themselves to complain. If a bunch of Sirian Wimpots slave all day
in our mines, then fly in their own helicopters back to homes such as their
forefathers never owned, what have they got to cry about?"
  "I fail to see the purpose of the lecture," said Leigh, dryly.
  "I'm emphasizing that by force, ruthlessness, argument, persuasion,
precept and example, appeal to common sense or any other tactic
appropriate to the circumstances we can master and exploit any life-form
in the cosmos. That's the theory we've been using for a thousand years-and
it works. We've proved that it works. We have made it work. The first time
we let go of it and admit defeat we're finished. We go down and disappear
along with all the other vanished hordes." He swept his papers to one side.
"A scout has admitted defeat. He must be a lunatic. But lunatics can
create alarm. The Grand Council is alarmed."
  "So I am required to seek soothing syrup?"
  "Yes. See Parrish in the charting department. He'll give you the
co-ordinates of this Eterna dump." Standing up, he offered a plump hand.
"A smooth trip and a safe landing, commodore."
  "Thanks."


  The Thunderer hung in a balanced orbit while its officers examined the
new world floating below. This was Eterna, second planet of a sun very
much like Sol. Altogether there were four planets in this particular family
but only the second harboured life in any detectable form.
   Eterna was a pretty sight, a great blue-green ball shining in the blaze of
full day. Its land masses were larger than Earth's, its oceans smaller. No
vast mountain ranges were visible, no snow-caps either, yet lakes and
rivers were numerous. Watersheds lay in heavily forested hills that
crinkled much of the surface and left few flat areas. Cloud-banks lay over
the land like scatterings of cotton-wool, small in area, widely dispersed,
but thick, heavy and great in number.
   Through powerful glasses towns and villages could be seen, most of
them placed in clearings around which armies of trees marched down to
the rivers. There were also narrow, winding roads and thin, spidery
bridges. Between the larger towns ran vague lines that might be railroad
tracks but lacked sufficient detail at such a distance to reveal their true
purpose.
  Pascoe, the sociologist, put down his binoculars and said, "Assuming
that the night side is very similar, I estimate their total strength at no
more than one hundred millions. I base that on other planetary surveys.
When you've counted the number of peas per bottle in a large and varied
collection of them you develop the ability to make reasonably accurate
guesses. One hundred millions at most."
  "That's low for a planet of this size and fertility, isn't it?" asked
Commodore Leigh.
  "Not necessarily. There were no more of us in the far past. Look at us
now."
  "The implication is that these Waitabits are comparatively a young
species?"
   "Could be. On the other hand they may be old and senile and dying out
fast. Or perhaps they're slow breeders and their natural increase isn't
much."
   "I don't go for the dying out theory," put in Walterson, the geophysicist.
"If once they were far bigger than they are today, the planet should still
show signs of it. A huge inheritance leaves its mark for centuries.
Remember that city-site we found on Hercules? Even the natives didn't
know of it, the markings being visible only from a considerable altitude."
  They used their glasses again, sought for faint lines of orderliness in
wide tracts of forest. There were none to be seen.
   "Short in history or slow to breed," declared Pascoe. "That's my opinion
for what it's worth."
  Frowning down at the blue-green ball, Leigh said heavily. "By our
space-experienced standards a world of one hundred millions is weak. It's
certainly not sufficiently formidable to turn a hair on a minor bureaucrat,
much less worry the Council itself." He turned, lifted a questioning
eyebrow as a signals-runner came up to him. "Well?"
  "Relay from Sector Nine, sir."
  Unfolding the message, he found it duly decoded, read it aloud.
   19.12. ex Terra. Defence H.Q. to C.O. battleship Thunderer. Light
cruiser Flame, Lieut. Mallory commanding, assigned your area for Pulok
check. Twentieth heavy cruiser squadron readied Arlington port, Sector
Nine. This authorizes you to call upon and assume command of said
forces in emergency only. Rathbone. Com. Op. Dep. D.H.Q. Terra.
  He filed the message, shrugged and said, "Seems they're taking few
chances."
   "Yes," agreed Pascoe, a trifle sardonically. "So they've assembled
reinforcements near enough to be summoned but too far away to do us
any good. The Flame could not get here in less than seven weeks. The ships
at Arlington couldn't make it in under nineteen or twenty weeks even at
super-drive. By then we could be cooked, eaten, burped and forgotten."
  "I don't see what all this jumpiness is about," complained Walterson.
"That scout Boydell went in and came out without losing his edible parts,
didn't he? Where one can go a million can follow."
   Pascoe regarded him with pity. "A solitary invader rarely frightens
anyone. That's where scouts have an advantage. Consider Remy 11. Fellow
name of James finds it, lands, makes friends, becomes a blood brother,
finally takes off amid a huzzah of fond farewells. Next, down comes three
shiploads of men, uniforms and guns. That's too much for the locals to
stomach. In Remitan psychology the number represents critical mass.
Result: the Remy war which - if you remember your history-was long,
costly and bitter."
  "I remember history well enough to recall that in those primitive days
they used blockheaded space-troopers and had no specially trained
contact-men," Walterson retorted.
  "Nevertheless, what has happened before can happen again."
    "That's my problem right now," Leigh interjected. "Will the sight of a
battleship a mile in length cause them to start something that can't be
finished without considerable slaughter? Had I better risk the crew of a
lifeboat in an effort to smooth the introduction? I wish Boydell had been a
little more informative." He chewed his bottom lip with vexation, picked
up the intercom phone, flipped the signals-room switch. "Any word from
Boydell yet?"
  "No, commodore," responded a voice. "Sector Nine doesn't think there
will be any, either. They've just been through saying he doesn't answer
their calls. They believe he's now out of range. Last trace they got of him
showed him to be running beyond effective communication limits."
   "All right." He dumped the phone, gazed through the port. "Seven hours
we've waited. Nothing has come up to take a look at us. We can detect no
signs of excitement down there. Therefore it's a safe bet that they have no
ships, perhaps not even rudimentary aircraft. Neither do they keep
organized watch on the sky. They're not advanced in our sense of the
term."
  "But they may be in some other sense," Pascoe observed.
   "That is what I implied." Leigh made an impatient gesture. "We've
hung within telescopic view long enough. If they are capable of formidable
reaction, we should be grimly aware of it by now. I don't feel inclined to
test the Waitabits at the expense of a few men in an unarmed lifeboat.
We'll take the Thunderer itself down and hope they're sane enough not to
go nuts."
  Hastening forward to the main control-cabin he issued the necessary
orders.
   The landing place was atop a treeless bluff nine miles south of a large
town. It was as good a site as any that could have been chosen. The
settling of great tonnage over a mile-long area damaged nobody's property
or crops, the ground was solid enough not to furrow under the ship's
weight, the slight elevation gave a strategic advantage to the Thunderer's
guns.
   Despite its nearness the town was out of sight, being hidden by
intervening hills. A narrow road ran through the valley but nothing moved
thereon. Between the road and the base of the bluff lay double railroad
tracks of about twenty-inch gauge with flat-topped rails of silvery metal.
The rails had no spikes or ties and appeared to be held firmly in position
by being sunk into long, unbroken ridges of concrete or some similar
rock-like substance.
   The Thunderer reposed, a long, black, ominous shape with all locks
closed and gun-turrets open, while Leigh stared speculatively at the
railroad and waited for the usual call from the metering lab. It came
within short time. The phone rang, he answered it, heard Shallom
speaking:
  "The air is breathable, commodore."
  "We knew that in advance. A scout sniffed it without dropping dead."
  "Yes, commodore," agreed Shallom, patiently. "But you asked for an
analysis."
   "Of course. Because we don't know how long Boydell was here. Perhaps
a day, perhaps a week. Whatever it was, it wasn't enough. He might have
curled up his toes after a month or two. In his brief visit he'd have avoided
any long-term accumulative effect. What we want to know is whether this
atmosphere is safe for keeps."
  "Quite safe, commodore. It's rather rich in ozone and argon but
otherwise much like Earth's."
  "Good. We'll open up and let the men stretch their legs."
  "There's something else of interest," Shallom went on. "Preliminary
observation time occupied seven hours and twenty-two minutes. Over that
period the longitudinal shift of a selected equatorial point amounted to
approximately three-tenths of a degree. That means this planet's period of
axial rotation is roughly equivalent to an Earth-year. Its days and nights
are each about six months long."
  "Thanks, Shallom." He cut off without surprise, switched the intercom,
gave orders to Bentley in the main engine room to operate the power
locks. Then he switched again to Lieutenant Harding, officer commanding
ground forces, gave permission for one-quarter of his men to be let out for
exercise providing they bore arms and did not stray beyond direct cover of
the ship's guns.
   That done, he swivelled his pneumatic chair to face the port, put his
feet up with heels resting on a wall-ridge and quietly contemplated the
alien landscape. Walterson and Pascoe mooched around the room in the
restless manner of men waiting for a possibly burning fuse to reach a
hypothetical gunpowder barrel.
   Shallom phoned again, recited gravitational and magnetic field
readings, went off. A few minutes later he came through once more with
details of atmospheric humidity, barometric variations and radioactivity.
Apparently he cared nothing for what might be brewing beyond the hills
so long as it failed to register on his meters and screens. To his mind no
real danger could exist without advertising itself through a
needle-wagging or a fluorescent blip.


   Outside, two hundred men scrambled noisily down the edge of the bluff,
reached soft green sward that was not grass but something resembling
short, heavily matted clover. There they kicked a ball around, wrestled,
leapfrogged or were content to lie full length on the turf, look at the sky,
enjoy the sun. A small group strolled half a mile to the silent railroad,
inspected it, trod precariously along its rails with extended arms jerking
and swaying in imitation of tightrope walkers.
   Four of Shallom's staff went down, two of them carrying buckets and
spades like kids making for the seashore. A third bore a bug-trap. The
fourth had a scintilloscope. The first pair dug clover and dirt, hauled it up
to the ship for analysis and bacteria-count. Bug-trap dumped his box,
went to sleep beside it. Scintilloscope marched in a careful zigzag around
the base of the bluff.
   After two hours Harding's whistle recalled the outside lotus-eaters who
responded with reluctance. They slouched back into the gigantic bottle
that already had contained them so long. Another two hundred went out,
played all the same tricks including the tightrope act on the rails.
   By the time that gang had enjoyed its ration of liberty the mess bells
announced a main meal ready. The crew ate, after which Number One
Watch took to its berths and the deepest sleep within memory. A third
freedom party cavorted on the turf. The indefatigable Shallom passed
along the news that nine varieties of flea-sized bugs were awaiting
introduction to Garside, the entomologist, whenever that               worthy
gentleman deigned to crawl out of bed.
   By the time the fourth and last section of the crew returned from its
two-hour spree, Pascoe had had enough. He was baggy-eyed from lack of
slumber, disappointed with having curiosity left unsatisfied.
   "More than seven hours waiting in the sky," he complained to Leigh,
"and another eight down here. That's over fifteen hours all told. Where has
it got us?"
   "It has given the men a badly-needed break," Leigh reproved. "The first
rule of captaincy is to consider the men before considering an exterior
problem. There is no real solution to any predicament unless there is also
the means to apply it. The men are the means and more so than is the ship
or any part of it. Men can build ships but ships cannot manufacture men."
   "All right. They've had their outing. They are refreshed and their morale
is boosted, all in accordance with the best psychological advice. What
next?"
   "If nothing turns up it will enable them to catch up on their sleep. The
first watch is snoring its collective head off right now. The other two
watches are entitled to their turn."
  "But that means sitting idle for another eighteen hours," Pascoe
protested.
   "Not necessarily. The Waitabits may arrive at any time, in unguessable
number, with unknown intentions and with unknown means of enforcing
them. If so, everyone will have a rude awakening and you may get enough
action to last you a lifetime," Leigh jerked a thumb toward the door.
"Meanwhile, take to bed while the going is good. If trouble starts, it's likely
to be days before you get another chance. Exhausted men are crippled
men in a situation such as this."
  "What about you?"
   "I intend to slump into sweet dreams myself as soon as Harding is ready
to take over."
  Pascoe snorted with impatience, glanced at Walterson, gained no
support from that quarter. Walterson was dozing on his feet at mere
mention of bed. Pascoe snorted again, more loudly this time, departed
with the other following.


  They returned within ten hours, found Leigh freshly shaved and
spruced. A look through the port revealed the same landscape as before.
Some two dozen of the crew were fooling around outside, beneath a sun
that had not visibly changed position in the sky. The road still wound
through the valley and over the hills without a soul upon it. The railroad
track still reposed with all the impassive silence of a long abandoned spur.
  Pascoe said, thoughtfully, "This is a good example of how one can
deduce something from nothing."
  "Meaning what?" inquired Leigh, showing interest.
  "The town is nine miles away. We could walk there in about two hours.
They've had several times that long in which to sound the alarm, summon
the troops, launch an assault." He gestured toward the peaceful scene.
"Where are they?"
  "You tell us," Walterson prompted.
   "Any life form capable of constructing roads and rails obviously must
have eyes and brains. Therefore it is pretty certain that they've seen us
either hanging above or coming down. I don't believe that they remain
unaware of our existence." He studied his listeners, went on, "They haven't
shown up because they're deliberately keeping away from us. That means
they're afraid of us. And that in turn means they consider themselves far
weaker, either as result of what they've seen of us so far or maybe as result
of what they learned from contact with Boydell."
  "I don't agree with that last bit," opined Leigh.
  "Why not?"
   "If they saw us either up above or coming down, what did they actually
see? A ship and nothing more. They observed nothing to indicate that we
are of Boydell's own kind though it would be reasonable to assume it.
Factually, we're still a bunch of unknowns to them."
  "That doesn't make hay of my reasoning."
   "It spoils it on two counts," Leigh insisted. "Firstly, not having weighed
and measured us, how can they tell that they're weaker? Secondly, Boydell
himself called them unconquerable. That suggests strength. And strength
of a redoubtable order."
   "Look," said Pascoe, "it doesn't really matter whether they're stronger or
weaker in their own estimation. In the long run they can't buck the power
of the human race. The cogent point right now is that of whether they are
friendly or antagonistic."
  "Well?"
   "If friendly, they'd have been around dickering with us hours ago.
There's no sign of them, not a spit or a button. Ergo, they don't like us.
They've crawled into a hole because they lack the muscle to do something
effective. They've ducked under cover hoping we'll go away and play some
place else."
   "An alternative theory," put in Walterson, "is that they're tough and
formidable just as Boydell implied. They have kept their distance because
they're wise enough to fight on ground of their own choosing and not on
ours. If they refuse to come here, we've got to go there or accept stalemate.
So they are making ready for us to walk into their parlour, after which" -
he wiped a forefinger across his throat - "skzzt!"
  "Bunk!" said Pascoe.
   "We'll soon learn where we stand one way or the other," Leigh informed.
"I've ordered Williams to get the helicopter out. The Waitabits can't avoid
seeing that thing whooshing around. We'll learn plenty if they don't shoot
it down."
  "And if they do shoot it down?" inquired Pascoe.
  "That question will be answered if and when it arises," Leigh assured.
"You know as well as I do the law that hostility must not be accepted until
demonstrated."
  He went to the port, gazed across the scene to the tree-swathed hills
beyond. After a while he reached for his binoculars, focussed them upon
the mid-distance.
  "Holy smoke!" he said.
  Pascoe ran to his side. "What's the matter?"
  "Something's coming at last. And it's a train, no less." He handed over
the glasses. "Take a look for yourself."


   A dozen crewmen were on the track industriously filing from a rail
sufficient metallic powder to be analysed in the lab. They straightened up
as the line conducted sounds of the newcomer's approach. Shading their
eyes, they stood like men paralysed while they gaped toward the east.
  A couple of miles away the streamlined express came tearing around
the base of a hill at nothing less than one and a half miles per hour. The
men remained staring incredulously for ten minutes during which time
the phenomenon covered a full quarter mile.
  The Thunderer's siren wailed a warning, the sample-takers recovered
their wits and without undue exertion made more speed up the
forty-degree bluff than the possible menace was doing on the flat. The last
of them had sufficient presence of mind to bring with him an ounce of
dust that Shallom later defined as titanium alloy.
  Monstrous and imposing, the Thunderer sat waiting for first official
contact. Every port held at least three expectant faces watching the track
and the train. Every mind took it for granted that the oncoming machine
would halt at the base of the bluff and things weird in shape emerge
therefrom in readiness to parley. Nobody thought for a moment that it
might pass on.
  It did pass on.
   The train consisted of four linked metal coaches and no locomotive, the
source of power not being evident. The tiny cars, less than the height of a
man, rolled by holding a score of crimson-faced, owl-eyed creatures some
of whom were looking absently at the floor, some at each other, out the
sides, anywhere but directly at the great invader atop the bluff.
   From the time the train was first observed until realisation dawned that
it was not going to stop occupied precisely one hour and twenty-four
minutes. That was its speed record from the eastward hill to the bluff.
  Lowering his binoculars, Commodore Leigh said in baffled tones to
Pascoe, "Did you get a clear, sharp view of them?"
   "Yes. Red-faced with beak noses and blinkless eyes. One had his hand
resting on a window ledge and I noticed it was five-fingered like ours but
with digits more slender."
   "Far less than walking pace," commented Leigh. "That's what it's doing.
I can amble faster even with corns on both feet." He had another puzzled
look outside. The train had gained forty yards in the interval. "I wonder
whether the power Boydell attributed to them is based on some obscure
form of cunning."
  "How do you mean?"
   "If they cannot cope with us while we hold the ship in force, they've got
to entice us out of it."
  "Well, we aren't out of it, are we?" Pascoe countered. "Nobody has
developed a mad desire to catch that train. And, if anybody did, he'd
overtake it so fast he'd get wherever it's going before he had time to pull
up. I don't see how they can bait us into being foolhardy merely by
crawling around."
  "The tactic would be according to their own logic, not ours," Leigh
pointed out. "Perhaps on this world to crawl is to invite attack. A wild-dog
pack reacts that way: the animal that limps gets torn to pieces." He
thought it over, continued, "I'm suspicious of this episode. I don't like the
ostentatious way in which they all kept their eyes fixed on something else
as they went past. It isn't natural."
  "Hah!" said Pascoe, prepared to argue.
  Leigh waved him down. "I know it's a childish blunder to judge any
species by the standards of our own, but I still say it isn't natural to have
eyes and not use them."
   "On Terra," chipped in Walterson, seriously, "some folk have arms, legs,
eyes and even brains that they don't use. That's because they have the
misfortune to be incurably afflicted, as you know." He went on,
encouraged by the other's silence. "What if this track is a connecting link
between the town and a sanatorium or hospital? Maybe its sole purpose is
to carry sick people."
   "We'll soon find out." Leigh resorted to the intercom. "Williams, is the
'copter ready yet?"
  "Assembled and now being fuelled, commodore. It can take off in ten
minutes' time."
  "Who is duty pilot?"
  "Ogilvy."
   "Tell him to fly ahead of that train and report what's at the other end of
the tracks. He's to do that before taking a look at the town." He turned to
the others, added, "Shallom should have a panorama of the whole area
taken on the way down, but it won't provide the details Ogilvy can get us."
   Pascoe, again standing at the port, asked, "How much slower is
slower?"
  "Eh?"
   "When a thing is already creeping as though next year will do, how can
you tell that it has decided to apply the brakes?" He elucidated further, "It
may be my imagination but I fancy that train has reduced velocity by a
few yards per hour. I hope none of its passengers suffered injury by being
slung from one end to the other."
   Leigh had a look. The train had now gone something less than half a
mile from his observation point. The tedious speed and slight
foreshortening made it impossible to decide whether or not Pascoe was
correct. He had to keep watch a full fifteen minutes before he too agreed
that the train was slowing down.
   During that time the helicopter took off with a superfast
whoosh-whoosh from whirling vanes. Soaring over the track, it fled ahead
of the train, shrank into the hills until its plastic-egg cabin resembled a
dewdrop dangling from a spinning sycamore seed.
   Contacting the signals room, Leigh said, "Put Ogilvy's reports through
the speaker here." He returned to the port, continued watching the train.
All the crew not asleep or on duty were similarly watching.
   "Village six miles along line," blared the speaker. "A second four miles
farther on. A third five miles beyond that. Eight thousand feet. Climbing."
  Five minutes later, "Six-coach train on tracks, headed eastward.
Appears stalled from this height, but may be moving."
   "Coming the other way and at a similar crawl," remarked Pascoe,
glancing at Walterson. "Bang goes your sick people theory if that one also
holds a bunch of zombies."
   "Altitude twelve thousand," announced the loud-speaker. "Terminal city
visible beyond hills. Distance from base twenty-seven miles. Will
investigate unless recalled."
   Leigh made no move to summon him back. There followed a long
silence. By now the train was still less than a mile away and had cut
progress down to about one yard per minute. Finally it stopped, remained
motionless for a quarter of an hour, began to back so gradually that it had
inched twenty yards before watchers became certain that it had reversed
direction. Leigh levelled powerful glasses upon it. Definitely it was
returning to the base of the bluff.
   "Funny thing here," bawled Ogilvy from the wall. "Streets full of people
all struck stiff. It was the same in those villages now that I come to think
of it. I went over them too fast for the fact to register."
  "That's crazy," said Pascoe. "How can he tell from that height?"
    "I'm hovering right over the main stem, a tree-lined avenue with
crowded sidewalks," Ogilvy continued. "If anyone is moving, I can't detect
it. Request permission to examine from five hundred."
   Using the auxiliary mike linked through the signals room, Leigh asked,
"Is there any evidence of opposition such as aircraft, gun emplacements or
rocket pits?"
  "No, commodore, not that I can see."
  "Then you can go down but don't drop too fast. Sheer out immediately
if fired upon."
  Silence during which Leigh had another look outside. The train was
continuing to come back at velocity definable as chronic. He estimated
that it would take most of an hour to reach the nearest point.
   "Now at five hundred," the loud-speaker declared. "Great Jupiter, I've
never seen anything like it. They're moving all right. But they're so
sluggish I have to look twice to make sure they really are alive and in
action." A pause, then, "Believe it or not, there's a sort of street-car system
in operation. A baby eighteen months old could toddle after one of those
vehicles and catch it."
  "Come back," Leigh ordered sharply. "Come back and report on the
nearby town."
   "As you wish, commodore." Ogilvy sounded as if he were obeying with
reluctance.
   "Where's the point of withdrawing him from there?" asked Pascoe,
irritated by this abrupt cutting-off of data. "He's in no great danger. What
will he learn from one place that he cannot get from another?"
   "He can confirm or deny the thing that is all-important, namely, that
conditions are the same elsewhere and are not restricted to one locale.
When he's had a look at the town I'll send him a thousand miles away for a
third and final check." His grey eyes were thoughtful as he went on, "In
olden times a Martian visitor could have made a major blunder if he'd
judged Earth by one of its last remaining leper colonies. Today we'd make
precisely the same mistake if this happens to be a quarantined area full of
native paralytics."
   "Don't say it," put in Walterson, displaying some nervousness. "If we've
sat down in a reservation for the diseased, we'd better get out mighty fast.
I don't want to be smitten by any alien plague to which I've no natural
resistance. I had a narrow enough escape when I missed that Hermes
expedition six years ago. Remember it? Within three days of landing the
entire complement was dead, their bodies growing bundles of stinking
strings later defined as a fungus."
  "We'll see what Ogilvy says," Leigh decided. "If he reports what we
consider more normal conditions elsewhere, we'll move there. If they prove
the same, well stay."
  "Stay," echoed Pascoe, his features expressing disgust. "Something tells
me you picked the right word-stay." He gestured toward the port beyond
which the train was a long time coming. "If what we've seen and what
we've heard has any meaning at all, it means we're in a prize fix."
  "Such as what?" prompted Walterson.
    "We can stay a million years or go back home. For once in our
triumphant history we're well and truly thwarted. We'll gain nothing
whatever from this world for a good and un-defeatable reason, namely,
life's too short."
  "I'm jumping to no hasty conclusions," said Leigh. "We'll wait for
Ogilvy."
   In a short time the loud-speaker informed with incredulity: "This town
is full of creepers, too. And trolleys making the same speed, if you can call
it speed. Want me to go down and tell you more?"
  "No," said Leigh into the mike. "Make a full-range sweep eastward.
Loop out as far as you can go with safety. Watch especially for any radical
variation in phenomena and, if you find it, report at once." He racked the
microphone, turned to the others. "All we can do now is wait a bit."
  "You said it!" observed Pascoe pointedly. "I'll lay odds of a thousand to
one that Boydell did no more than sit futilely around picking his teeth
until he got tired of it."
  Walterson let go a sudden laugh that startled them.
  "What's the matter with you?" demanded Pascoe, staring at him.
  "One develops the strangest ideas sometimes," said Walter-son
apologetically. "It just occurred to me that if horses were snails they'd
never be compelled to wear harness. There's a moral somewhere but I
can't be bothered to dig it out."
  "City forty-two miles eastward from base," called Ogilvy. "Same as
before. Two speeds: dead slow and slower than dead."
   Pascoe glanced through the port. "That train is doing less than
bug-rate. I reckon it intends to stop when it gets here." He thought a bit,
finished, "If so, we know one thing in advance: they aren't frightened of
us."
   Making up his mind, Leigh phoned through to Shallom. "We're going
outside. Make a record of Ogilvy's remarks while we're gone. Sound a brief
yelp on the alarm-siren if he reports rapid movement any place." Then he
switched to Nolan, Hoffnagle and Romero, the three communications
experts. "Bring your Keen charts along in readiness for contact."
  "It's conventional," reminded Pascoe, "for the ship's commander to
remain in control of his vessel until contact has been made and the aliens
found friendly or, at least, not hostile."
  "This is where convention gets dumped overboard for once," Leigh
snapped. "I'm going to pick on the load in that train. It's high time we
made some progress. Please yourselves whether or not you come along."
  "Fourteen villages so far," chipped in Ogilvy from far away over the hills.
"Everyone in them hustling around at the pace that kills—with boredom.
Am heading for city visible on horizon."
  The communicators arrived bearing sheafs of coloured charts. They
were unarmed, being the only personnel forbidden to wear guns. The
theory behind this edict was that obvious helplessness established
confidence. In most circumstances the notion proved correct and
communicators survived. Once in a while it flopped and the victims
gained no more than decent burial.
   "What about us?" inquired Walterson, eyeing the newcomers. "Do we
take weapons or don't we?"
   "We'll chance it without any," Leigh decided. "A life form sufficiently
intelligent to trundle around in trains should be plenty smart enough to
guess what will happen if they try to take us. They'll be right under the
ship's guns while we're parleying."
   "I've no faith in their ability to see reason as we understand it," Pascoe
put in. "For all their civilized veneer they may be the most treacherous
characters this side of Sirius." Then he grinned and added, "But I've faith
in my legs. By the way these aliens get into action I'd be a small cloud of
dust in the sunset before one of them could take aim."
  Leigh smiled, led them through the main lock. Every port was filled with
watching faces as they made their way down to the track.
   Gun-teams stood ready in their turrets grimly aware that they could not
beat off an attempted snatch except at risk of killing friends along with
foes. But if necessary they could thwart it by wrecking the rails behind and
ahead of the train, isolating it in readiness for further treatment. For the
time being their role was the static one of intimidation. Despite this
world's apparent lack of danger there was a certain amount of
apprehension among the older hands in the ship. A pacific atmosphere
had fooled humans before and they were wary of it.
   The six reached the railroad a couple of hundred yards in advance of
the train, walked toward it. They could see the driver sat behind a
glasslike panel in front. His big yellow eyes were staring straight ahead,
his crimson face was without expression. Both his hands rested on
knobbed levers and the sight of half-a-dozen other-worlders on the lines
did not make him so much as twitch a finger.
  Leigh was first to reach the cab door and stretch out a hand to grasp
incurable difficulty number one. He took hold of the handle, swung the
door open, put a pleasant smile upon his face and uttered a cordial
"Hello!"
   The driver did not answer. Instead, his eyeballs began to edge round
sidewise while the train continued to pelt along at such a rate that it
started pulling away from Leigh's hand. Perforce, Leigh had to take a step
to keep level. The eyes reached their corners by which time Leigh was
compelled to take another step.
   Then the driver's head started turning. Leigh took a step. More turn.
Another step. Behind Leigh his five companions strove to stay with them.
It wasn't easy. In fact it was tough going. They could not stand still and let
the train creep away. They could not walk without getting ahead of it. The
result was a ludicrous march based on a hop-pause rhythm with the hops
short and the pauses long.
   By the time the driver's head was halfway round, the long fingers of his
right hand had started uncurling from the knob it was holding. At the
same overstretched instant the knob commenced to rise on its lever. He
was doing something, no doubt of that. He was bursting into action to
meet a sudden emergency.
  Still gripping the door, Leigh edged along with it. The others went
hop-pause in unison. Pascoe wore the pained reverence of one attending
the tedious funeral of a rich uncle who has just cut him out of his will.
Imagination told Leigh what ribald remarks were being tossed around
among the audience in the ship.
  He solved the problem of reclaiming official dignity by the simple
process of stepping into the cab. That wasn't much better, though. He had
avoided the limping procession but now had the choice of standing
half-bent or kneeling on the floor.
   Now the driver's head was right round, his eyes looking straight at the
visitor. The knob had projected to its limit. Something that made hissing
noises under the floor went silent and the train's progress was only that of
its forward momentum against the brakes. A creep measurable in inches
or fractions of an inch.
  "Hello!" repeated Leigh, feeling that he had never voiced a sillier word.
  The driver's mouth opened to a pink oval, revealed long, narrow teeth
but no tongue. He shaped the mouth and by the time he'd got it to his
satisfaction the listener could have smoked half a cigarette. Leigh perked
his ears for the expected greeting. Nothing came out, not a sound, a note,
a decibel. He waited a while, hoping that the first word might emerge
before next Thursday. The mouth made a couple of slight changes in form
while pink palps at the back of it writhed like nearly-dead worms. And
that was all.
   Walterson ceased ultra-slow mooching on the tangled clover and called,
"It has stopped, commodore."
  Stepping backward from the cab, Leigh shoved hands deep into pockets
and gazed defeatedly at the driver whose formerly blank face was now
acquiring an expression of surprised interest. He could watch the features
registering with all the lackadaisical air of a chameleon changing colour,
and at about the same rate.
    "This is a hell of a note," complained Pascoe, nudging Leigh. He pointed
at the row of door handles projecting from the four cars. Most of them had
tilted out of the horizontal and were moving a degree at a time toward the
vertical. "They're falling over themselves to get out."
  "Open up for them," Leigh suggested.
   Hoffnagle, who happened to be standing right by an exit, obligingly
twisted a handle and lugged the door. Out it swung complete with a
clinging passenger who hadn't been able to let go. Dropping his contact
charts, Hoffnagle dexterously caught the victim, planted him on his feet. It
took forty-eight seconds by Romero's watch for this one to register facial
reaction which was that of bafflement.
   After this, doors had to be opened with all the caution of a tax collector
coping with a mysterious parcel that ticks. Pascoe, impatient as usual,
hastened the dismounting process by lifting aliens from open doorways
and standing them on the green sward. The quickest-witted one among
the lot required a mere twenty-eight seconds to start mulling the problem
of how he had passed from one point to another without crossing
intervening space. He would solve that problem - given time.
   With the train empty there were twenty-three Waitabits hanging
around. None exceeded four feet in height or sixty pounds Eterna-weight.
All were well-clothed in manner that gave no clue to sex. Presumably all
were adults, there being no tiny specimens among them. Not one bore
anything remotely resembling a weapon.
  Looking them over Leigh readily conceded that no matter how sluggish
they might be they were not dopey. Their outlandishly coloured features
held intelligence of a fairly high order. That was already self-evident from
the tools they made and used, such as this train, but it showed in their
faces, too.
   The Grand Council, he decided, had good cause for alarm in a way not
yet thought of by its members. If the bunch standing before him were
truly representative of their planet, then they were completely innocuous.
They embodied no danger whatsoever to Terran interests anywhere in the
cosmos. Yet, at the same time, they implied a major menace of which he
hated to think.
   With their easily comprehensive charts laid out on the ground the three
communicators prepared to explain their origin, presence and purposes
by an effective sign-and-gesture technique basic for all first contacts. The
fidgety Pascoe speeded up the job by arranging Waitabits in a circle
around the charts, picking them up like so many lethargic dolls and
placing them in position.
  Leigh and Walterson went to have a look at the train. If any of its
owners objected to this inspection, they didn't have enough minutes in
which to do something about it.
   The roofs of all four cars were of pale yellow, transparent plastic
extending dowft the sides to a line flush with the door-tops. Beneath the
plastic lay countless numbers of carefully-arranged silicon wafers. Inside
the cars, beneath plates forming the centre aisles, were arrays of tiny
cylinders rather like nickel-alloy cells. The motors could not be seen, they
were hidden beneath small driving-cabs of which there was one to each
car.
   "Sun power," said Leigh. "The prime motive force is derived from those
solar batteries built into the roofs." He paced out the length of a car, made
an estimate. "Four feet by twenty apiece. Including the side-strips, that's
six-forty square feet of pickup area."
  "Nothing marvellous about it," ventured Walterson, unimpressed. "They
use better ones in the tropical zones of Earth and have similar gadgets on
Dramonia and Werth."
  "I know. But here the night-time lasts six months. What sort of storage
batteries will last that long without draining? How do they manage to get
around on the night-side? Or does all transport cease while they snore in
bed?"
  "Pascoe could make a better guess at their boudoir habits. For what it's
worth, I'd say they sleep, six months being to them no more than a night is
to us. Anyway, why should we speculate about the matter? We'll be
exploring the night-side sooner or later, won't we?"
  "Yes, sure. But I'd like to know whether this contraption is more
advanced in any single respect than anything we've got."
   "To discover that much we'd have to pull it to pieces," Walterson
objected. "Putting Shallom and his boys on a wrecking job would be a
lousy way of maintaining friendship. These Waitabits wouldn't like it even
though they can't stop us."
   "I'm not that hamhanded," Leigh reproved. "Apart from the fact that
destruction of property belonging to non-hostile aliens could gain me a
court-martial, why should I invite trouble if we can get the information
from them in exchange for other data? Did you ever hear of a genuinely
intelligent Me form that refused to swap knowledge?"
   "No," said Walterson. "And neither did I ever hear of one that took ten
years to pay for what it got in ten minutes." He grinned with malicious
satisfaction, added, "We're finding out what Boydell discovered, namely,
that you've got to give in order to receive-and in order to receive you've got
to wait a bit."
  "Something inside of me insists that you're dead right." Leigh shrugged
and went on, "Anyway, that's the Council's worry. Right now we can do no
more until the contact men make their report. Let's get back to the ship."
   They mounted the bluff. Seeing them go, Pascoe hastened after them,
leaving the trio of communicators to play with Keen charts and make
snakes of their arms.
  "How's it going?" Leigh inquired as they went through the lock.
  "Not so good," said Pascoe. "You ought to try it yourself. It would make
you whirly."
  "What's the trouble?"
   "How can you synchronize two values when one of them is unknown?
How can you make rhythm to a prolonged and completely silent beat?
Every time Hoffnagle uses the orbit-sign he is merely demonstrating that
the quickness of the hand deceives the eye so far as the audience is
concerned. So he slows, does it again and it still fools them. He slows
more." Pascoe sniffed with disgust. "It's going to take those three luckless
characters all of today and maybe most of a week to find, practise and
perfect the quickest gestures that register effectively. They aren't teaching
anybody any thing - they're learning themselves. It's time-and-motion
study with a vengeance."
  "It has to be done," Leigh remarked quietly. "Even if it takes a lifetime."
  "Whose lifetime?" asked Pascoe, pointedly.
  Leigh winced, sought a satisfactory retort, failed to find one.
   At the corner of the passageway Garside met them. He was a small,
excitable man whose eyes looked huge behind thick spectacles. The great
love of his life was bugs, any size, shape, colour or origin so long as they
were bugs.
   "Ah, commodore," he exclaimed, bubbling with enthusiasm, "a most
remarkable discovery, most remarkable! Nine species of insect life, none
really extraordinary in structure, but all afflicted with an amazing
lassitude. If this phenomenon is common to all native insects, it would
appear that local metabolism is———"
  "Write it down for the record," advised Leigh, patting him on the
shoulder. He hastened to the signals room. "Anything special from
Ogilvy?"
  "No, commodore. All his messages have been repeats of his first ones.
He is now most of the way back and due to arrive here in about an hour."
  "Send him to me immediately he returns."
  "As you order, sir."


  Ogilvy appeared in the promised time. He was a lanky, lean-faced
individual given to irritating grins. Entering the room he held hands
behind his back, hung his head and spoke with mock shame.
  "Commodore, I have a confession to make."
  "So I see from the act you're putting on. What is it?"
   "I landed, without permission, right in the main square of the biggest
city I could find."
  Leigh raised his eyebrows. "And what happened?"
  "They gathered around and stared at me."
  "Is that all?"
   "Well, sir, it took them twenty minutes to see me and assemble, by
which time the ones farther away were still coming. I couldn't wait any
longer to discover what they'd do next. I estimated that if they fetched
some rope and tied down my landing gear they'd have the job finished
about a year next Christmas."
  "Humph! Were things the same everywhere else?"
  "Yes, sir. I passed over more than two hundred towns and villages,
reached extreme range of twelve-fifty miles. Conditions remained
consistent." He gave his grin, continued, "I noticed a couple of items that
might interest you."
  "What were those?"
  "The Waitabits converse with their mouths but make no detectable
noises. The 'copter has a supersonic converter known as Bat-ears which is
used for blind flying. I tuned its receiver across its full range when in the
middle of that crowd but didn't pick up a squeak. So they're not talking
high above us. I don't see how they can be subsonic either. It must be
something else."
   "I've had a one-sided conversation with them myself," Leigh informed.
"It may be that we're overlooking the obvious while seeking the obscure."
  Ogilvy blinked and asked, "How d'you mean, sir?"
   "They're not necessarily employing some unique faculty such as we
cannot imagine. It is quite possible that they communicate visually. They
gaze into each other's gullets and read the waggling palps. Something like
you semaphoring with your tonsils." He dismissed the subject with a wave
of his hand. "And what's your other item?"
   "No birds," replied Ogilvy. "You'd think that where insects exist there
would also be birds or at least things somewhat birdlike. The only
airborne creature I saw was a kind of membrane-winged lizard that flaps
just enough to launch itself, then glides to wherever it's going. On Earth it
couldn't catch a weary gnat."
  "Did you make a record of it?"
   "No, sir. The last magazine was in the camera and I didn't want to
waste strip. I didn't know if anything more important might turn up
later."
  "All right."
   Leigh watched the other depart, picked up the phone, said to Shallom,
"If those 'copter reels prove sharp enough for long-range beaming, you'd
better run off an extra copy for the signals room. Have them boost it to
Sector Nine for relay to Earth."
  As he put down the phone Romero entered looking desperate.
"Commodore, could you get the instrument mechs to concoct a
phenakistoscope with a revolution-counter attached?"
  "We can make anything, positively anything," chimed in Pascoe from
near the port. "Given enough centuries in which to do it."
  Ignoring the interruption, Leigh asked, "What do you want it for?"
  "Hoffnagle and Nolan think we could use it to measure the precise
optical register of those sluggards outside. If we can find out at what
minimum speed they see pictures merge into motion it would be a great
help."
  "Wouldn't the ship's movie projector serve the same purpose?"
  "It isn't sufficiently variable," Romero objected. "Besides, we can't
operate it independently of our own power supply. A phenakistoscope can
be carried around and cranked by hand."
  "This becomes more fascinating every moment," Pascoe interjected. "It
can be cranked. Add a few more details and I'll start to get a hazy idea of
what the darned thing is."
  Taking no notice of that either, Leigh got through to Shallom again, put
the matter to him.
  "Holy Moses!" ejaculated Shallom. "The things we get asked for! Who
thought up that one?" A pause, followed by, "It will take two days."
  "Two days," Leigh repeated to Romero.
  The other looked aghast.
  "What's eating you?" asked Pascoe. "Two days to get started on
measuring visual retention is mighty fast in this world. You're on Eterna
now. Adapt, boy, adapt!"
   Leigh eyed Pascoe carefully and said, "Becoming rather pernickety this
last hour or two, aren't you?"
   "Not yet. I have several dregs of patience left. When the last of them has
trickled away you can lock me in the brig because I'll be nuts."
  "Don't worry. We're about to have some action."
  "Haha!" said Pascoe disrespectfully.
  "We'll drag out the patrol wagon, go to town and have a look around in
the middle of them."
  "About time, too," Pascoe endorsed.


  The armoured, eight-seater car rumbled down the ramp on heavy
caterpillars, squatted in the clover. Only a short, flared nozzle in its bonnet
and another in its tail revealed the presence of button-controlled
snort-guns. The boxed lens on its roof belonged to an automatic camera.
The metal whip atop the box was a radio antenna.
  They could have used the helicopter which was capable of carrying four
men with equipment but, once landed, that machine would be of little
good for touring the streets.
  Leigh shared the front seat with Lieutenant Harding and the duty
driver. Behind him were two of Harding's troop and Pascoe. At back sat
the radio operator and the snort gunner.
  Walterson, Garside and all the other specialists remained with the ship.
   Rolling forward, they passed the circle of Waitabits who were now
sitting cross-legged on the turf and staring at a Keen chart which Nolan
was exhibiting with an air of complete frustration. Nearby, Hoffnagle was
masticating his nails while trying to decide how much of the lesson was
being absorbed and how much missed. Not one of this bunch showed the
slightest surprise when the car charged down the steep bluff and clattered
by them.
  With jerks and heaves the car crossed the lines behind the stalled train,
gained the road. Here the surface proved excellent, the running smooth.
The artery would have done justice to a Terran racing-track. Before they
had gone five miles they encountered an alien using it for exactly that.
   This one half-sat, half-reclined in a long, narrow, low-slung single-seater
that had "hot-rod" written all over it. He came along like a maniac, face
strained, eyes popping, hands clinging firmly to the wheel. According to
the photoelectric telltale on the patrol wagon's instrument board he
roared past them at fifty-two and a quarter miles per hour. Since the
speedometer on the same board recorded precisely fifty, it meant that the
other was going all out at a harrowing two and a quarter.
  Twisting his head to gaze through the rear window, Pascoe said, "As a
sociologist I'll tell you something authoritatively; some of this crowd are
downright reckless. If that lunatic is headed for the city now about thirty
miles away he'll make it in as little as twelve hours." Then he frowned,
became serious as he added, "Seeing that their reactions are in keeping
with their motions, one being as tedious as the other, it wouldn't surprise
me if they have traffic problems comparable with those of any other
world."
  Nobody got a chance to comment on that. The entire eight bowed in
unison as the brakes went on. They were entering the suburbs with
pedestrians, cars and trolleys littering the streets. After that it was strictly
bottom-gear work; the driver had to learn a completely new technique and
it wasn't easy.
   Crimson-faced people in the same sexless attire ambled across the
roads in a manner suggesting that for two pins they'd lie down and go to
sleep. Some moved faster than others but the most nimble ones among the
lot were an obstacle for an inordinate while. Not one halted and gaped at
the invading vehicle as it trundled by, but most of them stopped and took
on a baffled expression by the time they'd been left a mile behind.
  To Leigh and his companions there was a strong temptation to
correlate slowness with stupidity. They resisted it. Evidence to the
contrary was strong enough not to be denied.
   The streets were level, straight and well-made, complete with sidewalks,
gulleys and drains. No buildings rose higher than sixty feet but all were
solidly built and far from primitive. Cars were not numerous by Terran
standards but had the appearance of engineering jobs of no mean order.
The street-trolleys were small, sun-powered, languidly efficient and bore
two dozen passengers apiece.
  For a few minutes they halted near a building in course of construction,
maintained attention upon a worker laying a brick, estimated that the job
required twenty minutes. Three bricks per hour.
   Doing some fast figuring, Leigh said, "Taking their days and nights as
six months apiece and assuming they put in the equivalent of an
eight-hour day, that fellow is laying something over a thousand bricks per
hour." He pursed his lips, gave a brief whistle. "I know of no life form
capable of building half as fast. Even on Earth it takes a robot to equal it."
   The others considered that aspect of the matter in silence. The patrol
wagon moved on, reached a square in which was a civic car-park
containing some forty machines. The sight was irresistible. Driving
straight in past two uniformed attendants they lined their vehicle neatly at
the end of a row. The attendants' eyeballs started edging around.
   Leigh spoke to the driver, radioman and gunner. "You three stay here. If
anyone interferes, pick him up, put him down a hundred yards away and
leave him to try all over again. If they show signs of getting organized to
blow you sky-high, just move the wagon to the other end of the park.
When they catch you up, move back here."
  "Where are you going?" inquired Harding.
   "Over there." He pointed toward an official-looking building. ''To save
time I'd like you, your men and Pascoe to try the other places. Take one
apiece, go inside, see if you can learn anything worth picking up." He
glanced at his watch. "Be back promptly at three. No dallying. The laggard
will be left to take a nine-mile walk."
   Starting off, he found an attendant twenty yards away and moving
toward him with owl-eyes wide. Going boldly up to him, he took the book
of tickets from an unresisting hand, tore one off, pressed the book back
into crimson fingers, added a silver button by way of payment and passed
on. He derived amused satisfaction from that honest gesture. By the time
he'd crossed the square and entered the building the recipient had got
around to examining the button.


   At three they returned to find chaos in the square and no sign of the
patrol wagon in the park. A series of brief wails on its siren drew them to a
side street where it was waiting by the kerb.
   "Slow as they may be, they can get places given long enough," said the
driver. "They started creeping around us in such numbers that we looked
like being hemmed in for keeps. We wouldn't have been able to get out
without running over fifty of them. I beat it while there was still a gap to
drive through." He pointed through the windshield. "Now they're making
for here. The tortoise chasing the hare."
   One of Harding's men, a grizzled veteran of several space-campaigns,
remarked, "It's easier to cope when you're up against guppies that are
hostile and fighting mad. You just shoot your way out." He grunted a few
times. "Here, if you sit around too long you've got to let yourself be
trapped or else run over them in cold blood. That's not my idea of how to
do things." Another grunt. "Hell of a planet. The fellow who found it ought
to be made to live here."
  "Find anything in your building?" Leigh asked him.
  "Yes, a dozen cops."
  "What?"
  "Cops," repeated the other. "It was a police station. I could tell because
they all had the same uniforms, all carried duralumin bludgeons. And
there were faces on the wall with queer printing beneath. I can't recognize
one face from another. They are all alike to me. But something told me
those features hadn't been stuck to the wall to commemorate saintliness."
  "Did they show any antagonism toward you?"
  "They didn't get the chance," he said with open contempt. "I just kept
shifting around looking at things and that had them foxed."
  "My building was a honey," informed Pascoe. "A telephone exchange."
   Leigh twisted around to stare at him. "So they are supersonic speakers
after all?"
   "No. They use scanners and three-inch visiscreens. If I've looked down
one squirming gizzard, I've looked down twenty. What's more, a speaker
sometimes removes his palps from the screen and substitutes a sort of
slow-motion display of deaf-and-dumb talk with his fingers. I have a vague
idea that some of those digital acrobatics represent vitriolic cussing."
  The driver put in nervously, "If we squat here much longer the road will
be blocked both ends."
  "Then let's get out while there's time."
  "Back to the ship, sir?"
  "Not yet. Wander around and see if you can find an industrial area."
   The car rolled forward, went cautiously past a bunch of oncoming
pedestrians, avoided the crowded square by trundling down another side
street.
   Lying back in comfort, Pascoe held hands together over his stomach
and inquired interestedly, "I suppose none of you happened to find himself
in a fire station?" Nobody had.
  "That's what I'd give a thousand credits to see," he said. "A couple of
pumps and a hook-and-ladder squad bursting out to deal with a
conflagration a mile away. The speed of combustion is no less on this
world than on our own. It's a wonder to me the town hasn't burned down a
dozen times."
  "Perhaps it has," offered Harding. "Perhaps they're used to it. You can
get accustomed to anything in the long run."
  "In the long run," agreed Pascoe. "Here it's long enough to vanish into
the mists of time. And it's anything but a run."
  He glanced at Leigh. "What did you walk into?"
  "A public library."
  "That's the place to dig up information. How much did you get?"
   "One item only," Leigh admitted with reluctance. "Their printed
language is ideographic and employs at least three thousand characters."
  "There's a big help," said Pascoe, casting an appealing glance
heavenward. "Any competent linguist or trained communicator should be
able to learn it from them. Put Hoffnagle on the job. He's the youngest
among us and all he needs is a couple of thousand years."
  The radio burped, winked its red eye, and the operator switched it on.
Shallom's voice came through.
   "Commodore, an important-looking specimen has just arrived in what
he probably thinks of as a racing car. It may be that he's a bigwig
appointed to make contact with us. That's only our guess but we're trying
to get confirmation of it. I thought you'd like to know."
  "How's progress with him?"
   "No better than with the others. Possibly he's the smartest boy in
college. Nevertheless, Nolan estimates it will take most of a month to
convince him that Mary had a little lamb."
   "Well, keep trying. We'll be returning shortly." The receiver cut off and
Leigh added to the others, "That sounds like the road-hog we passed on
the way here." He nudged the driver, pointed leftward. "That looks like a
sizeable factory. Stop outside while I inspect it."
  He entered unopposed, came out after a few minutes, told them, "It's a
combined flour-mill, processing and packaging plant. They're grinding up
a mountain of nut-kernels, probably from surrounding forests. They've a
pair of big engines down in the basement that beat me. Never seen
anything like them. I think I'll get Bentley to come and look them over.
He's the expert on power supplies."
  "Big place for a mill, isn't it?" ventured Harding.
  "They're converting the flour into about twenty forms. I took a lick at
some of it."
  "What did it taste like?"
   "Bill-sticker's paste." He nudged the driver again. "There's another
joint." Then to Harding, "You come with me."
  Five minutes later they returned and said, "Boots, shoes and slippers.
And they're making them fast."
  "Fast?" echoed Pascoe, twitching his eyebrows.
   "Faster than they can follow the process themselves. The whole layout is
fully automatic and self-arresting if anything goes wrong. Not quite as
good as we've got on Earth but not so far behind, either." Leigh sat with
pursed lips, musing as he gazed through the windshield. "I'm going back
to the ship. You fellows can come for further exploration if you wish."
  None of them registered enthusiasm.
  There was a signal waiting on the desk, decoded and typed.
  C.O. Flame to C.O. Thunderer. Atmosphere Pulok analysed good in fact
healthy. So instruments insist. Noses say has abominable stench beyond
bearing. Should be named Puke. Proceeding Arlington Port 88.137 unless
summoned by you. Mallory.
  Reading it over Leigh's shoulder, Pascoe commented, "That Boydell
character has a flair for picking ugly ones right out of the sky. Why doesn't
someone choke him to death?"
   "Four hundred twenty-one recorded in there," reminded Leigh, tapping
his big chart book. "And about two-thirds of them come under the
heading of ugly ones."
  "It would save a lot of grief if the scouts ignored those and reported only
the dumps worth having."
  "Grief is the price of progress, you know that." Leigh hurriedly left his
desk, went to the port as something whirred outside. He picked up the
phone. "Where's the 'copter going?"
  "Taking Garside and Walterson some place," replied a voice.
  "The former wants more bugs and the latter wants rock-samples."
  "All right. Has that film been finished yet?"
   "Yes, commodore. It has come out good and clear. Want me to set it up
in the projection room?"
  "You might as well. I'll be there right away. Have somebody get to work
on the magazine in the patrol wagon. About half of it has been exposed."
  "As you order, sir."
   Summoning the rest of the specialist staff, of whom there were more
than sixty, he accompanied them to the projection room, studied the
record of Ogilvy's survey. When it had finished the audience sat in glum
silence. Nobody had anything to say. No comment was adequate.
   "A nice mess," griped Pascoe after they had returned to the main cabin.
"In the last one thousand years the human race has become wholly
technological. Even the lowest ranking space-marine is considerably a
technician, especially by standards of olden times."
  "I know." Leigh frowned futilely at the wall.
  "We are the brains," Pascoe went on, determining to rub salt into the
wounds. "And because we're the brains we naturally dislike providing the
muscle as well. We're a cut above the mere hewing of wood and drawing of
water."
  "You're telling me nothing."
  Down to telling it anyway, Pascoe continued, "So we've planted settlers
on umpteen planets. And what sort of settlers are they? Bosses, overseers,
boys who inform, advise, point and tell while the less advanced do the
doing."
  Leigh offered no remark.
   "Suppose Walterson and the others find this lousy world rich in the
things we need," he persisted. "How are we going to get at the stuff short
of excavating it ourselves? The Waitabits form a big and probably willing
labour force but what's the use of them if the most rudimentary job gets
completed ten, twenty or fifty years hence? Who's going to settle here and
become a beast of burden as the only way of getting things done in jig
time?"
   "Ogilvy went over a big dam and what looked like a hydroelectric plant,"
observed Leigh, thoughtfully. "On Earth the entire project might have cost
two years at most. How long it required here is anyone's guess. Two
hundred years perhaps. Or four hundred. Or more." He tapped fidgety
fingers on his desk. "It worries me."
  "We're not worried. We're frustrated. It's not the same thing."
  "I tell you I'm worried. This planet is like a lighted fuse long ignored but
now noticed. I don't know where it leads or how big a bang is waiting at
the other end."
  "That's frustration," insisted Pascoe, completely missing the point
because he hadn't thought of it yet. "We're thwarted and don't like it.
We're the irresistible force at long last meeting the immovable object. The
bang is within our own minds. No real explosion big enough to shake us
can ever come from this world's life forms. They're too slow to catch cold."
  "I'm not bothered about them in that respect. They worry me by their
very existence."
  "There always have been sluggards, even on our own world."
  "Precisely!" indorsed Leigh with emphasis. "And that is what's raising
my hackles right now."
   The loud-speaker interrupted with a polite cough and said, "Ogilvy
here, sir. We've picked up granite chippings, quartz samples and other
stuff. At the moment I'm at sixteen thousand feet and can see the ship in
the distance. I don't like the looks of things."
  "What's the matter?"
  "The town is emptying itself. So are nearby villages. They've taken to the
road in huge numbers and started heading your way. The vanguard should
reach you in about three hours." A brief silence, then, "There's nothing to
indicate hostile intentions, no sign of an organized advance. Just a rabble
motivated by plain curiosity as far as I can tell. But if you get that mob
gaping around the ship you won't be able to move without incinerating
thousands of them."
  Leigh thought it over. The ship was a mile long. Its lifting blasts
caromed half a mile each side and its tail blast was equally long. He
needed about two square miles of clear ground from which to take off
without injury to others.
   There were eleven hundred men aboard the Thunderer, Six hundred
were needed to attend the boost. That left five hundred to stay grounded
and keep the mob at bay around the perimeter of two square miles. And
they'd have to be transferred by 'copter, a few at a time, to the new
landing place. Could it be done? It could-but it was hopelessly inefficient.
  "We'll move a hundred miles before they get here," he informed Ogilvy.
"That should hold them for a couple of days."
  "Want me to come in, sir?"
  "Please yourself."
    "The passengers aren't satisfied and want to add to their collections. So
I'll stay out. If you drop out of sight I'll home on your beacon."
  "Very well." Leigh turned to the intercom. "Sound the siren and bring in
those yaps outside. Check crew all present and correct. Prepare to lift."
   "Rule Seven," said Pascoe, smirking. "Any action causing unnecessary
suffering to non-hostile life will be deemed a major offence under the
Contact Code." He made a derisive gesture. "So they amble toward us like
a great army of sloths and we have to tuck in our tails and run."
  "Any better solution?" Leigh asked, irritably.
  "No. Not one. That's the devil of it."
   The siren yowled. Soon afterward the Thunderer began a faint but
steady shuddering as combustion chambers and Venturis wanned up.
Hoffnagle rushed into the cabin. He had a roll of crumpled Keen charts in
one fist and a wild look in his eyes.
  "What's the idea?" he shouted, flourishing the charts and forgetting to
say "sir."
   "Two successive watches we've spent on this, given up our off-duty time
into the bargain and have just got one of them to make the orbit-sign.
Then you recall us." He waited, fuming.
  "We're moving."
  "Moving?" He looked as if he'd never heard of such a thing. "Where?"
  "A hundred miles off."
   Hoffnagle stared incredulously, swallowed hard, opened his mouth,
closed it, opened it once more. "But that means we'll have to start over
again with some other bunch."
  "I'm afraid so," agreed Leigh. "The ones you've been trying to talk to
could come with us but it would take far too long to make them
understand what's wanted. There's nothing for it but to make a new start."
  "No!" bawled Hoffnagle, becoming frenzied. "Oh, no! Anything but
that!"
  Behind him, Romero barged in and said, "Anything but what?" He was
breathing heavily and near the end of his tether.
 Trying to tell him the evil news, Hoffnagle found himself lost for words,
managed no more than a few feeble gestures.
  "A  communicator      unable    to  communicate      with        another
communicator," observed Pascoe, showing academic interest.
  "They're shifting the ship," Hoffnagle got out with considerable effort.
He made it sound dastardly.
  Releasing a violent, "What?" Romero went two shades redder than the
Waitabits. In fact, for a moment he looked like one as he stood there
pop-eyed and half-paralysed.
  "Get out," snapped Leigh. "Get out before Nolan comes in and makes it
three to two. Go some place where you can cool down. Remember, you're
not the only ones caught in this fix."
  "No, maybe we aren't," said Hoffnagle, bitterly. "But we're the only ones
carrying the entire onus of———"
  "Everybody's carrying onuses of one sort or another," Leigh retorted.
"And everybody's well and truly bollixed by them. Beat it before I lose my
own temper and summon an escort for you."
  They departed with unconcealed bad grace. Leigh sat at his desk,
chewed his bottom lip while he tended to official papers. Twenty minutes
went by. Finally, he glanced at the wall chronometer, switched the
intercom, spoke to Bentley. "What's holding us up?"
  "No signal from control room, sir." He re-switched to control room.
"What are we waiting for?"
   "That bunch from the train is still lounging within burning distance,
commodore. Either nobody's told them to go back or, if they have been
told, they haven't got around to it yet."
  Leigh seldom swore but he did it this time, one potent word uttered
with vigour. He switched a third time, got Harding.
  "Lieutenant, rush out two platoons of your men. They are to return all
those alien passengers to their train. Pick them up, carry them there, tuck
them into it and return as quickly as possible."
   He resumed with his papers while Pascoe sat in a corner nibbling his
fingers and grinning to himself. After half an hour Leigh voiced the word
again and resorted to the intercom.
  "What is it now?"
  "Still no signal, commodore," said Bentley in tones of complete
resignation.
   On to the control room. "I gave the order to lift immediately there's
clearance. Why haven't we done so?"
  "One alien is still within the danger area, sir."
  Next to Harding. "Didn't I tell you to get those aliens on to their train?"
  "Yes, sir, you did. All passengers were restored to their seats fifteen
minutes ago."
  "Nonsense, man! They've left one of them hanging around and he's
holding up the entire vessel."
  "That one is not from the train, sir," said Harding, patiently. "He
arrived in a car. You gave no order concerning him."
   Leigh used both hands to scrabble the desk, then roared, "Get him out
of it. Plant him in his contraption and shove it down the road. At once."
Then he lay back in his chair and muttered to himself.
  "How'd you like to resign and buy a farm?" Pascoe asked.


  The new landing-point was along the crest of the only bald hill for miles
around. Charred stumps provided evidence of a by-gone forest fire which
had started on the top, spread down the sides until halted, probably by
heavy rain.
   Thickly wooded hills rolled away in every direction. No railroad tracks
ran nearby but there was a road in the valley and a winding river beyond
it. Two villages were visible within four miles' distance and a
medium-sized town lay eleven miles to the north.
   Experience of local conditions enabled a considerable speedup in
investigation. Earnshaw, the relief pilot, took out the "copter with
Walterson and four other experts crowded inside. The patrol wagon set off
to town bearing a load of specialists including Pascoe. Three botanists and
an arboriculturalist took to the woods accompanied by a dozen of
Harding's men who were to bear their spoils.
   Hoffnagle, Romero and Nolan traipsed cross-country to the nearest
village, spread their explanatory charts in the small square and prayed for
a rural genius able to grasp the meaning of a basic gesture in less than a
week. A bunch of ship's engineers set forth to examine lines strung on
lattice masts across hills to the west and south.
  A piscatorial expert, said to have been conditioned from birth by the
cognomen of Fish, sat for hours on the river bank dangling his lines
without knowing what bait to use, what he might catch, or whether it
could be caught in less than a lifetime.
  Leigh stayed by the ship during this brief orgy of data-gathering. He
had a gloomy foreboding concerning the shape of things to come. Time
proved him right. Within thirty hours Earnshaw had handed over to
Ogilvy twice and was flying for the third time. He was at fifteen thousand
above the Thunderer when he called.
   "Commodore, I hate to tell you this, but they're coming again. They
seem to have caught on quicker. Maybe they were warned over that
visi-screen system they've got."
  "How long do you give them?"
   "The villagers will take about two hours. The mob from the town want
five or six. I can see the patrol wagon heading back in front of them."
   "You'd better bring in whoever you're carrying and go fetch those three
communicators right away," said Leigh. "Then pick up anyone else on the
loose."
  "All right, sir."
  The siren moaned eerily across the valleys. Over in the village Hofinagle
suddenly ceased his slow-motion gesturing and launched into an
impassioned tirade that astonished the Wait-abits two days later. Down in
the woods the arboriculturalist fell off a tree and flattened a Marine who
also became vocal.
   It was like the ripple effect of a stone cast into a pond. Somebody
pressed an alarm-stud and a resulting wave of adjectives spread halfway
to the horizon.
  They moved yet again, this time to within short range of the terminator.
At least it served to shift the sun which had hung stubbornly in mid-sky
and changed position by no more than one degree per Earth-day.
   The third watch took to bed, dog-tired and made more than ready for
slumber by semblance of twilight. Data-hunters went out feeling that
paradoxically time was proving all too short on a planet with far too much
of it. Ogilvy whirred away for first look at the night-side, discovered half a
world buried in deep sleep with nothing stirring, not a soul, not a vehicle.
   This situation lasted twenty-one hours at the end of which all natives
for miles around had set out for the circus. Once more the siren
stimulated enrichment of Earth-language. The Thunderer went up, came
down four hundred miles within the night-side.
  That tactic, decided Leigh, represented a right smart piece of figuring.
Aroused aliens on the day-side would now require about twelve days to
reach them. And they'd make it only if some insomniac had spotted and
phoned the ship's present location. Such betrayal was likely enough
because the Thunderers long rows of ports poured a brilliant blaze into
the darkness and caused a great glow in the sky.
   It wasn't long before he gained assurance that there was little danger of
a give-away. Nolan entered the cabin and stood with fingers twitching as
if he yearned to strangle someone very, very slowly, much as Waitabit
would do it. His attitude was accentuated by possession of unfortunate
features. Of all the personnel aboard the Thunderer nobody better
resembled the popular notion of a murderer.
  "You will appreciate, commodore," he began, speaking with great
restraint, "the extreme difficulty of knocking sense into or getting sense
out of creatures that think in hours rather than split-seconds."
  "I know it's tough going," Leigh sympathized. He eyed the other
carefully. "What's on your mind?"
   "What is on my mind," informed Nolan in rising tones, "is the fact that
there's one thing to be said in favour of previous subjects." He worked the
fingers around. "At least they were awake."
   "That is why we had to move," Leigh pointed out. "They're no nuisance
to us while dead abed."
  "Then," Nolan burst forth, "how do you expect us to make contact with
them?"
   "I don't. I've given it up. If you wish to continue trying, that's your
affair. But you're under no compulsion to do so." Crossing the room, he
said more gently, "I've sent a long signal to Earth giving full details of what
we're against. The next move is up to them. Their reply should come in a
few days' time. Meanwhile, we'll sit tight, dig out whatever information we
can, leave what we can't."
  Nolan said morbidly, "Hoff and I went to a hamlet far down the road.
Not only is everyone asleep but they can't be wakened. They can be
handled like dolls without stirring in their dreams. The medics came and
had a look at them after we'd told them about this wholesale catalepsy."
  "What did they say?"
   "They're of the opinion that the Waitabits are active only under
stimulus of sunlight. When the sun goes down they go down with it." He
scowled at his predicament, suggested hopefully, "But if you could run us a
power line out there and lend us a couple of sunray lamps, we could rouse
a few of them and get to work."
  "It isn't worth it," said Leigh.
  "Why not?"
  "Chances are that we'll be ordered home before you can show any real
progress."
   "Look, sir," pleaded Nolan making a final effort. "Everyone else is raking
in results. Measurements, meterings and so forth.
  They've got bugs, nuts, fruits, plants, barks, timber-sections, rocks,
pebbles, soil-samples, photographs, everything but shrunken heads. The
communicators are the only ones asked to accept defeat and that's
because we've not had a fair chance."
   "All right," Leigh said, taking up the challenge. "You fellows are best
placed to make an accurate estimate. So tell me: how long would a fair
chance be?"
  That had him tangled. He shuffled around, glowered at the wall,
examined his fingers.
  "Five years?" prompted Leigh.
  No answer.
  "Ten maybe?"
  No reply.
  "Perhaps twenty?"
  Nolan growled, "You win," and walked out. His face still hankered to
create a corpse.
   You win, thought Leigh. Like heck he did. The winners were the
Waitabits. They had a formidable weapon in the simple, incontrovertible
fact that life can be too short.


  Four days later Sector Nine relayed the message from Earth.
  37.14 ex Terra. Defence H.Q. to C.O. battleship Thunderer. Return
route D9 calling Sector Four H.Q. Leave ambassador if suitable
candidate available. Position in perpetuity. Rathbone. Com. Op. Dep.
D.H.Q. Terra.
  He called a conference in the longroom amidships. Considerable time
was spent co-ordinating data ranging from Walterson's findings on
radioactive life to Mr. Fish's remarks about creeping shrimps. In the end
three conclusions stood out clearly.
   Eterna was very old as compared with Earth. Its people were equally old
as compared with humankind, estimates of life-duration ranging from
eight hundred to twelve hundred for the average Waitabit. Despite their
chronic sluggishness the Waitabits were intelligent, progressive and had
advanced to about the same stage as humankind had reached a century
before the first jump into space.
   There was considerable argument about whether the Wait-abits would
ever be capable of a short rocket-flight even with the aid of automatic,
fast-functioning controls. Majority opinion was against it but all agreed
that in any event none would live to see it.
  Then Leigh announced, "An Earth Ambassador is to be left here if
anyone wants the job." He looked them over, seeking signs of interest.
  "There's little point in planting anybody on this planet," someone
objected.
  "Like most alien people, the Waitabits have not developed along paths
identical with our own," Leigh explained. "We're way ahead of them, know
thousands of things that they don't, including many they'll never learni By
the same token they've picked up a few secrets we've missed. For instance,
they've types of engines and batteries we'd like to know more about. They
may have further items not apparent in this first superficial look-over.
And there's no telling what they've got worked out theoretically. If there's
one lesson we've learned in the cosmos it's that of never despising an alien
culture. A species too big to learn soon goes small."
  "So?"
  "So somebody's got to take on the formidable task of systematically
milking them of everything worth a hoot. That's why we are where we are:
the knowledge of creation is all around and we get it and apply it."
  "It's been done time and again on other worlds," agreed the objector.
"But this is Eterna, a zombie-inhabited sphere where the clock ticks about
once an hour. Any Earthman marooned in this place wouldn't have
enough time if he lived to be a hundred."
  "You're right," Leigh told him. "Therefore this ambassadorial post will
be strictly an hereditary one. Whoever takes it will have to import a bride,
marry, raise kids, hand the grief to them upon his deathbed. It may last
through six generations or more. There is no other way." He let them stew
that a while before he asked, "Any takers?"
  Silence.
  "You'll be lonely except for company provided by occasional ships but
contact will be maintained and the power and strength of Terra will be
behind you. Speak up!"
  Nobody responded.
  Leigh consulted his watch. "I'll give you two hours to think it over. After
that, we blow. Any candidate will find me in the cabin."
  At zero-hour the Thunderer flamed free leaving no representative on
the world. Some day there would be one, no doubt of that. Some day a
willing hermit would take up residence for keeps. Among the men of Terra
an oddity or a martyr could always be found.
  But the time wasn't yet.
  On Eterna the time never was quite yet.


   The pale pink planet that held Sector Four H.Q. had grown to a large
disc before Pascoe saw fit to remark on Leigh's meditative attitude.
  "Seven weeks along the return run and you're still broody. Anyone
would think you hated to leave that place. What's the matter with you?"
  "I told you before. They make me feel apprehensive."
   "That's illogical," Pascoe declared. "Admittedly we cannot handle the
slowest crawlers in existence. But what of it? All we need do is drop them
and forget them."
  "We can drop them, as you say. Forgetting them is something else. They
have a special meaning that I don't like."
  "Be more explicit," Pascoe suggested.
  "All right, I will. Earth has had dozens of major wars in the far past.
Some were caused by greed, ambition, fear, envy, desire to save face or
downright stupidity. But there were some caused by sheer altruism."
  "Huh?"
   "Some," Leigh went doggedly on, "were brought about by the unhappy
fact that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Big, fast-moving
nations tried to lug small, slower-moving ones up to their own superior
pace. Sometimes the slow-movers couldn't make it, resented being forced
to try, started shooting to defend their right to mooch. See what I mean?"
  "I see the lesson but not the point of it," said Pascoe. "The Waitabits
couldn't kill a lame dog. Besides, nobody is chivvying them."
  "I'm not considering that aspect at all."
  "Which one then?"
  "Earth had a problem never properly recognized. If it had been
recognized, it wouldn't have caused wars."
  "What problem?"
  "That of pace-rate," said Leigh. "Previously it has never loomed large
enough for us to see it as it really is. The difference between fast and slow
was always sufficiently small to escape us." He pointed through the port at
the reef of stars lying like sparkling dust against the dark. "And now we
know that out there is the same thing enormously magnified. We know
that included among the numberless and everlasting problems of the
cosmos is that of pace-rate boosted to formidable proportions."
  Pascoe thought it over. "I'll give you that. I couldn't argue it because it
has become self-evident. Sooner or later we'll encounter it again and
again. It's bound to happen somewhere else eventually."
  "Hence my heebies," said Leigh.
   "You scare yourself to your heart's content," Pascoe advised. "I'm not
worrying. It's no hair off my chest. Why should I care if some loony scout
discovers life forms even slower than the Waitabits? They mean nothing
whatever in my young life."
  "Does he have to find them slower?" Leigh inquired.
  Pascoe stared at him. "What are you getting at?"
   "There's a pace-rate problem, as you've agreed. Turn it upside-down
and take another look at it. What's going to happen if we come up against
a life form twenty times faster than ourselves? A life form that views us
much as we viewed the Waitabits?"
  Giving it a couple of minutes, Pascoe wiped his forehead and said,
unconvincingly, "Impossible!"
  "Is it? Why?"
   "Because we'd have met them long before now. They'd have got to us
first."
  "What, if they've a hundred times farther to come? Or if they're a young
species one-tenth our age but already nearly level with us?"
  "Look here," said Pascoe, taking on the same expression as the other
had worn for weeks, "there are troubles enough without you going out of
your way to invent more."
  Nevertheless, when the ship landed he was still mulling every possible
aspect of the matter and liking it less every minute.
  A Sector Four official entered the cabin bearing a wad of documents.
   "Lieutenant Vaughan, at your service, commodore," he enthused. "I
trust you have had a pleasant and profitable run."
  "It could have been worse," Leigh responded.
  Radiating good will, Vaughan went on, "We've had a signal from
Markham at Assignment Office on Terra. He wants you to check
equipment, refuel and go take a look at Binty."
  "What name?" interjected Pascoe.
  "Binty."
  "Heaven preserve us! Binty!" He sat down hard, stared at the wall.
"Binty!" He played with his fingers, voiced it a third time. For some reason
best known to himself he was hypnotized by Binty. Then in tones of deep
suspicion he asked, "Who reported it?"
  "Really, I don't know. But it ought to say here." Vaughan obligingly
sought through his papers. "Yes, it does say. Fellow named Archibald
Boydell."
  "I knew it," yelped Pascoe. "I resign. I resign forthwith."
  "You've resigned forthwith at least twenty times in the last eight years,"
Leigh reminded.
  "I mean it this time."
  "You've said that, too." Leigh sighed.
   Pascoe waved his hands around. "Now try to calm yourself and look at
this sensibly. What space-outfit which is sane and wearing brown boots
would take off for a dump with a name like Binty?"
   "We would," said Leigh. He waited for blood pressure to lower, then
finished, "Wouldn't we?"
   Slumping into his seat Pascoe glowered at him for five minutes before
he said, "I suppose so. God help me, I must be weak." A little glassy-eyed,
he shifted attention to Vaughan. "Name it again in case I didn't hear
right."
   "Binty," said Vaughan, unctuously apologetic. "He has coded it
0/0.9/E5 which indicates the presence of an intelligent but backward me
form."
  "Does he make any remark about the place?"
  "One word," informed Vaughan, consulting the papers again. "Ugh!"
  Pascoe shuddered.