file:///F|/rah/Cordwainer%20Smith/Smith,%20Cordwainer%20-%20...ality%20of%20Mankind%20-THE%20REDISCOVERY%20OF%20MAN%201.txt

        THE REDISCOVERY OF MAN
The Complete Instrumentality of Mankind Stories of Cordwainer Smith

* marks major stories

         Introductions and commentaries by J.J. Pierce

file 1

         Introductions                                                             2
         No, No, Not Rogov!                                                        15
         War No. 81-Q                                                              29
         Mark Elf                                                                             37
         The Queen of the Afternoon                                      47
         *Scanners Live In Vain                                          67

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         *The Lady Who Sailed the Soul                                                        2
         When the People Fell                                                                 20
         Think Blue, Count Two                                                                29
         The Colonel Came Back From the Nothing-At-All                   51
         *The Game of Rat and Dragon                                                          58
         The Burning of the Brain
70
         From Gustible's Planet                                                               77
         Himself In Anachron
82
         *The Crime and Glory of Commander Suzdal                                  88
         Golden the Ship Was -- Oh! Oh! Oh!                                                   100

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         *The Dead Lady of Clown Town                                    2
         *Under Old Earth

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         Drunkboat                                                                 2
         *Mother Hitton's Littul Kittons 25
         *Alpha Ralpha Boulevard                              42
         *The Ballad of Lost C'mell                           64
         *A Planet Called Shayol                              79

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        Quest of the Three Worlds (Casher O'Neill series)
Introduction                            2
On the Gem Planet                       5
On the Storm Planet
On the Planet
Three To a Given Star

         Down To a Sunless Sea


                    1st Introduction (from The Best of Cordwainer Smith)

         Cordwainer Smith: The Shaper of Myths


        In an obscure and short-lived magazine called Fantasy Book, there
appeared in 1950 a story called "Scanners Live in Vain."
        No one had ever heard of the author, Cordwainer Smith. And it


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appeared for a time that he would never be heard from again in the world of
science fiction.
         But "Scanners Live in Vain" was a story that refused to die, and its
republication in two anthologies encouraged the elusive Smith to begin
submitting to other SF markets.
         Today, be is recognized as one of the most creative SF writers of
modern times. But, paradoxically, be is one of the least known or
understood. Until shortly before his death, his very identity was a closely
guarded secret.
         Not that Dr. Paul Myron Anthony Linebarger (1913-66) was ashamed of
science fiction. He was proud of the field, and had even boasted once to the
Baltiiiiore Sitn that SF had attracted more Ph.D's than any other branch of
fiction.
         But he was a sensitive, emotional writer.-- and reluctant to become
involved with his readers -- to be forced to "explain" himself in a way that
might destroy the spontaneity of his work.
         Beyond that, he prohably enjoyed being a man of mystery, as elusive
as some of the allusions in his stories. Smith was a mythmaker in science
fiction, and perhaps it takes a somewhat mythical figure to create true
myths.
         A new acquaintance unsure of the number of syllables, in Dr.
Linebarger's name would be answered by a significant gesture to the three
Chinese characters on his tie. Only later would he learn the characters
stood for Lin Bah Loh, or "Forest of Incandescent Bliss" -- the name given
him as godson to Sun Yat Sen, founder of the Chinese Republic.
         Dr. Linebarger's life was certainly severel cuts above the ordinary.
At the age of seventeen, he negotiated a silver loan for China on behalf of
his father -- Sun's legal advisor and one of the financiers of the
Revolution of 1911. He later bccime a colonel in U.S. Army Intelligence,
despite partial blindness and general ill health -- he once shocked guests
it a dinner party by downing a "cocktail" of hydrochloric acid to aid his
digestion.
         Although born in Milwaukee -- his father winted to be sure that as a
natural-born citizen his son would be eligible for the presidency --
Linebarger spent his forniative years in Japan, China, France and Germany.
By the time he grew up, he knew six languages and had become intimate with
several cultures, both Oriental and Occidental.
         He was only twenty-three when he earned his Ph.D. in political
science at Johns Hopkins University, where he was later Professor of Asiatic
politics for many years. Shortly thereafter, he graduated from editing his
father's books to publishing his own highly regarded works on Far Eastern
affairs.
         When World War II broke out, he used his position on the Operations
Planning and Intelligence Board to draft a set of qualifications for in
intelligence operative in China that only he could meect -- so off he went
to Chungking as an Army lieutenant. By war's end, he was a major.
         Dr. Linebarger turned his wartime experiences into Psychological
Warfare, still regarded as the most authoritative text in the field. As a
colonel, he was advisor to the Brisish forces in Malaya and to the U.S.
Eighth Army in Korea. But this self-styled "visitor to small wars" passed up
Vietnam, feeling American involvement there was a mistake.
         Travels around the world took him to Greece, Egypt and many other
countries; and his expertise was sufficiently valued that he became a
leading member of the Foreign Policy Association and an advisor to President
Kennedy.
         But even in childhood, his thoughts had turned to fiction --
including science fiction. Like many budding SF writers, he discovered the
genre at an early age. Since he was living in Germany at the time, he added
to the familiar classics of Verne, Wells, Doyle and others such works as
Alfred Doblin's Giganten to his list of favorites.



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        He was only fifteen when his first SF story, "War No. 81-Q," was
published. But unfortunately, no one seems to remember where. According to
his widow, Genevieve, the story was bylined Anthony Bearden -- a pseudonym
later used for poetry published in little magazines. Two examples of this
poetry appear in Norstrilia, also published by Ballantine.
        During the 1930s, Dr. Linebarger began keeping a secret notebook --
part personal diary, part story ideas. Then in 1937, he began writing
serious stories, mostly set in ancient or modern China, or in contemporary
locales elsewhere. None were ever published, but their range -- some use the
same Chinese narrative techniques that later turn up in SF works like "The
Dead Lady of Clown Town" -- is remarkable.
        While back in China, he took on the name Felix C. Forrest -- a pun
on his Chinese name -- for two psychological novels mailed home in
installments and published after the war. Ria and Carola were remarkable
novels for their feminine viewpoint and for the subtle interplay of cultural
influences behind the interplay of character. Under the name of Carmichael
Smith, Dr. Linebarger wrote Atomsk, a spy thriller set in the Soviet Union.
        But his career in science fiction came about almost by accident. He
may have submitted some stories to Amazing while still in China during the
war; but if so, nothing ever came of them. It was during idle hours at the
Pentagon after his return that he turned an idea that had been bothering him
into "Scanners Live in Vain."
        The story was almost written in vain, for it was rejected by every
major publication in the field. Fantasy Book, to which it was submitted five
years later as a last resort, did not even pay for it. Although he had
written another Cordwaiiier Smith story, "Himself in Anachron" (recently
adapted by his widow for Harlan Ellison's .anthology Last Dangerous Visions)
in 1946, he may well have despaired of any recognition in the genre.
        But there were readers who took notice. Never mind that Fantasy Book
had never before published a worthwhile story, never mind that the author
was a total unknown. "Scanners Live in Vain" got to them.
        "Martel was angry. He did not even adjust his blood away from
anger..."
        It was more than just the bizarre situation that attracted attention
-- it was the way it was treated. From the opening lines, readers became
part of Martel's universe -- a universe as real as our own, for all its
strangeness. They were intrigued, and no doubt mystified.
        What was this Instrumentality of Mankind, which even the Scanners
held in awe? What were the Beasts and the manshonyaggers and the Unforgiven?
One could sense their importance to the hero, but beyond that -- only
wonder. Smith clearly knew more about this universe than he let on -- more,
in fact, than he ever would let on. His universe had been forming in his
mind at least since the time he wrote his first published story in 1928, and
it took further shape in his secret notebook during the 1930s and 1940s.
        Already in "War No. 81-Q," his widow recalls, he had made reference
to the Instrumentality -- that all-powerful elite hierarchy that was to
become central to the Cordwainer Smith stories twenty years and more latcr.
Even the word may have had far more significance than it would ippeir at
first.
        Linebarger had been raised in a High Church Episcopalian family --
his grandfather was a minister -- and was devoutly religious. The word
"Instrumentality" has a distinct religious connotation, for in Roman
Catholic and Episcopalian theology the priest performing the sacraments is
the "instrumentality" of God Himself.
        At the time he wrote "War No. 81-Q," young Linebarger was also
having a fling with Communism -- a tendency his father eventually cured by
sending him on a trip to the Soviet Union for his eighteenth birthday. But
he remained struck by the sense of vocation and conviction of historical
destiny to which Communism appealed.
        In Cordwainer Smith's epic of the future, the Instrumentality of
Mankind has the hallmarks of both a political elite and a priesthood. Its


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hegemony is that, not of the galactic empire so typical of less imaginative
SF, but of something far more subtle and pervasive -- at once political and
spiritual. Its lords see themselves not as mere governors or bureaucrats or
politicians, but as in struments of human destiny itself.
        Linebarger's sense of religion infused his work in other ways, and
not merely in references to the Old Strong Religion and the Holy Insurgency
of Norstrilia and other late works.
        There is, for example, the emphasis on quasi-religious ritual --
compare, for instance, the Code of the Scanners to the Saying of the Law in
H.G. Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau. Furthermore, there is the strong sense
of vocation expressed by the Scanners, sailors, pinlighters, Go-captains and
the lords themselves -- something very spiritual, even if not expressed in
religious terms.
        But Linebarger was no mere Christian apologist who used SF as a
vehicle for Orthodox religious messages like those of, say, C.S. Lewis. He
was also a social and psychological thinker, whose experience with diverse
cultures gave him peculiar and seemingly contradictory ideas about human
nature and morality.
        He could, for example, admire the samurai values of fantasy, courage
and honor, and he showed his appreciation of Oriental art and literature in
the furnishing of his home -- and his fiction. Yet he was so horrified by
the tradition-bound fatalism and indifference to human life he found in the
Orient that he became obsessed with the sanctity of life on any terms, as
something too precious to sacrifice to iny concept of honor or morality --
Oriental or Occidental.
        While in Korea, Linebarger masterminded the surrendor of thousands
of Chinese troops who considered it shameful to give up their arms. He
drafted leaflets explaining how the soldiers could surrender by shouting the
Chinese words for "love," "duty" "humanity" and "virue" -- words that
happened, when pronounced in that order, to sound like "I surrender" in
English. He considered this act to be the single most worthwhile thing he
had done in his life.
        Linebarger's attitude is reflected in the apparently casual manner
in which matters such as brainwashing are treated in his SF. For the Hunter
and Elaine at the end of "The Dead Lady of Clown Town," that is a more
humane, if less "honorable" fate than death. Throughout the Smith canon,
life is usually placed before honor, no matter how much the Oriental codes
of honor and formality may permeate the hybrid culture of the future.
        Yet Linebarger felt there was a meaning to life beyond mere living.
"The God he had faith in had to do with the soul of man and with the
unfolding of history and of the destiny of all living creatures," his
Australian friend Arthur Burns once remarked; and it is this exploration of
human -- and more than human destiny that gives Smith's work its unity.
        Behind the invented cultures, behind the intricacies of plot and the
joy or suffering of characters, there is Smith the philosopher, striving in
a manner akin to that of Teilhard de Chardin (although there is no evidence
of any direct influence) to reconcile science and religion, to create a
synthesis of Christianity and evolution that will shed light on the nature
of man and the meaning of history.
        The stories in this volume, collected in their proper order for the
first time, form part of a vast historical cycle taking place over some
fifteen thousand years. They are based on material from Linebarger's
original notebook ind a second notebook -- unfortunately lost -- that he
began keeping in the 1950s as new problems began to concern him.
        Mankind is still baunted by the Ancient Wars and the Dark Age that
followed as this volume opens with "Scanners Live in Vain." Other stories,
one unpublished, hint at millennia of historical stasis, during which the
true men sought inhuman perfection behind the eicctronic pales of their
cities, while leaving the Wild to survivors of the Ancient World -- the
Beasts, manshonyaggers and Unforgiven.



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        Into this future came the VomAcht sisters, daughters of a German
scientist who placed them in satellites in suspended animation at the close
of World War II. Rcturning to Earth in the latter days of the Dark Age, they
bring the "gift of vitality" -- a concept that seems to have meant to Smith
what the "life force" meant to Bergson and Shaw -- back to mankind. Founders
of the Vomact family, they represent a force in human nature that can be
either good or evil, but is perhaps ultimately beyond either, and a
necessary means for the working out of human destiny through evolution.
        The dual nature of the Vomacts and the force they represent is
symbolized in the origin of their name: "Acht" is a German word with a
double meaning: "proscribed" or "forbidden" and "care" or "attention." And
the Vomacts alternate as outlaws and benefactors, throughout the Smith epic.

         But the gift of vitality sets a new cycle of history in motion --
the heroic age of the Scanners, pinlighters and Go-captains. What stands out
in these early stories is the starkness of the emotional impact -- the
impact of strange new experiences and relationships, whether of the
telepathic symbiosis of men and partners in "The Game of Rat and Dragon" or
the woman become a functioning part of her spacecraft in "The Lady Who
Sailed the Soul."
         Some of Linebarger's own experiences went into his work. Captain Wow
was the name of one of his cats at his Washington home when he wrote "The
Game of Rat and Dragon" at a single sitting one day in 1954. Cat Melanie was
later to inspire C'mell, heroine of the underpeople, who were created by men
from mere inimals. Then, too, Linebarger's frequent stays in hospitals,
dependent on medical technology, give him a feel for the linkage of man and
machine.
         But in "The Burning of the Brain," we already begin to see signs of
the Pleasure Revolution, a trend which Linebarger detested in his own time
and which he saw putting an end to the heroic age in his imagined future.
Near immortality -- thanks to the santaclara drug, or stroon, grown in
Norstrilia -- makes life less desperate, but also less meaningful.
         Real experience gives way to synthetic experience; in "Golden the
Ship Was, Oh, 0h, Oh" (as in "The Lady Who Sailed The Soul," which was also
coauthored by Genevieve Linebarger), the hero seeks pleasure directly from
an electric current -- and only an epoch-making crisis affords him a chance
to see that there is a better way.
         Under the ruthless benevolence of the Instrumentality, a bland
utopia takes shape. Men are freed of the fear of death, the burden of labor,
the risks of the unknown -- but deprived of hope and freedom. The
underpeople, created to do the labor of mankind, are more human than their
creators. The gift of vitality, seemingly, has been lost, and history come
to a stop.
         In these stories, it is the underpeople -- and the more enlightened
lords of the Instrumentility who heed them -- who hold the salvation of
humanity in their hands. In "The Dead Lady of Clown Town," the despised,
animal-derived workers and robots must teach humans the meaning of humanity
in order to free mankind from its seeming euphoria.
         Lord Jestocost is inspired by the martyrdom of the dog-woman D'joan;
and Santuna is transformed by the experiences in "Under Old Earth" into the
Lady Alice More. Together, they become the architects of the Rediscovery of
man -- bringing back freedom, risk, uncertainty and even evil.
         Parallelling these events are glimpses of other parts of the
universe of the Instrumentality. In "Mother Hitton's Littul Kittons," we
learn why Old North Australia is the most heavily defended planet in the
galaxy; but Viola Sidcrea is just as strange. And where else in science
fiction is there a world like "A Planet Nanied Shayol," where a daring
conception in biological engineering is wedded to a classic vision of Hell?
         Oriental narrative techniques especially in "Te Dead Lady of Clown
Town" and "The Ballad of Lost C'mell" are prominent in the later stories. So
is the sense of myth, whereby the just-mentioned stories are supposedly


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explanations of popular legends. But just how much of what is told "Under
Old Earth" ever really took place?
        Smith creates a sense of immense time having passed. To Paul and
Virginia, newly freed by the Rediscovery of Man in "Alpha Ralpha Boulevard,"
our own age is lost in the dim past and is seen only through layer upon
layer of half-forgotten history. Smith's effect has rarely been duplicated
-- the first half of Robert Silverberg's Nightwings is perhaps the most
successful approximation.
        Smith's universe remains infinitely greater than our knowledge of it
-- we shall never know what empire once conquered Earth and brought tribute
up that fabulous boulevard; nor the identity of the Robot, the Rat and the
Copt, whose visions are referred to in Norstrilia and elsewhere; nor what
ultimately becomes of the cat-people created in "The Crime and Glory of
Commander Suzdal."
        Then there is that unfulfilled sense of anticipation -- where was
Smith leading us? What comes after the Rediscovery of Man and the liberation
of the underpeople by C'mell? Linebarger gives hints of a common destiny for
man and underpeople -- some religious fulfillment of history, perhaps. But
they remain hints.
        The work of Cordwainer Smith will always retain its enigmas. But
that is part of its appeal. In reading his stories, we are caught up in
experiences as real as life itself-and just as mysterious.
                                -- Jonn J. Pierce
                                Berkeley Heights, New Jersey
                                January, 1975
                2nd Introduction (from The Rediscovery of Man)

        It's trite to say, of course, but there has never been another
science fiction writer like Cordwainer Smith.
        Smith was never a very prolific SF writer, as evidenced by the fact
that nearly all of his short fiction can be encompassed in a single omnibus
volume like this. He was never a very popular writer, as evidenced by the
fact that most of his work has usually been out of print. Nor has he been a
favorite of the critics, as evidenced by the fact that few citations to his
SF can be found in journals like Science Fiction Studies.
        It is impossible to fit Smith's work into any of the neat categories
that appeal to most readers or critics. It isn't hard science fiction, it
isn't military science fiction, it isn't sociological science fiction, it
isn't satire, it isn't surrealism, it isn't post-modernism. For those who
have fallen in love with it over the years, however, it is some of the most
powerful science fiction ever written. It is the kind of fiction that, as
C.S. Lewis once wrote, becomes part of the reader's personal iconography.
        You may have already read the story of Paul Myron Anthony Linebarger
(1913-66), the man behind Cordwainer Smith, who grew up in China, Japan,
Germany, and France, and became a soldier, diplomat, and respected authority
on Far Eastern affairs. He was the son of Paul Myron Wentworth Linebarger, a
retired American judge who helped finance the Chinese revolution of 1911 and
became the legal advisor to Sun Yat-sen. It was Sun himself who gave young
Paul his Chinese name Lin Bah Loh, or "Forest of Incandescent Bliss." (His
father had been dubbed Lin Bah Kuh, or "Forest of 1,000 Victories.") In
time, the younger Linebarger became the confidant of Chiang Kai-shek, and,
like his father, wrote about China. Still later, he was in demand at the
Department of Asiatic Politics at Johns Hopkins University, where he shared
his own expertise with members of the diplomatic corps. And that isn't
counting his years as an operative in China during World War II, or as a
"visitor to small wars thereafter, from which he became perhaps the world's
leading authority on psychological warfare.
        He wrote the book on psychological warfare-under his own name, as
with all his non-fiction. But he was very shy about his fiction. He wrote
two novels, Ria and Carola, both unusual due to their female protagonists
and international settings, under the name Felix C. Forrest, a play on his


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Chinese name. But when people found out who "Forrest" was, he couldn't write
any more. He tried a spy thriller, Atomsk, as Carmichael Smith, but was
found out again. He even submitted a manuscript for another novel under his
wife's name, but nobody was fooled. Although Linebarger wrote at least
partial drafts of several other novels, he was never able to interest
publishers, and it appears he never really tried that hard. He might have
had a distinguished, if minor, career as a novelist -- it is an odd
coincidence that Herma Briffault, widow of Robert Briffault, to whose novels
of European politics Frederik PohI would later compare Ria and Carola, had
in fact read Carola in manuscript; only she compared it to the work of Jean
Paul Sartre!
        Yet it isn't only a matter of happenstance, of opportunities
elsewhere denied, that Paul M.A. Linebarger became a science fiction writer.
In fact, he was writing SF before he wrote anything else. From his early
teens, he turned out an incredible volume of juvenile SF, under titles like
"The Books of Futurity" -- some bad imitations of Edgar Rice Burroughs,
others clumsily satirical or incorporating Chinese legends or folklore. One
of these efforts contained, as an imaginary "review," the genesis of "The
Fife of Bodidharma," published over 20 years later in its final form. At the
age of 15, he even had an SF story published -- "War No. 81-Q," which
appeared in The Adjutant, the official organ of his high school cadet corps
in Washington, DC, in June 1928. Because he used the name of his cousin,
Jack Bearden, for the hero, Bearden decided to get back with a story of his
own, "The Notorious C39"; but Bearden's story actually made it into Amazing
Stories. More than 30 years later, Linebarger rewrote "War No. 8l-Q" for his
first collection of Cordwainer Smith SF stories, You Will Never Be the Same,
but it didn't make the cut.
        Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, Linebarger continued to write short
fiction -- some SF, some fantasy, some contemporary or Chinese historical.
The manuscripts, including those of the earliest Cordwainer Smith stories,
were eventually bound in a red-leather volume now in the hands of a daughter
living in Oregon. Most of these stories were apparently never submitted for
publication, but Linebarger did send two of the fantasies -- "Alauda Dalma"
and "The Archer and the Deep" -- to Unknown in 1942. (If you don't recognize
the titles, it is because Unknown turned them down: the latter didn't fare
any better with Judith Merril in 1961.) Then in 1945, recently returned from
China and facing idle hours in some sort of desk job at the Pentagon, he
wrote another of the manuscripts included in the bound volume, the one that
was to put him on the literary map -- "Scanners Live in Vain."
        You doubtless know that it was "Scanners" which introduced the
Instrumentality of Mankind, although only as a shadowy background to the
bizarre tale of the cyborged space pilots who are dead though they live, and
would rather kill than live with a new discovery that has made their
sacrifice and its attendant rituals obsolete. Yet however shadowy, that
background -- with its references to the Beasts and the manshonyaggers and
the Unforgiven, and the implications of some terrible dark age from which
humanity has only just emerged -- suggests a long period of gestation for
the story and, possibly, the existence of earlier stories with the same
background. Only there is no evidence of any such thing; to the contrary, at
least some of the background appears to date back to a note Linebarger wrote
to himself January 7, 1945, for a projected story, "The Weapons," set in a
"future or imaginary world" in which humanity must always be on guard
against old weapons, "perpetual and automatic," surviving from some old and
forgotten war. In that note, we can see the genesis of the manshonyaggers,
the German killing machines (from menschenjager, or hunter of men) first
referred to in "Scanners Live in Vain."
        Can Paul Linebarger have thought up an entire future history in the
time it took to write "Scanners Live in Vain"? It is probably a lot more
complicated than that; it may well be that a number of ideas that had been
floating around in his head for years, without ever being set down on paper,
suddenly gelled when he had the inspiration for the story. It didn't take


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long for the universe of "Scanners Live in Vain" to take shape, however, for
the story had been written within a few months of that note for "The
Weapons." On July 18, 1945, it was submitted to John W. Campbell, Jr. at
Astounding Science Fiction -- who rejected it as "too extreme." That proved
to be the first of several rejections, until "Scanners Live in Vain" finally
found a home at Fantasy Book in 1950. The only related story that Linebarger
wrote before then was "Himself in Anachron," dated 1946. Never published in
a magazine, it was later slated (like the revised "War No. 81-Q") for
inclusion in You Will Never Be the Same, under the title "My Love Is Lost in
the Null of Nought" or "She Lost Her Love in the Null of Nought," but
Linebarger wasn't able to deliver a revised manuscript in time. Although he
may have written such a revision at a later date, none can be found in his
literary papers, and the present version was adapted by his widow Genevieve
from the 1946 draft.
        The career of Cordwainer Smith might have been stillborn, with only
one published and one unpublished story to show for it. Fortunately, Smith
soon had a few champions, most notably Frederik PohI, who didn't have the
foggiest idea who the author was but knew a stellar performance when he saw
one. By including "Scanners Live in Vain" in an anthology, Pohl rescued it
from the obscurity of Fantasy Book, and that led a few years later to
Linebarger's submission of "The Game of Rat and Dragon" to Galaxy: the rest,
as they say, is history. A great deal may not be told until the hoped-for
publication of a biography of Linebarger by Alan C. Elms, who has done
exhaustive interviews with his friends and family as well as researching all
his papers. Among other things, Elms has the low-down on how it happened
that the young Linebarger knew L. Ron Hubbard. (It wasn't a mere fluke that
one of Linebarger's own unpublished works was Pathematics, his revisionist
take on Hubbard's Dianetics.)
        It is important to understand some crucial facts about his life that
have previously been overlooked: for example, although he was a devout
Episcopalian late in life, he was only a nominal Methodist (his father's
church) at the time he wrote "Scanners Live in Vain." He originally joined
the Episcopal Church as a compromise with his second wife, who was raised as
a Catholic. Only about 1960 did he become a believer in any deep sense, and
only then did the religious imagery and Christian message become strong in
his SF works. The change in spiritual orientation that maLks his later work
is thus a genuine change, not merely a change of emphasis. There are also
all kinds of details about the life of Paul M.A. Linebarger, his family and
friends, that bear on his work -- as we shall see when Elms' researches bear
fruit.
        The strictly literary history, however, is fascinating in itself. In
spite of such major gaps as the loss of Linebarger's main notebook for the
Instrumentality saga in 1965, and the apparent disappearance of the
dictabelts on which his widow recalled that he had recorded notes for or
even drafts of stories never committed to paper, it is possible to
reconstruct a lot of this literary history from Linebarger's literary
papers, now at the University of Kansas (although some, including more
juvenilia, and such oddities as an early poem titled "An Ode to My Buick,"
mistakenly ended up at the Hoover Institution at Stanford, the repository
for papers relating to his military, diplomatic, and scholarly career).
Among these literary papers are any number of variant (mostly partial)
manuscripts for stories already familiar to us, false starts for stories
never completed, notebooks with ideas for stories never written, and
rliscellaneous correspondence.
        The story of the Instrumentality saga has been told before: the
Ancient Wars, the Dark Age, the renaissance of humanity in the time of the
Scanners, the romantic age of exploration by sailship, the discoveries of
planoforming and stroon that bind together the myriad worlds and usher in a
bland utopia of ease and plenty, the twin revolutions of the underpeople's
Holy Insurgency and the Instrumentality's Rediscovery of Man. The stories in



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this volume tell it all better than any summary can. Smith had it all worked
out, of course; he even offered to supply a chronology for You Will Never Be
the Same, which would undoubtedly have been far superior to the one I
supplied for The Best of Cordwainer Smith for Del Rey Books. But the saga
was never conceived as a seamless whole, however much Linebarger worked to
develop the overall framework that would embrace both his original
conception and his later one.
        His working method seemed to be to develop several strands of
thought and weave them together, or perhaps let them weave themselves
together. This is first evident in the genesis of "Scanners," in which ideas
ofa future dark age, automatic weapons, the Vomact family, the Scanners
themselves, and even the Instrumentality suddenly come together. Subsequent
stories developed that background. Both "Mark Elf" and the original
two-chapter fragment of "The Queen of the Afternoon" backtracked to the end
of the Dark Age (the latter made no mention of the underpeople in that
version, nor did it hint at any Christian themes). "The Game of Rat and
Dragon" took the saga forward to the heroic age of planoforming, and the
vision of the far future in "No, No, Not Rogov!" hinted at a secular
apotheosis for human history. Both "When the People Fell" and "The Burning
of the Brain" are snapshots of different periods in the same history, as
well as compeHing stories in themselves.
        In 1958, Linebarger began writing a novel called Star-Craving Mad,
which was his first attempt at what eventually became Norstrilia. But the
initial version of the story is far different from that we know today. There
is no Rediscovery of Man, nor any Holy Insurgency. Lord Jestocost and
"Arthur McBan CLI" both figure here, but in different guises: Jestocost is
simply a cruel but shrewd tyrant, whose name ("cruelty" in Russian) has none
of the ironic meaning we now associate with it; while McBan is a man of
action who comes to the aid of the underpeople only for the love of C'mell.
And the rebellion of the underpeople is nothing more than an uprising of the
oppressed, like the French Revolution to which it is compared. The
E'telekeli appears, but as a future Jacobite rather than a spiritual sage.
Linebarger was developing an ironic theme, but it had to do with true men
having inadvertently created a race of supermen in the form of the
underpeople.
        Linebarger apparently wasn't satisfied with the way the story was
going, for it was abandoned after a few chapters. Several other false starts
over the next year failed to get Star-Craving Mad moving again, and a severe
illness which Genevieve Linebarger later remembered as the genesis of
Norstrilia may have actually been the genesis of a spiritual rebirth that
changed the entire thrust of the Instrumentality saga. As in the case of
"Scanners Live in Vain," however, Paul Linebarger was evidently thinkmg
along several lines at once before they all came together.
        Even in the original draft of Star-Craving Mad there is one hint of
the Rediscovery of Man, but it remains only a hint. C'mell's father
C'mackintosh is not an athlete, but a "licensed robber" at a "savage park"
in Mississippi: such parks are a means for humanity to "keep the peace
within its own troubled and complex soul," but they are apparently a
longstanding institution, not a revolutionary development. In an early false
start for "The Ballad of Lost C'mell," Lord Redlady has unleashed ancient
diseases on Earth, but not as part of a spiritual revolution: the idea to
discourage invasions by developing immunities among Earthmen to patho-gens
that can then be used as weapons against outsiders. In another false start,
for a story called "Strange Men and Doomed Ladies," Lord Jestocost proposes
to end the policy of euthanasia for "spoiled" people such as the crippled,
the sickly, the stupid, and even the overly-brilliant: "Let them be, and let
us see." But this seems to be an isolated idea, unrelated to any grand plan.
        The false start for "The Ballad of Lost C'mell" ("Where Is the Which
of the What She Did") also opens with a prologue that recounts the entire
history of Earth. Our times are the Second Ancient Days; they came before
the First Ancient Days, but were discovered later. The First Ancient Days


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came either before or after the Long Nothing (a summary of the chronology
contradicts the narrative). Civilization was restored by the Dwellers, who
brought the cities back into shape around the ruins left by the Daimoni,
including Earthport Gulosan. It was during the time of the Dwellers that
humanity discovered Space3 and overcame the rule of the perfect men. But
that was all long before the time of C'mell. The Originals, invaders from
space, overcame the Dwellers, but were later overthrown by an alliance of
true men and underpeople. Then came the Bright, who "did things with music
and dance, with picture and word, which had never been done before." They
also built the peace square at An-fang, and (another contradiction) had
something to do with the "fall of the perfect men and the temporary rule of
Lord Redlady." Then came a time of troubles, the High Cruel Years, followed
by another invasion by the Pure ("men of earth who had been gone too long"),
who still rule Earth at the time of the story.
        Although the Dwellers may be the true men of "Mark Elf," and the
rule of the Bright may have something to do with the Bright Empire mentioned
in Norstrilia, nothing in the canon ~f stories we know seems to relate to
the Originals or the High Cruel Years or the Pure. Linebarger was apparently
reshaping his vision of the far future almost to the moment he wrote "Alpha
Ralpha Boulevard," in which it all crystallized. (The "Where Is the Which of
the What She Did" fragment has the narrator recalling that "the most blessed
of computers burned out on Alpha Ralpha Boulevard," but assigns this to the
long-past age of the Dwellers.) During the same period, Linebarger was
reshaping "The Colonel Came Back from the Nothing-at-All," a
then-unpublished story about the discovery of planoforming, into the story
of Artyr Rambo's mystical experience in Space3. The story went through
several partial drafts (one titled "Archipelagoes of Stars"), which used
different approaches capturing the poetic experience of Arthur Rimbaud. One
version quotes Rimbaud's Le Bateau Ivre itself, as a prophecy of Space3, and
asks, "How knew it he, all the fine points of it -- He an ancient was!"
Another draft opens, "They put him into a box, a box. They shot him to the
end of time... Then, when it was all over, people discovered that another
man, also a singer, had written it all down in the Most Ancient World." The
final version, of course, is far more subtle; it was typical of Linebarger
to make his stories less straightforward and more allusive in such details.
        Although most of the background for the Instrumentality saga was
contained in a notebook that Linebarger accidentally left in a restaurant in
Rhodes in 1965, another notebook begun during the last year of his life
contains ideas for several stories that were never written. Because they are
notes to himself, they can be as cryptic as the lyrics of a David Lynch
song. But some are clear enough, as far as they go, including those for "The
Robot, the Rat, and the Copt," which was originally conceived as a single
story but later was a cycle of four stories, like the Casher O'Neill series.
We know from references in published stories that the Robot, the Rat, and
the Copt were to bring back a Christian revelation from Space3, but the
notes don't add much to that, except to confirm that this new dimension is
where Christ "had really been and always was experienced." The rat was to
have been named R'obert, however, and there was to have been a Coptic
planet. (A list of Coptic names -- including Shenuda or "God Lives" --
appear in an entirely different notebook, a ring binder titled "New Science
Fiction by Cordwainer Smith," which also includes most of the false starts
and first drafts already referred to.)
        Some of the ideas seem relatively trivial: a forlorn suitor has the
crushed head of his true love, killed in an accident, regrown on Shayol, and
reimplanted with her personality; a Go-Captain who has a mysterious (but
unspecified) experience in space is treated as a madman on his conservative
homeworld. Another story was to have been set on a remote, prosperous world
where one-parents gamble on the futures of their newly-issued children; this
would evidently have shed more light on the sequential system of
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"Under Old Earth." Another note is simply a name: the Lord Sto Dva,
presumably a successor to the Lord Sto Odin of "Under Old Earth."
        But the most intriguing note is undoubtedly one for a story called
"How the Dream Lords Died." Set in A.D. 6111, it would have involved the use
of 12,000 slave brains by the Dream Lords in an attempt to explore other
times telepathically, like the Eighteenth Men of the distant future in Olaf
Stapledon's Last and First Men. The Dream Lords were clearly among the
"others in the earth" after the fall of the Ancient World, alluded to in
Norstrilia, and this note is the only reference to any story to have been
set during that time -- well before "Mark Elf." Coupled with the titling of
"The Queen of the Afternoon" (set, like "Mark Elf," at the very end of the
new dark ages), it suggests that a new cycle of stories, "The Lords of the
Afternoon," may have been related to the dark ages. Shortly before his
death, Linebarger told his friend Arthur Burns he was planning a story cycle
of that name; Burns conjectured that it would take place in the period of
"Under Old Earth," and most timelines have shown the series taking place in
that period.
        The year given for "How the Dream Lords Died," naturally knocks the
time-line used in The Best of Cordwainer Smith and The Instrumentality of
Mankind into a cocked hat. The dark ages must have lasted much longer than
listed there, and the rest of the future history thus must have been
compressed into a much shorter time. We will probably never know much more
about Linebarger's intentions; even his wife doesn't seem to have been privy
to them. In "The Saga of the Third Sister," a (deservedly) unpublished
sequel to "The Queen of the Afternoon," she involved Karla vom Acht in the
quest of the Robot, the Rat, and the Copt, even though that story was
obviously intended to have come millennia later. In working on Paul's
unfinished manuscript for "The Queen of the Afternoon" itself, she insisted
on anachronistic references to underpeople, and softened the
characterizations of Juli vom Acht and the true men. Incidentally, it isn't
clear from Paul's original material whether Juli's arrival on Earth was
actually to have come after Carlotta's, rather than before.
        But enough of the history behind the history. You already know the
story of the Instrumentality is more than history: it is poetry, and
romance, and myth, and unlike any other SF series or future history. It is
almost impossible to imagine anyone except Linebarger writing stories set in
the universe of Cordwainer Smith, as others have written stories about Isaac
Asimov's robots or Larry Niven's kzinti. It would probably be close to
blasphemy, in the realm of the arts, for anyone else to even try. Like the
rarest vintage wine, the work of dordwainer Smith cannot be duplicated. We
must be grateful that we can still savor the true vintage of these pages.

         No, No, Not Rogov!


        That golden shape on the golden steps shook and fluttered like a
bird gone mad -- like a bird imbued with an intellect and a soul, and,
nevertheless, driven mad by ecstasies and terrors beyond human understanding
-- ecstasies drawn momentarily down into reality by the consunirnation of
superlative art. A thousand worlds watched.
        Had the ancient calendar continued this would have been A.D. 13,582.
After defeat, after disappointment, after ruin and reconstruction, mankind
had leapt among the stars.
        Out of meeting inhuman art, out of confronung non-human dances,
mankind had made a superb esthetic effort and had leapt upon the stage of
all the worlds.
        The golden steps reeled before the eyes. Some eyes had retinas. Some
had crystalline cones. Yet all eyes were fixed upon the golden shape which
interpreted The Glory and Affirmation of Man in the Inter-World Dance
Festival of what might have been A.D. 13,582.
        Once again mankind was winning the contest. Music and dance were


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hypnotic beyond the limits of systems, compelling, shocking to human and
inhuman eyes. The dance was a triumph of shock -- the shock of dynamic
beauty.
        The golden shape on the golden steps executed shimmering intricacies
of meaning. The body was gold and still human. The body was a woman, but
more than a woman. On the golden steps, in the golden light, she trembled
and fluttered like a bird gone mad.

I

        The Ministry of State Security had heen positively shocked when they
found that a Nazi agent, more heroic than prudent, had almost reached N.
Rogov.
        Rogov was worth more to the Soviet armed forces than any two air
armies, more than three motorized divisions~ His brain was a weapon, a
weapon for the Soviet power.
        Since the brain was a weapon, Rogov was a prisoner. He didn't mind.
Rogov was a pure Russian type, broad-faced, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, with
whimsey in his smile and amusement in the wrinkles of the tops of his
cheeks.
        "Of course I'm a prisoner," Rogov used to say. "I am a prisoner of
State service to the Soviet peoples. But the workers and peasants are good
to me. I am an academician of the All Union Academy of Sciences, a blur
general in the Red Air Force, a professor in the University of Kharkov, a
deputy works manager of the Red Flag Combat Aircraft Production Trust. From
each of these I draw a salary."
        Sometimes he would narrow his eyes at his Russian scientific
colleagues and ask them in dead earnest, "Would I serve capitalists?"
        The aflrighted colleagues would try to stammer their way out of the
embarrassment, protesting their common loyalty to Stalin or Beria, or
Zhukov, or Molotov, or Bulganin, as the case may have been.
        Rogov would look very Russian: calm, mocking, amused. He would let
them stammer.
        Then he'd laugh. Solemnity transformed into hilarity, he would
explode into bubbling, effervescent, good-humored laughter. "Of course I
could not serve the capitalists. My little Anastasia would not let me."
        The colleagues would smile uncomfortably and would wish that Rogov
did not talk so 'vi Idly, or so comically, or so freely.
        Even Rogov might wind up dead. Rogov didn't think so. They did.
Rogov was afraid of nothing.
        Most of his colleagues were afraid of each other, of the Soviet
system, of the world, of life, and of death.
        Perhaps Rogov had once been ordinary and mortal like other people,
and full of fears.
        But he had become the lover, the colleague, the husband of Anastasia
Fyodorovna Cherpa's.
        Comrade Cherpas had been his rival, his antagonist, his competitor,
in the struggle for scientific eminence in the daring Slav frontiers of
Russian science. Russian science could never overtake. the inhuman
perfection of German method, the rigid intellectual and moral discipline of
German teamwork, hut the Russians could and did get ahead of the Germans by
giving vent to their bold, fantastic imaginations. Rogov had pioneered the
first rocket launchers of 1939. Cherpas had finished the job by making the
liest of the rockets radio-directed.
        Rogov in 1942 had developed a whole new system of photo-mapping.
Comrade Cherpas had applied it to color film. Rogov, sandy-haired,
blue-eyed, and smiling, had recorded his criticisms of Comrade Cherpas's
naivete and unsoundness at the top-secret meetings of Russian scientists
during the black winter nights of 1943. Comrade Cherpas, her butter-yellow
hair flowing down like living water to her shoulders, her unpainted face
gleaming with fanaticism, intelligence, and dedication, would snarl her own


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defiance at him, deriding his Communist theory, pinching at his pride,
hitting his intellectual hypotheses where they were weakest.
        By 1944 a Rogov-Cherpas quarrel had become something worth traveling
to see.
        In 1945 they were married.
        Their courtship was secret, their wedding a surprise, their
partnership a miracle in the upper ranks of Russian science.
        The emigre press had reported that the great scientist, Peter
Kapitza, once remarked, "Rogov and Cherpas, there is a team. They're
Communists, good Communists; but they're better than that! They're Russian,
Russian enough to beat the world. Look at them. That's the future, our
Russian future!" Perhaps the quotation was an exaggeration, but it did show
the enormous respect in which both Rogov and Cherpas were held by their
colleagues in Soviet science.
        Shortly after their marriage strange things happened to them.
        Rogov remained happy. Cherpas was radiant.
        Nevertheless, the two of them began to have haunted expressions, as
though they had seen things which words could not express, as though they
had stumbled upon secrets too important to be whispered even to the most
secure agents of the Soviet State Police.
        In 1947 Rogov had an interview with Stalin. As he left Stalin's
office in the Kremlin, the great leader himself came to the door, his
forehead wrinkled in thought, nodding, "Da, da, da."
        Even his own personal staff did not know why Stalin was saying "Yes,
yes, yes," but they did see the orders that went forth marked ONLY BY SAFE
HAND, and TO BE READ AND RETURNED, NOT RETAINED, and furthermore stamped FOR
AUTHORIZED EYES ONLY AND UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TO BE COPIED.
        Into the true and secret Soviet budget that year by the direct
personal order of a noncommittal Stalin, an item was added for "Project
Telescope." Stalin tolerated no inquiry, brooked no comment.
        A village which had had a name became nameless.
        A forest which had been opened to the workers and peasants became
military territory.
        Into the central post office in Kharkov there went a new box number
for the village of Ya. Ch.
        Rogov and Cherpas, comrades and lovers, scientists both and Russians
both, disappeared from the everyday lives of their colleagues. Their faces
were no longer seen at scientific meetings. Only rarely did they emerge.
        On the few times they were seen, usually going to and from Moscow at
the time the All Union budget was made up each year, they seemed smiling md
happy. But they did not make jokes.
        What the outside world did not know was that Stalin in giving them
their own project, granting them a paradise restricted to themselves, had
seen to it that a snake went with them in the paradise. The snake this time
was. out one, but two personalities -- Gausgofer and Gauck.

II

        Stalin died.
        Beria died too -- less willingly.
        The world went on.
        Everything went into the forgotten village of Ya. Ch. and nothing
came out.
        It was rumored that Bulganin himself visited Rogov and Cherpas. It
was even whispered that Bulganin said as he went to the Kharkov airport to
fly back to Moscow, "It's big, big, big. There'll be no cold war if they do
it. There won't be any war of any kind. We'll finish capitalism before tuc
cipitalists can ever begin to fight. If they do it. If they do it." Bulganin
was reported to have shaken his head slowly in perplexity and to have said
riotlung more but to have put his initials on the unmodified budget of
Project Telescope when a trusted messenger next brought him an envelope from


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Rogov.
        Anastasia Cherpas became a mother. Their first boy looked like his
father. He was followed by a little girl. Then another little boy. The
children didn't stop Cherpas's work. They had a large dacha and trained
nurseinaids took over the household.
        Every night the four of them dined together.
        Rogov, Russian, humorous, courageous, amused.
        Cherpas, older, more mature, more beautiful than ever but just as
biting, just as cheerful, just as sharp as she had ever been.
        But then the other two, the two who sat with them across the years
of dIl their days, the two colleagues who had been visited upon them by the
ill-powerful word of Stalin himself.
        Gausgofer was a female: bloodless, narrow-faced, with a voice like a
horse's whinny. She was a scientist and a policewoman, and competent at both
jobs. In 1917 she had reported her own mother's whereabouts to the Bolshevik
Terror Committee. In 1924 she had commanded her father's cxccution. He had
been a Russian Gerinan of the old Baltic nobility and he had tried to adjust
his mind to the new system, but he had failed. In 1930 she had let her lover
trust her a little too much. He had been a Roumanian Communist, very high in
the Party, but he had whispered into her ear in the privacy of their
bedroom, whispered with the tears pouring down his face; she had listened
affectionately and quietly and had delivered his words to the police the
next morning.
        With that she had come to Stalin's attention.
        Stalin had been tough. He had addressed her brutally. "Comrade, you
have some brains. I can see you know what Communism is all about. You
understand loyalty. You're going to get ahead and serve the Party and the
working class, but is that all you wantT' He had spat the question at her.
        She had been so astonished that she gaped.
        The old man had changed his expression, favoring her with leering
benevolence. He had put his forefinger on her chest. "Study science,
Comrade. Study science. Communism plus science equals victory. You're too
clever to stay in police work."
        Gausgofer took a reluctant pride in the fiendish program of her
German namesake, the wicked old geographer who made geography itself a
terrible weapon in the Nazi anti-Soviet struggle.
        Gausgofer would have liked nothing better than to intrude on the
marriage of Cherpas and Rogov.
        Gausgofer fell in love with Rogov the moment she saw him.
        Gausgofer fell in hate -- and hate can be as spontaneous and
miraculous as love -- with Cherpas the moment she saw her.
        But Stalin had guessed that too.
        With the bloodless, fanatic Gausgofer he had sent a man named B.
Gauck.
        Gauck was solid, impassive, blank-faced. In body he was about the
same height as Rogov. Where Rogov was muscular, Gauck was flabby. Where
Rogov's skin was fair and shot through with the pink and health of exercise,
Gauck's skin was like stale lard, greasy, gray-green, sickly even on the
best of days.
        Gauck's eyes were black and small. His glance was as cold and sharp
as death. Gauck had no friends, no enemies, no beliefs, no enthusiasm. Even
Gausgofer was afraid of him.
        Gauck never drank, never went out, never received mail, never sent
mail, never spoke a spontaneous word. He was never rude, never kind, never
friendly, never really withdrawn: he couldn't withdraw any more than the
constant withdrawal of all his life.
        Rogov had turned to his wife in the secrecy of their bedroom soon
after Gausgofer and Gauck came and had said, "Anastasia, is that man sane?"
        Cherpas intertwined the fingers of her beautiful, expressive hands.
She who had been tbe wit of a thousand scientific meetings was now at a loss
for words. She looked up at her husband with a troubled expression. "I don't


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know, comrade... I just don't know..."
        Rogov smiled his amused Slavic smile. "At the least then I don't
think Glausgofer knows either."
        Cherpas snorted with laughter and picked up her hairbrush. "That she
d1oesn't. She really doesn't know, does she? I'll wager she doesn't even
know to whom he reports."
        That conversation had receded into the past. Gauck, Gausgofer, the
bloodless eyes and the black eyes-they remained.
        Every dinner the four sat down together.
        Every morning the four met in the laboratory.
        Rogov's great courage, high sanity, and keen humor kept the work
going.
        Cherpas's tiashing genius fueled him whenever the routine overloaded
his magnificent intellect.
        Gausgofer spied and watched and smiled her bloodless smiles;
sometimes, curiously enough, Gausgofer made genuinely constructive
suggestimis. She never understood the whole frame of reference of their
work, but she knew enough of the mechanical and engineering details to be
very useful on occasion.
        Glauck caine in, sat down quietly, said nothing, did nothing. He did
not even snioke. He never fidgeted. He never went to sleep. He just watched.
        Thie laboratory grew and with it there grew the immense
configuration of the espionage machine.

III

        In theory what Rogov had proposed and Cherpas seconded was
imaginable. It consisted of an attempt to work out an integrated theory for
all the electrical and radiation phenomena accompanying consciousness, and
to duplicate the electrical functions of mind without the use of animal
material.
        The range of potential products was immense. The first product
Stalin had asked for was a receiver, if possible, capable of tuning in the
thoughts (if a human mind and of translating those thoughts into either a
punch-tape machine, an adapted German Hellschreiber machine, or phonetic
speech. If the grids could be turned around and the brain-equivalent machine
could serve not as a receiver but as a transmitter, it might he able to send
out stunning forces which would paralyze or kill the process of thought.
        At its best, Rogov's machine would be designed to confuse human
thought over great distances, to select human targets to be confused, and to
Inlintain an electronic jamming system which would jam straight into the
bum,in mind without the requirement of tubes or receivers.
        He had succeeded -- in part. He had given himself a violent headache
in the first year of work.
        In the third year he had killed mice at a distance of ten
kilometers. In the seventh year he had brought on mass hallucinations and a
wave of suicides in a neighboring village. It was this which impressed
Bulganin.
        Rogov was now working on the receiver end. No one had ever explored
the infinitely narrow, infinitely subtle bands of radiation which
distinguished one human mind from another, but Rogov was trying, as it were,
to tune in on minds far away.
        He had tried to develop a telepathic helmet of some kind, but it did
not work. He had then turned away from the reception of pure thought to the
reception of visual and auditory images. Where the nerve ends reached the
brain itself, he had managed over the years to distinguish whole pockets of
micro-phenomena, and on some of these he had managed to get a fix.
        With infinitely delicate tuning he had succeeded one day in picking
up the eyesight of their second chauffeur and had managed, thanks to a
needle thrust in just below his own right eyelid, to "see" through the other
man's eyes as the other man, all unaware, washed their Zis limousine 1,600


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meters away.
        Cherpas had surpassed his feat later that winter and had managed to
bring in an entire family having dinner over in a nearby city. She had
invited B. Gauck to have a needle inserted into his cheekbone so that he
could see with the eyes of an unsuspecting spied-on stranger. Gauck had
refused any kind of needles, but Gausgofer had joined in the work.
        The espionage machine was beginning to take form.
        Two more steps remained. The first step consisted of tuning in on
some remote target, such as the White House in Washington or the NATO
Headquarters outside of Paris. The machine itself could obtain perfect
intelligence by eavesdropping on the living minds of people far away.
        The second problem consisted of finding a method of jamming those
minds at a distance, stunning them so that the subject personnel fell into
tears, confusion, or sheer insanity.
        Rogov had tried, but he had never gotten more than thirty kilometers
from the nameless village of Ya. Ch.
        One November there had been seventy cases of hysteria, most of them
ending in suicide, down in the city of Kharkov several hundred kilometers
away, but Rogov was not sure that his own machine was doing it.
        Comrade Gausgofer dared to stroke his sleeve. Her white lips smiled
and her watery eyes grew happy as she said in her high, cruel voice, "You
can do it, Comrade. You can do it."
        Cherpas looked on with contempt. Gauck said nothing.
        The female agent Glausgofer saw Cherpas's eyes upon her, and for a
moment an arc of living hatred leapt between the two women.
        The three of them went back to work on the machine.
        Glauck sat on his stool and watched them.
        The laboratory workers never talked very much and the room was
quiet.

IV

        It was the year in which Eristratov died that the machine made a
breakthrough. Eristratov died after the Soviet and People's democracies had
tried to end the cold war with the Americans.
        It was May. Outside the laboratory the squirrels ran among the
trees. The leftovers from the night's rain dripped on the ground and kept
the earth moist. It was comfortable to leave a few windows open and to let
the smell of the forest into the workshop.
        The smell of their oil-burning heaters and the stale smell of
insulation, of ozone, and of the heated electronic gear was something with
which all of them were much too familiar.
        Rogov had found that his eyesight was beginning to suffer because he
had to get the receiver needle somewhere near his optic nerve in order to
obtain visual impressions from the machine. After months of experimentation
with both animal and human subjects he had decided to copy one of their last
experiments, successfully performed on a prisoner boy fifteen years of age
by having the needle slipped directly through the skull, up and behind the
eye. Rogov had disliked using prisoners, because Gauck, speaking on behalf
of security, always insisted that a prisoner used in experiments had to be
destroyed in not less than five days from the beginning of the experiment.
Rogov had satisfied himself that the skull-and-needle technique was safe,
but he was very tired of trying to get frightened, unscientific people to
carry the load of intense, scientific attentiveness required by the machine.
        Rogov recapitulated the situation to his wife and to their two
strange colleagues.
        Somewjat ill-humored, he shouted at Gauck, "Have you ever known what
this is all about? You've been here years. Do you know what we're trying to
do? Don't you ever want to take part in the experiments yourself? Do you
realize how many years of mathematics have gone into the making of these
grids and the calculation of these wave patterns? Are you good for


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anything?"
        Gauck said, tonelessly and without anger, "Comrade Professor, I am
obeying orders. You are obeying orders, too. I've never impeded you."
        Rogov almost raved. "I know you never got in my way. We're all good
servants of the Soviet State. It's not a question of loyalty. It's a
question of enthusiasm. Don't you ever want to glimpse the science we're
making? We are a hundred years or a thousand years ahead of the capitalist
Americans. Doesn't that excite you? Aren't you a human being? Why don't you
take part? Will you understand me when I explain it?"
        Gauck said nothing: he looked at Rogov with his beady eyes. His
dirty-gray face did not change expression. Gausgofer exhaled loudly in a
grotesquely feminine sigh of relief, but she too said nothing. Cherpas, her
winning smile and her friendly eyes looking at her husband and two
colleagues, said, "Go ahead, Nikolai. The comrade can follow if he wants
to."
        Gausgofer looked enviously at Cherpas. She seemed inclined to keep
quiet, but then had to speak. She said, "Do go ahead, Comrade Professor."
        Said Rogov, "Kharosho, I'll do what I can. The machine is now ready
to receive minds over immense distances." He wrinkled his lip in amused
scorn. "We may even spy into the brain of the chief rascal himself and find
out what Eisenhower is planning to do today against the Soviet people.
Wouldn't it he wonderful if our machine could stun him and leave him sitting
addled at his desk?"
        Gauck commented, "Don't try it. Not without orders."
        Rogov ignored the interruption and went on. "First I receive. I
don't know what I will get, who I will get, or where they will be. All I
know is that this machine will reach out across all the minds of men and
beasts now living and it will bring the eyes and ears of a single mind
directly into mine. With the new needle going directly into the brain it
will be possible for me to get a very sharp fixation of position. The
trouble with that boy last week was that even though we knew he was seeing
something outside of this room, he appeared to be getting sounds in a
foreign language and did not know enough English or German to realize where
or what the machine bad taken him to see."
        Cherpas laughed. "I'm not worried. I saw then it was safe. You go
first, my husband. If our comrades don't mind --?"
        Gauck nodded.
        Gausgofer lifted her bony hand breathlessly up to her skinny throat
and said, "Of course, Comrade Rogov, of course. You did all the work. You
must be the first."
        Rogov sat down.
        A white-smocked technician brought the machine over to him. It was
mounted on three rubber-tired wheels and it resembled the small X-ray units
used by dentists. In place of the cone at the head of the X-ray machine
there was a long, incredibly tough needle. It had been made for them by the
best surgical-steel craftsmen in Prague.
        Another tecbnician came up with a shaving bowl, a brush, and a
straight razor. Under the gaze of Gauck's deadly eyes he shaved an area four
centimeters square on the top of Rogov's head.
        Cherpas herself then took over. She set her husband's head in the
clamp and used a micrometer to get the skull fittings so tight and so clear
that the needle would push through the dura mater at exactly the right
point.
        All this work she did deftly with kind, very strong fingers. She was
gentle, but she was firm. She was his wife, but she was also his fellow
scientist and his fellow colleague in the Soviet State.
        She stepped back and looked at her work. She gave him one of their
own very special smiles, the secret gay smiles which they usually exchanged
with each other only when they were alone. "You won't want to do this every
day. We're going to have to find some way of getting into the brain without
using this needle. But it won't hurt you."


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        "Does it matter if it does hurt?" said Rogov. "This is the triumph
of all our work. Bring it down."
        Gausgofer looked as though she would like to be invited to take part
in the experiment, but she dared not interrupt Cherpas. Cherpas, her eyes
gleaming with attention, reached over and pulled down the handle, which
brought the tough needle to within a tenth of a millimeter of the right
place.
        Rogov spoke very carefully. "All I felt was a little sting. You can
turn the power on now."
        Gausgofer could not contain herself. Timidly she addressed Cherpas.
"May I turn on the power?"
        Cherpas nodded. Gauck watched. Rogov waited. Gausgofer pulled down
the bayonet switch.
        The power went on.
        With an impatient twist of her hand, Anastasia Cherpas ordered the
laboratory attendants to the other end of the room. Two or three of them had
stopped working and were staring at Rogov, staring like dull sheep. They
looked embarrassed and then they huddled in a white-smocked herd at tbe
other end of the laboratory.
        The wet May wind blew in on all of them. The scent of forest and
leaves was about them.
        The three watebed Rogov.
        Rogov's complexion began to change. His face became flushed. His
breathing was so loud and heavy they could hear it several meters away.
Cherpas fell on her knees in front of him, eyebrows lifted in mute inquiry.
        Rogov did not dare nod, not with a needle in his brain. He said
through flushed lips, speaking thickly and heavily, "Do -- not -- stop --
now."
        Rogov himself did not know what was happening. He thought he might
see an American room, or a Russian room, or a tropical colony. He might see
palm trees, or forests, or desks. He might see guns or buildings, wash-rooms
or beds, hospitals, homes, churches. He might see with the eyes of a child,
a woman, a man, a soldier, a philosopher, a slave, a worker, a savage, a
religious one, a Communist, a reactionary, a governor, a police-man. He
might hear voices; he might hear English, or French, or Russian, Swahili,
Hindu, Malay, Chinese, Ukrainian, Armenian, Turkish, Greek. He did not know.
        Something strange was happening.
        It seemed to him that he had left the world, that he had left time.
The hours and the centuries shrank up as the meters and the machine,
unchecked, reached out for the most powerful signal which any humankind had
transmitted. Rogov did not know it, but the machine had conquered time.
        The machine reached the dance, the human challenger, and the dance
festival of the year that was not A.D. 13,582, but which might have been.
        Before Rogov's eyes the golden shape and the golden steps shook and
fluttered in a ritual a thousand times more compelling than hypnotism. The
rhythms meant nothing and everything to him. This was Russia, this was
Communism. This was his life -- indeed it was his soul acted out before his
very eyes.
        For a second, the last second of his ordinary life, he looked
through flesh-and-blood eyes and saw the shabby woman whom he had once
thought beautiful. He saw Anastasia Cherpas, and he did not care.
        His vision concentrated once again on the dancing image, this woman,
those postures, that dance!
        Then the sound came in -- music which would have made a Tchaikovsky
weep, orchestras which would have silenced Shostakovich or Khachaturian
forever, so much did it surpass the music of the twentieth century.
        The people-who-were-not-people between the stars had taught mankind
many arts. Rogov's mind was the best of its time, but his time was far, far
behind the time of the great dance. With that one vision Rogov went firmly
and completely mad. He became blind to the sight of Cherpas, Gausgofer, and



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Gauck. He forgot the village of Ya. Ch. He forgot himself. He was like a
fish, bred in stale fresh water, which is thrown for the first time into a
living stream. He was like an insect emerging from the chrysalis. His
twentieth-century mind could not hold the imagery and the impact of the
music and the dance.
        But the needle was there and the needle transmitted into his mind
more than his mind could stand.
        The synapses of his brain flicked like switches. The future flooded
into him.
        He fainted. Cherpas leapt forward and lifted the needle. Rogov fell
out of the chair.

V

         It was Gauck who got the doctors. By nightfall they had Rogov
resting comfortably and under heavy sedation. There were two doctors, both
from the mititary headquarters. Gauck had obtained authorization for their
services by dint of a direct telephone call to Moscow.
         Both the doctors were annoyed. The senior one never stopped grumbing
at Cherpas.
         "You should not have done it, Comrade Cherpas. Comrade Rogov should
not have done it either. You can't go around sticking things into brains.
That's a medical problem. None of you people are doctors of medicine. It's
all right for you to contrive devices with the prisoners, but you can't
inflict things like this on Soviet scientific personnel. I'm going to get
blamed because I can't bring Rogov back. You heard what he was saying. All
he did was mutter, 'That golden shape on the golden steps, that music, that
me is a true me, that golden shape, that golden shape, I want to be with
that golden shape,' and rubbish like that. Maybe you've ruined a first-class
brain forever --" He stopped himself short as though he had said too much.
After all, the problem was a security problem and apparently boib Gauck and
Gausgofer represented the security agencies.
         Gausgofer turned her watery eyes on the doctor and said in a low,
even, unbelievably poisonous voice, "Could she have done it, Comrade
Doctor?"
         The doctor lookod at Cherpas, answering Gausgofer. "How? You were
there. I wasn't. How could she have done it? Why should she do it? You were
there."
         Cherpas said nothing. Her lips were compressed tight with grief. Her
yellow hair gleamed, but her hair was all that remained, at that moment, of
her beauty. She was frightened and she was getting ready to be sad. She had
no time to hate foolish women or to worry about security; she was concerned
with her colleague, her lover, her husband, Rogov.
         There was nothing much for them to do except to wait. They went into
large room and tried to eat.
         The servants had laid out immense dishes of cold sliced meat, pots
of caviar, and an assortment of sliced breads, pure butter genuine coffee,
and liquors.
         None of them ate much.
         They were all waiting.
         At 9:15 the sound of rotors beat against the house.
         The big helicopter had arrived from Moscow.
         Higher authorities took over.

VI

            The higher authonty was a deputy minister, a man by the name of V.
Karper.
        Karper was accompanied by two or three uniformed colonels, by an
engineer civilian, by a man from the headquarters of the Communist Party of
the Soviet Union, and by two doctors.


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         They dispensed with the courtesies. Karper merely said, "You are
Cherpas. I have met you. You are Gausgofer. I have seen your reports. You
are Gauck."
         The delegation went into Rogov's bedroom. Karper snapped, "Wake
him."
         The military doctor who had given him sedatives said "Comrade, you
mustn't --"
         Karper cut him off. "Shut up." He turned to his own physician,
pointed at Rogov. "Wake him up."
         The doctor from Moscow talked briefly with the senior military
doctor. He too began shaking his head. He gave Karper a disturbed look.
Karper guessed what he might hear. He said, "Go ahead. I know there is some
danger to the patient, but I've got to get back to Moscow with a report."
         The two doctors worked over Rogov. One of them asked for his bag and
gave Rogov an injection. Then all of them stood back from the bed.
         Rogov writhed in his bed. He squirmed. His eyes opened, but he did
not see them. With childishly clear and simple words Rogov began to talk:
         that golden shape, the golden stairs, the music, take me back to the
music, I want to be with the music, I really am the music..." and so on in
an endless monotone.
         Cherpas leaned over him so that her face was directly in his line of
vision. "My darling! My darling, wake up. This is serious."
         It was evident to all of them that Rogov did not hear her, because
he went on muttering about golden shapes.
         For the first time in many years Gauck took the initiative. He spoke
directly to the man from Moscow, Karper. "Comrade, may I make a suggestion?"
         Karper looked at him. Gauck nodded at Gausgofer. "We were both sent
here by orders of Comrade Stalin. She is senior. She bears the
responsibility. All I do is double-check."
         The deputy minister turned to Gausgofer. Gausgofer had been staring
at Rogov on the bed; her blue, watery eyes were tearless and her face was
drawn into an expression of extreme tension.
         Karper ignored that and said to her firmly, clearly, commandingly,
"What do you recommend?"
         Gausgofer looked at him very directly and said in a measured voice,
"I do not think that the case is one of brain damage. I believe that he has
obtained a communication which he must share with another human being and
that unless one of us follows him there may be no answer."
         Karper barked, "Very well. But what do we do?"
         "Let me follow -- into the machine."
         Anastasia Cherpas began to laugh slyly and frantically. She seized
Karper's arm and pointed her finger at Gausgofer. Karper stared at her.
         Cherpas slowed down her laughter and shouted at Karper, "The woman's
mad. She has loved my husband for many years. She has hated my presence, and
now she thinks that she can save him. She thinks that she can follow. She
thinks that he wants to communicate with her. That's ridiculous. I will go
myself!"
         Karper looked about. He selected two of his staff and stepped over
into a corner of the room. They could hear him talking, but they could not
distinguish the words. After a conference of six or seven minutes he
retumed.
         "You people have been making serious security charges against each
other. I find that one of our finest weapons, the mind of Rogov, is damaged.
Rogov's not just a man. He is a Soviet project." Scorn entered his voice. "I
find that the senior security officer, a policewoman with a notable record,
is charged by another Soviet scientist with a silly infatuation. I disregard
such charges. The development of the Soviet State and the work of Soviet
science cannot be impeded by personalities. Comrade Gausgofer will follow. I
am acting tonight because my own staff physician says that Rogov may not
live and it is very important for us to find out just what has happened to
him and why."


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        He turned his baneful gaze on Cherpas. "You will not protest,
Comrade. Your mind is the property of the Russian State. Your life and your
education have been paid for by the workers. You cannot throw these things
away because of personal sentiment. If there is anything to be found Comrade
Gausgofer will find it for both of us."
        The whole group of them went back into the laboratory. The
frightened technicians were brought over from the barracks. The lights were
turned on and the windows were closed. The May wind had become chilly.
        The needle was sterilized.
        The electronic grids were warmed up.
        Gausgofer's face was an impassive mask of triumph as she sat in the
receiving chair. She smiled at Gauck as an attendant brought the soap and
the razor to shave a clean patch on her scalp.
        Gauck did not smile back. His black eyes stared at her. He said
nothing. He did nothing. He watched.
        Karper walked to and fro, glancing from time to time at the hasty
but orderly preparation of the experiment.
        Anastasia Cherpas sat down at a laboratory table about five meters
away from the group. She watched the back of Gausgofer's head as the needle
was lowered. She buried her face in her hands. Some of the others thought
they heard her weeping, but no one heeded Cherpas very much. They were too
intent on watching Gausgofer.
        Gausgofer's face became red. Perspiration poured down the flabby
cheeks. Her fingers tightened on the arm of her chair.
        Suddenly she shouted at them, "That golden shape on the golden
steps."
        She leapt to her feet, dragging the apparatus with her.
        No one had expected this. The chair fell to the floor. The needle
holder, lifted from the floor, swung its weight sidewise. The needle twisted
like a scythe in Gausgofer's brain. Neither Rogov nor Cherpas had ever
expected a struggle within the chair. They did not know that they were going
to tune in on A.D. 13,582.
        The body of Gausgofer lay on the floor, surrounded by excited
officials.
        Karper was acute enough to look around at Cherpas.
        She stood up from the laboratory table and walked toward him. A thin
line of blood flowed down from her cheekbone. Another line of blood dripped
down from a position on her cheek, one and a half centimeters forward of the
opening of her left ear.
        With tremendous composure, her face as white as fresh snow, she
smiled at him. "I eavesdropped."
        Karper said, "What?"
        "I eavesdropped, eavesdropped," repeated Anastasia Cherpas. "I found
out where my husband has gone. It is not somewhere in this world. It is
something hypnotic beyond all the limitations of our science. We have made a
great gun, but the gun has fired upon us before we could fire it. You may
think you will change my mind, Comrade Deputy Minister, but you will not.
        "I know what has happened. My husband is never coming back. And I am
not going any further forward without him.
        "Project Telescope is finished. You may try to get someone else to
finish it, but you will not."
        Karper stared at her and then turned aside.
        Gauck stood in his way.
        "What do you want?" snapped Karper.
        "To tell you," said Gauck very softly, "to tell you, Comrade Deputy
Minister, that Rogov is gone as she says he is gone, that she is finished if
she says she is finished, that all this is true. I know."
        Karper glared at him. "How do you know?"
        Gauck remained utterly impassive. With superhuman assurance and
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know these people, though I do not know their science. Rogov is done for."
        At last Karper believed him. Karper sat down in a chair beside a
table. He looked up at his staff. "Is it possible?"
        No one answered.
        "I ask you, is it possible?"
        They all looked at Anastasia Cherpas, at her beautiful hair, her
determined blue eyes, and the two thin lines of blood where she had
eavesdropped with small needles.
        Karper turned to her. "What do we do now?"
        For an answer she dropped to her knees and began sobbing, "No, no,
not Rogov! No, no, not Rogov!"
        And that was all that they could get out of her. Gauck looked on.

        0n the golden steps in the golden light, a golden shape danced a
dream beyond the limits of all imagination, danced aad drew the music to
herself until a sight of yearning, yearning which became a hope and a
torment, went through the hearts of living things on a thousand worlds.
        Edges of the golden scene faded raggedly and unevenly into black.
The gold dimmed down to a pale gold-silver sheen and then to silver, last of
all to white. The dancer who had been golden was now a forlorn white-pink
figure standing, quiet and fatigued, on the immense white steps. The
applause of a thousand worlds roared in upon her.
        She looked blindly at them. The dance had overwhelmed her, too.
Their applause could mean nothing. The dance was an end in itself She would
have to live, somehow, until she danced again.
        War No. 81-Q (Rewritten Version)

        For a few brief happy centuries, war was made into an enormous game.
        Then the world population passed the thirty-billion point, Acting
Chief Minister Chatterji presented the "Rightful Proportions" formula to the
world authorities, and war turned from a game into realities. When it was
over, hideous new creepers covered the wreckage of cities, saints and morons
camped in the overpasses of disused highways, and a few man-hunting machines
scoured the world in search of surviving weapons.

I

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

        War came near between Tibet and America.
        Tibet had been liberated from the Goonhogo, the central Chinese
government, only with generous American help and with the threat (was it
bluff? was it death?) trembling in the rocket pits around Lake Erie. No one
ever found out whether the Americans would have risked real war, because the
Chinese did not force a show of strength. The Americans had been supported



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by the Reunion of India and the Federated Congos on the floor of the world
assembly, and there were political debts to be settled when the Tibetan
liberation came true. The Congo asked for support on Saharan claims, which
was easy enough, since this was a matter of voting in the assembly, but the
Reunion of India asked for the largest solar power-collector, to reach
eighty miles along the southern crest of the Himalayas. The Americans
hesitated, and then built it under lease from Tibet, keeping title in their
own hands. Just before the first surges of power were due to pour down into
the Bengal plains, Tibetan soldiers entered the control rooms with a warrant
from the Tibetan ministry of the interior seizing the plant, Tibetan
technicians hooked in new cables which had been flown from the Goonhogo base
at Teli in Yunnan, and the Tibetans announced they had leased the entire
power output to their recent enemies, the Goonhogo of China.
        Even in politics, where gratitude is seldom expected, such bleak
ingratitude was hard to bear. The Americans had just freed the Tibetans from
the Chinese, and now the Tibetans seized the reward which America had built
for Indian help on Tibetan territory. Legally, the deal was tight. The solar
accumulators were on Tibetan soil, and under the system of "sovereignty"
which prevailed at that time, any nation could do what it pleased on its own
territory and get off scot-free.
        Some Americans were so furious that they clamored for a real war
against the Goonhogo of China. The president himself remarked mildly that it
dif not seem right to fight an antagonist merely because he showed himself
cleverer than we.
        Congress voted a licensed war.
        The president had no further choice. He had to declare war on Tibet.
He put a request for the permit in to the world secretariat. The license
came back for "War No. 8l-Q," since someone in the world secretariat figured
that Tibet should not pay for any but the smallest-size war. The Americans
had asked for a class-A war, which would have lasted up to four full days.
The world secretariat refused a review of the case.
        There was nothing left to do.
        America was at war.
        The president sent for Jack Reardon.

II

        Reardon was the best licenscd warrior America had.
        "Morning, Jack," said the president. "You haven't fought for two
years, when Iceland beat us. Do you feel up to it now?"
        "Fitter than ever, sir," said lack. He hesitated and then went on,
"Please don't mention Iceland, sir. Nobody has ever beaten Sigurd
Sigurdssen. Lucky for us that he's retired."
        "I wouldn't have called you if I just meant to reproach you. I know
you did the best that anyone could do short of the great Sigurd himself.
That's why you're here. How do you think we should run it?"
        "There's not much choice on ships, not with a class-Q war. They had
better all five be the new Mark Zeros. Since we challenged, I think the
Tibetans will choose the cheapest war they can. They don't want to run up a
big hill on themselves. The Goonhogo would help them, but the Chinese would
be around two days later, asking for payment."
        "I didn't know," said the President with a gentle smile, "that you
were also an expert on international affairs."
        Reardon looked uncomfortable. "Sorry, sir," he muttered.
        "That's all right," said the president. "I had it figured the same
way. They will take the Kerguelen islands then?"
        "Probably," said Reardon, "and our picture people are going to be
furious. But the French keep those islands cheap. It's the only way they can
hold it in the market as a war zone."
        The president's manner changed completely. Instead of being a
civilized o1d gentleman who had recently had his breakfast, he acted like


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the shrewd, selfish politician who had beaten all his competitors for the
job and who had then found that his country needed a president much more
than he had ever needed a presidency. He looked Reardon in the face, staring
sharply and deeply into his eyes, and then asked, in a formal, solemn tone:
        "Jack, this maybe the biggest question of your life. How do you want
to fight it?"
        Reardon stiffened. "I thought it would be out of place to make up a
list of team mates, sir. I thought perhaps you would have a list --"
        "I don't mean that at all," said the president. "Do you prefer to
fight it alone?"
        "Alone, sir?"
        "Don't play modest with me, Reardon," said the president. "You're
the best man we have. As a matter of fact, you're the only first-class man
we have. There are some youngsters coming up, but there aren't any more in
your class --"
        Reardon forgot himself, so technical was the subject, and
interrupted the president: "Boggs is good, sir. He's had six fights as a
mercenary in these little African wars."
        "Reardon," said the presideni, "you interrupted me."
        "I beg your pardon, sir," stammered Reardon.
        "Boggs has nothing to do with it. I've seen him too, you know. Even
if I add him, that only makes two pilots who are first-class."
        Reardon looked straight at the president, his face begging for
permission to speak.
        The president smiled faintly: "Okay, what is it?"
        "How about filling in the team with mercenaries, sir?"
        "Mercenaries!" shouted the president. "Good lord, no! That would be
the worst possible thing we could do. We'd look like fools all over the
world. I played with real war to get Tibet free, and the Goonhogo of China
gave in just because some of the people in the Goonhogo thought that
Americans were still tough. Hire one mercenary and it's all gone. We have
the posttlre of America to preserve. Will you or won't you?"
        Reardon looked genuinely puzzled, "Will I what, sir?"
        "You fool," said the president, "can you fight the war alone or
can't you? You know the rules."
        Reardon knew them. For using a single pilot, the nation obtained a
tremendous advantage. Two enemy ships down and his nation won, no ijiatter
how many ships he himself lost. There hadn't been a one-pilot war since the
great Sigurd Sigurdssen defeated Federated Europe, Morocco, Japan, and
Brazil in one-two-three-four order, thirty-two years ago. After that no one
bad challenged Iceland to a class-Q war. Iceland went on declaring licensed
wars on the slightest provocation; the leelanders had accumulated enough
credit to fight a hundred wars. The challenged powers all chose the largest,
most complicated wars they could, trying to swamp Sigurd in a maze of
teamwork.
        Reardon stared out of the window. The president let him think. At
last he spoke, and his voice was heavy with conviction,
        "I can try it, sir. They've given us the chance by demanding a
elass-Q war. But I'm no Sigurd and you know it, sir."
        "I know it, Reardon," said the president seriously, "but perhaps
none of us -- not even you yourself -- know what your very best performance
can be. Will you do it, Reardon, for the country, for me, for yourself?"
        Reardon nodded. Fame and victory looked very bleak to him at that
moment.

III

        The formalities came through with no trouble.
        Tibet and America both claimed the Himalayan Escarpment Solar Banks.
They agreed that the title should yield through war.
        The Universal War Board granted a war permit, subject to strict and


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clear conditions:
        1. The war was to be fought only at the times and places specified.
        2. No human being was to be killed or injured, directly or
indirectly, by any performance of the machines of war. Emotional injury was
not to be considered.
        3. An appropriate territory was to be leased and cleared. Provisions
should be made for the maximum removal of wildlife, particularly birds,
which might be hurt by the battle.
        4. The weapons were to be winged dirigibles with a maximum weight of
22,000 tons, propelled by non-nuclear engines.
        5. All radio channels were to be strictly monitored by the U.W.B.
and by both parties. At any complaint ofjamming or interference the war was
to be brought to a halt.
        6. Each dirigible should have six non-explosive missiles and thirty
non-explosive countermissiles.
        7. The U.W.B. was to intercept and to destroy all stray missiles and
real weapons before the missiles left the war zone, and each party,
regardless of the outcome of the war, was to pay the U.W.B. directly for the
interception and destruction of stray missiles.
        8. No living human beings were to be allowed on the ships, in the
war zone, or on the communications equipment which relayed the war to the
world's televisions. (The last remembered casualties of "safe war" had been
video crews who had ridden their multicopter into the blazing guns of a
combat dirigible before the pilot, thousands ofmiles away, could see them
and stop his guns.)
        9. The "stipulated territory" was to be the War Territory of
Kerguelen, to be leased by both parties from the Fourteenth French Republic,
as agent for Federated Europe, at the price of four million gold livres the
hour.
        10. Seating for the war, apart from video rights belonging to the
combatants, should remain the sole property of the lessor of the War
Territory of Kerguelen.
        With these arrangements, the French off-lifted their sheep from the
island ranges of Kerguelen -- the weary sheep were getting thoroughly used
to being lifted from their grazing land to Antarctic lighters every time a
war occurred -- and the scene was ready.
        Reardon planned to work from Omaha; he supposed that his Tibetan
counterparts would be stationed in Lhasa, but since Tibet had not been an
independent power for many generations, he wondered what mercenaries they
might obtain. They might get Sung from Peking; he had six battles more than
Reirdon and was a dependable fighter.

IV

        The French sold out their seats and view-spots around Kerguelen very
ersily. The usual smugglers sold telescopes which would allegedly give
perfeet non-copyright views oftile war and, as usual, most ofthem did not
work; the purchasers merely had a cruise out of Durban, Madras, or Perth in
vain.
        The warships were ready. The American ones were gold in color,
stubby wings sticking out from the sides oftheir cigar-shaped bodies, the
ancient American eagle surrounded by red, white and blue circles on their
sides. The five Tibetan ships turned out to be old Chinese Goonhogo models
on rental. The emblem ofChina had been painted out and the prayer-wheel of
Tibet shone fresh with new paint. The Chinese mechanics were expert to the
point of trickiness; the American member of the umpire team insisted on
inspection of all ten ships before he signed for the entry into the War
Territory of Kerguelen.
        The minute ofopening was noon, local time. Reardon started with a
real advantage. Positions had been chosen at random by the umpires and he
was facing into a strong west wind, while the enemy ships had to hold back


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lest they be blown out of the territory.
        Some fool in a swivel chair had named the American airships for
characters out of Shakespeare, so that Reardon found himself managing the
Prospero, the Ariel, the Oberon, the Caliban, and the Titania. The Tibetans
had not taken the time to re-name the Chinese ships, which had the titles of
old dynasties: the Han, the Yuan, the Ch'ing, the Chin, and the Ming.
        Reardon kept his ships lined up close to the spectators, so that the
Tibetans could not fire missiles at him without shooting out of the
Territory and being penalized. He glanced up at the board in Omaha to see
his antagonists, who had come on the telescreen. Sung was there, all right;
so, too, was Baartek, a famous mercenary who flew under the flag of
Liechtenstein and looked for quarrels wherever he could find them. The other
three were strangers. One of them, wearing Tibetan clothes, was a girl.
"That's a good Chinese propaganda trick," thought Reardon. "Trust the
Goonhogo never to miss a bet!"
        The Chinese got the displeasure of the spectators by casting a smoke
screen. There really wasn't much else they could do, with their dirigibles
pumping awkwardly in reverse against the wind. When the smoke screen neared
his ships, Reardon jumped. He put the Prospero on manual, made three wild
guesses, and sprang.
        The Prospero came ruined out of the other side of the smoke wall.
Two missiles had pierced her and Reardon doubted that the salvage crew would
get much of her by the time the war ended.
        But he had almost won the war. He had rammed both the Han and the
Ming. He used the eyes of the Ariel to watch them. The crippled Ming fought
for position over the cold, cold waters of the deep South Indian Ocean.
Reardon suspected that Baartek had taken over. She fired suddenly; he
twisted the Ariel. Sheets of flame behind his ship told him that the U.W.B.
had intercepted the missiles with live weapons, to keep them from harming
the massed spectators. The flashes went on for so long that his viewscreens
shone with a quivering, milky white. There were going to be a lot of
headaches among those spectators who watched those interception flashes too
long, thought he. Baartek obviously did not care what his Tibetan employers
paid in penalty money. Yet the Ariel had gotten away so easily!
        The Han, meanwhile, though falling, had attacked the Caliban, which
lost its left wing and began drifting downward. Reardon shot a reproachful
glance at the robot who had been managing the ship for him, and decided not
to take time to curse the robot programmers who had guessed events so
poorly.
        The face and voice of the U.W.B. umpire appeared on all screens.
"The Caliban, American. The Han, Tibetan. Take both of them off the field.
Suspend fire and remove."
        Under the scoring system, Reardon had just lost the winning of the
war. All he needed to do was to down two enemy ships and keep one of his own
in the air for the period of the war, and he had won. But the Ming, now on
the whitecaps and breaking up, was the first of his victories; the Han was
to have been the other. Now he had to start over again.
        He put the Ariel on robot and took over the Titania himself.
        One of the enemy ships began creeping toward him along the line of
the spectators. It could not fire at him, because the Territory was
rectangular and the Titania was too close to a corner. He could not fire at
it unless he got the Titania down with her belly almost in the water; then
his stray shots would escape into space.
        He and the enemy started their dive at the same time.
        His command screen blanked out. The face of the president appeared
on the screen. Only the president had that kind of overriding priority.
        "How's it going, my boy? Doesn't look too good, does it?"
        Reardon wanted to scream, "Get off, you fool!"
        But it was the president; one does not scream at presidents.
He forced himself to speak politely, though he knew his face had gone white
with rage. "Please, sir, get off the screen. It's all right, sir. Thank


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you."
        The president got off the screen and Reardon found himself back on
the Titania just as the enemy cut her in two.
        In a wile rage, but a controlled rage, he took over the Ariel,
letting the ruined Titania go to the waves below.
        He spat a smoke screen himself, and it rushed toward him. He rose to
the lop of it just in time to see two Chinese ships go looking for him. He
dived back in. The smoke was thinning. He struck for the lever which fired a
time-on-target, all missiles reaching for the same instant. But he thought
of that fool of a president and he struck the wrong lever: DESTRUCT.
        The Ariel blew up in a pretty show of fireworks. There were two
other or orange clouds near her. The video eye on the foredeck of the Ariel
showed him that he had technically won the war. The other two ships went
down with him.
        He switched to the Oberon, his last remaining ship. There were still
two Chincse to his one. They were the Ch'ing and the Yuan.
        The umpire came on, "You hit 'destruct.' That is not allowed as a
weapon in a licensed war."
        "It was an error," snapped Reardon. "You can look at your tape of
me. You can see that I was reaching for 'time-on-target'."
        There was a moment of silence while the blank screens buzzed. Then
the umpire came back on, speaking to Baartek and Sung but letting Reardon
listen in. "The rules don't really cover this," said the umpire. "It was a
mistake, but your ships were taking a chance in getting that close to him.
He was coming after you from the top. I rule it a net gain."
        Now all he had to do was to stay alive for the next sixty-seven
minutes -- alive meaning with a ship in the field.
        He began creeping along the line of the spectators, so close that
some of them backed up. Many voices called for the umpire, but Reardon made
sure that he had his hundred meters' tolerance.
        The Ch'ing and the Yuan both lined upon him. He had to use emergency
jets to dip in order to escape their missiles. He thought that the Ch'ing
had two left and the Yuan three, but the battle had gone so fast, with so
much in smoke, that he could not be absolutely sure. It was like some of the
old card games: sometimes even the best players lost command of a complete
recollection of the cards.
        He dived again.
        The Chinese ships followed.
        A missile clipped the elevator vane of his right wing.
        Reardon took advantage of it. He turned the Oberon sideways, like a
crippled ship, and let it drop toward the water.
        The Yuan followed for a look and he gave it to her. He cut a hole in
her that he could see daylight through. She drifted toward the spectators,
out of control. There was a bright flash from the protective weapons ofthe
U.W.B. and she was gone.
        The Oberon touched water and as she touched, Reardon rammed the
engines into full reverse. He fired two of his precious missiles directly
into the water itself. An enormous cloud of steam arose and the Oberon rose
faster than an airship had ever risen before. He could not see where he was
going, because his video was still looking at the waves and he was rising in
reverse, but he watched his damage-control screen and he set his audio on
HIGH.
        The impact came.
        The Oberon crunched into something that could only be the Ch'ing.
        Reardon increased the thrust, cutting his ship in a sharp turn,
still in reverse. He fired backwards into the ship he had rammed and pushed
it :nexorably back toward the water. The two ships, in collision, had not
yet burst into flame.
        Damage control suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree. The whole back
of his ship was gone.



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        Using his fingertips and stroking the controls as lightly as he
possibly could, he called for ASCEND. All he could see was the open sky
above and the spectator craft, looking odd since they seemed to sit sidewise
in the air, on the left of his pattern. The Oberon came loose from
something.
        He had sunk the Ch'ing without ever seeing it.
        The umpire came on the board. "Your ship's clear of the water. The
other one is out. War is over, sixty-one minutes ahead of time. Victory is
declared for America. Tibet has lost."
        In a different tone, the umpire said, "Congratulations, my boy. The
enemy pilots wish to congratulate you, too. May they?"

V

        Before Reardon could say yes or no, his screen blanked out.
        The president had used his priority again.
        Reardon saw with amusement that the old gentleman was weeping.
"You've done it, lad, you've done it. I always knew you would."
        Reardon forced his face into a smile of approval and sat waiting for
the screen to show him the faces of his friendly enemies. Baartek was sure
to insist on a dinner; he always did.
        Mark Elf


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

            I. Descent of a Lady

        Stars wheeled silently over a,: early summer sky, even though men
had long ago forgotten to call such nights by the name ofiune.
        Laird tried to watch the stars with his eyes closed. It was a
ticklish and terrifying game for a telepath: at any moment he might feel the
heavens opening up and might, as his mind touched the image of the nearer
stars, plunge himself into a nightmare of perpetual falling. Whenever he had
this sickening, shocking, ghastly, suffocating feeling of limitless fall, he
had to close his mind against telepathy long enough to let his powers heal.
        He was reaching with his mind for objects just above the Earth,
burnt-out space stations which flitted in their multiplex orbits, spinning
forever, left over from the wreckage of ancient atomic wars.
        He found one.
        Found one so ancient it had no surviving cryotronic controls. Its
design was archaic beyond belief; chemical tubes had apparently once lifted
it out of Earth's atmosphere.
        He opened his eyes and promptly lost it.
        Closing his eyes he groped again with his seeking mind until he
found the ancient derelict. As his mind reached for it again the muscles of
his jaw tightened. He sellsed life within it, life as old as the archaic
machine itself.
        In an instant, he made contact with his friend Tong Computer.
        He poured his knowledge in to Tong's mind. Keenly interested, Tong
shot back at him an orbit which would cut the mildly parabolic pattern of
the old device and bring it back down into Earth's atmosphere.
        Laird made a supreme effort.
        Calling on his unseen friends to aid him, he searched once more
through the rubbish that raced and twinkled unseen just above the sky.
Finding the ancient machine, he managed to give it a push.
        In this fashion, about sixteen thousand years after she left
Hitler's Reich, Carlotta vom Acht began her return to the Earth of men.
        In all those years, she had not changed.
        Earth had.



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        The ancient rocket tipped. Four hours later it had begun to graze
the stratosphere, and its ancient controls, preserved by cold and time
against all change, went back into effect. As they thawed, they became
activated.
        The course flattened out.
        Fifteen hours later, the rocket was seeking a destination.
        Electronic controls which had really been dead for thousands of
years, out in the changeless time of space itself, began to look for German
territory, seeking the territory by feedbacks which selected characteristic
Nazi patterns of electronic communications scramblers.
        There were none.
        How could the machine know this? The machine had left the town of
Pardubice, on April 2, 1945, just as the last German hideouts were being
mopped up by the Red Army. How could the machine know that there was no
Hitler, no Reich, no Europe, no America, no nations? The machine was keyed
to German codes. Only German codes.
        This did not affect the feedback mechanisms.
        They looked for German codes anyway. There were none. The electronie
computer in the rocket began to go mildly neurotic. It chattered to itself
like an angry monkey, rested, chattered again, and then headed the rocket
for something which seemed to be vaguely electrical. The rocket descended
and the girl awoke.
        She knew she was in the box in which her daddy had placed her. She
knew that she was not a cowardly swine like the Nazis whom her father
despised. She was a good Prussian girl of noble military family. She had
been ordered to stay in the box by her father. What daddy told her to do she
had always done. That was the first kind of rule for her kind of girl, a
sixteen-year-old of the Junker class. The noise increased.
        The electronic chattering flared up into a wild medley of clicks.
        She could smell something perfectly dreadful burning, something
awful and rotten like flesh. She was afraid that it was herself, hut she
felt no pain.
        "Vadi, Vadi, what is happening to me?" she cried to her father.
        (Her father had been dead sixteen thousand and more years. Obviously
enough, he did not answer.)
        The rocket began to spin. The ancient leather harness holding her
broke loose. Even though her section of the rocket was no bigger than a coff
in, she was cruelly bruised.
        She began to cry.
        She vomited, even though very little came up. Then she slid in her
own vomit and felt nasty and ashamed because of something which was a
terribly simple human reaction.
        The noises all met in a screaming, shrieking climax. The last thing
she remembered was the firing of the forward decelerators. The metal had
become fatigued so that the tubes not only fired forward; they blew
themselves to pieces sidewise as well.
        She was unconscious when the rocket crashed. Perhaps that saved her
life, since the least muscular tension would have led to the ripping of
muscle and the crack of bone.

         II. A Moron Found Her

        His metals and plumes beamed in the moonlight as he scampered about
the dark forest in his gorgeous uniform. The government of the world had
long since been left to the Morons by the True Men, who had no interest in
such things as politics or administration.
        Carlotta's weight, not her conscious will, had tripped the escape
handle. Her body lay half in, half out of the rocket.
        She had gotten a bad burn on her left arm where her skin touched the
hot outer surface of the rocket.
        The Moron parted the bushes and approached.


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        "I am the Lord High Administrator of Area Seventy-three," he said,
dentifying himself according to the rules.
        The unconscious girl did not answer. He rose up close to the rocket,
crouching low lest the dangers of the night devour him, and listened
intently to the radiation counter built in under the skin of his skull
behind his left ear. He lifted the girl dextrously, flung her gently over
his shoulder, turned about, ran back into the bushes, made a right-angle
turn, ran a few paces, looked about him undecidedly, and then ran (still
uncertain, still rabbit-like) down to the brook.
        He reached into his pocket and found a burn-balm. He applied a thick
coating to the burn on her arm. It would stay, killing the pain and
protectmg the skin, until the burn was healed.
        He splashed cool water on her face. She awakened.
        "Wo bin ich?" said she in German.
        On the other side of the world, Laird, the telepath, had forgotten
for the moment about the rocket. He might have understood her, but he was
not there, The forest was around her and the forest was full of life, fear,
hate, and pitiless destruction.

        The Moron babbled in his own language.
        She looked at him and thought that he was a Russian.
        Said she in German, "Are you a Russian? Are you a German? Are you
part of General Vlasov's army? How far are we from Prague? You must treat me
courteously. I am an important girl..."
        The Moron stared at her.
        His face began to grin with innocent and consummate lust. (The True
Men had never fell it necessary to inhibit the breeding habits of Morons. It
was hard for any kind of human being to stay alive between the Beasts, the
Unforgiven, and the Menschenjagers. The True Men wanted the Morons to go on
breeding, to carry reports, to gather up a few necessaries, and to distract
the other inhabitants of the world enough to let the True Men have the quiet
and contemplation which their exalted but weary temperaments demanded.)
        This Moron was typical of his kind. To him food meant eat, water
meant drink, woman meant lust.
        He did not discriminate.
        Weary, confused, and bruised though she was, Carlotta still
recognized his expression.
        Sixteen thousand years ago she had expected to be raped or murdered
by the Russians. This soldier was a fantastic little man, plump and
grinning, with enough medals for a Soviet colonel general. From what she
could see in the moonlight, he was clean-shaven and pleasant, but he looked
innocent and stupid to be so high-ranking an officer. Perhaps the Russians
were all like that, she thought.
        He reached for her.
        Tired as she was, she slapped him.
        The Moron was mixed up in his thoughts. He knew that he had the
right to capture any Moron woman whom he might find. Yet he also knew that
it was worse than death to touch any woman of the True Men. Which was this
-- this thing -- this power -- this entity who had descended from the stars?
        Pity is as old and emotional as lust. As his lust receded, his
elemental human pity took over. He reached in his jerkin pocket for a few
scraps of food.
        He held them oat to her.
        She ate, looking at him trustfully, very much the child.
        Suddenly there was a crashing in the woods.
        Carlotta wondered what had happened.
        When she first saw him, his face had been full of concern. Then he
had grinned and had talked. Later he had become lustful. Finally he had
acted very much the gentleman. Now he looked blank, brain and bone and skin
all concentrated into the act of listening -- listening for something else,
beyond the crashing, which she could not hear. He turned back to her.


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        "You must run. You must run. Get up and run. I tell you, run!" She
listened to his babble without comprehension.
        Once again he crouched to listen.
        He looked at her with blank horror on his face. Carlotta tried to
understand what was the matter, but she could not riddle his meaning.
        Three more strange little men dressed exactly like him came crashing
out of the woods.
        They ran like elk or deer before a forest fire. Their faces were
blank with the exertion of running. Their eyes looked straight ahead so that
they seemed almost blind. It was a wonder that they evaded the trees. They
came crashing down the slope, scattering leaves as they ran. They splashed
the waters of the brook as they stomped recklessly through it. With a
half-animal cry Carlotta's Moron joined them.
        The last she saw of him, he was running away into the woods, his
plumes grinning ridiculously as his head nodded with the exertion of
Irunning.
        From the direction from which the Morons had come, an unearthly
creepy sound whistled through the woods. It was whistling, stealthy and low,
accompanied by the very quiet sound of machinery.
        The noise sounded like all the tanks in the world compressed into
the living ghost of a tank, into the heart of a machine which survived its
own destruction and, spiritlike, haunted the scenes of old battles.
        As the sound approached Carlotta turned toward it. She tried to
stand up could not. She faced the danger. (All Prussian girls, destined to
be the mothers of officers, were taught to face danger and never to turn
their backs on it.) As the noise came close to her she could hear the high
crazy inquiry of soft electronic chatter. It resembled the sonar she had
once heard in her father's laboratory at the Reich's secret off ice's
project Nordnacht.
        The machine came out of the woods. And it did look like a ghost.


         III. The Death of All Men

        Carlotta stared at the machine. It had legs like a grasshopper, a
body like a ten-foot turtle, and three heads which moved restlessly in the
moonlight.
        From the forward edge of the top shell a hidden arm leapt forth,
seeming to strike at her, deadlier than a cobra, quicker than a jaguar, more
silent than a bat flitting across the face of the moon.
        "Don't!" Carlotta screamed in German. The arm slopped suddenly in he
moonlight.
        The stop was so sudden that the metal twanged like the string of a
bow.
        The heads of the machine all turned toward her.
        Something like surprise seemed to overtake the machine. The whisling
dropped down to a soothing purr. The electronic chatter burst up to a
crescendo and then stopped. The machine dropped to its knees.
        Carlotta crawled over to it.
        Said she in German, "What are you?"
        "I am the death of all men who oppose the Sixth German Reich," saul
the machine in fluted singsong German. "If the Reichsangehoriger wishes to
identify me, my model and number are written on my carapace."
        The machine knelt at a height so low that Carlotta could seize one
of the heads and look in the moonlight at the edge of the top shell. The
head and neck, though made of metal, felt much more weak and brittle than
she expected. There was about the machine an air of immense age.
        "I can't see," wailed Carlotta. "I need a light."
        There was the ache and grind of long-unused machinery. Another
tueclianical arm appeared, dropping flakes of near-crystallized dirt as it
moved. The tip of the arm exuded light, blue, penetrating, and strange.


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        Brook, forest, small valley, machine, even herself, were all lit up
by the soft penetrating blue light which did not hurt her eyes. The light
even gave her a sense of well-being. With the light she could read. Traced
on the carapace just above the three heads was this inscription:

         WAFFENAMT DES SECHSTEN DEUTSCHEN REICHES
         BURG EISENHOWER, A.D. 2495

         And then below it in much larger Latin letters:

         MENSCHENJAGER MARK ELF

        "Whal does 'Man-hunter, Model Eleven' mean?"
        "That's me," whistled the machine. "How is it you don't know me if
you're a German?"
        "Of course, I'm a German, you fool!" said Carlotta. "Do I look like
a Russian?"
        "What is a Russian?" said the machine.
        Carlotta stood in the blue light wondering, dreaming, dreading --
dreading the unknown which had materialized around her.
        When her father, Heinz Horst Ritter vom Acht, professor and doctor
of mathematical physics at project Nordnacht, had fired her into the sky
before he himself awaited a gruesome death at the hands of the Soviet
soldiery, he had told her nothing about the Sixth Reich, nothing about what
she might meet, nothing about the future. It came to her mind that perhaps
the world was dead, that the strange little men were not near Prague, that
she was in Heaven or Hell, herself being dead, or if herself alive, was in
some other world, or her own world in the future, or things beyond all human
ken, or problems which no mind could solve.
        She fainted again.
        The Menschenjager could not know that she was unconscious and
addressed her in serious high-pitched singsong German. "German citizen, have
confidence that I will protect you. I am built to identify German thoughts
and to kill all men who do not have true German thoughts."
        The machine hesitated. A loud chatter of electronic clicks echoed
across the silent woods while the machine tried to compute its own mind. It
was not easy to select from the long-unused store of words for so ancient
and so new a situation. The machine stood in its own blue light. The only
sound was the sound of the brook moving irresistibly about its gentle and
unliving business. Even the birds in the trees and the insects round about
were hushed into silence by the presence of the dreaded whistling machine.
        To the sound-receptors of the Menschenjager, the running of the
Morons, by now some two miles distant, came as a very faint pitter-patter.
        The machine was torn between two duties, the long-current and
familiar duty of killing all men who were not German, and the ancient and
forgotten duty of succoring all Germans, whoever they might be. After
another period of electronic chatter, the machine began to speak again.
Beneath the grind of its singsong German there was a curious warning, a
reminder of the whistle which it made as it moved, a sound of immense
mechanical and electronic effort.
        Said the machine, "You are German. It has been long since there has
been any German anywhere. I have gone around the world two thousand three
hundred and twenty-eight times. I have killed seventeen thousand four
hundred and sixty-nine enemies of the Sixth German Reich for sure, and I
have probably killed forty-two thousand and seven additional ones. I have
been back to the automatic restoration center eleven times. The enemies who
call themselves the True Men always elude me. One of them I have not killed
for more than three thousand years. The ordinary men whom some call the
Unforgiven are the ones I kill most of all, but frequently I catch Morons
and kill them, too. I am fighting for Germany, but I cannot find Geonany
anywhere. There are no Germans in Germany. There are no Germans anywhere. I


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accept orders from no one but a German. Yet there have been no Germans
anywhere, no Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere..."
        The machine seemed to get a catch in its electronic brain because it
went on repeating no Germans anywhere three or four hundred times.
        Carlotta came to as the machine was dreamily talking to itself,
repeatmg with sad and lunatic intensity, no Germans anywhere.
        Said she, "I'm a German."
        "...no Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere, except you, except
you, except you."
        The mechanical voice ended in a thin screech. Carlotta tried to come
to her feet.
        At last the machine found words again. "What-do-I-do-now?"
        "Help me," said Carlotta firmly.
        This command seemed to tap an operable feedback in the ancient
cybernetic assembly. "I cannot help you, member of the Sixth German Reich.
For that you need a rescue machine. I am not a rescue machine. I alo a
hunter of men, designed to kill all the enemies of the German Reich."
        "Get me a rescue machine then," said Carlotta.
        The blue light went off, leaving Carlotta standing blinded in the
dark. She was shaky on her legs. The voice of the Menschenjager came to her.
        "I am not a rescue machine. There are no rescue machines. There are
no rescue machines anywhere. There is no Germany anywhere. There are no
Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere, no Germans anywhere, except you. You
must ask a rescue machine. Now I go. I must kill men. Men who are enemies of
the Sixth German Reich. That is all I can do. lean fight forever. I shall
find a man and kill him. Then I shall find another man and kill him. I
depart on the work of the Sixth German Reich."
        The whistling and clicking resumed.
        Wub incredible daintiness, the machine stcpped as lightly as a cat
across the brook. Carlotta listened intently in the darkness. Even the dry
caves of last year did not stir as the Mensehenjager moved through the
shadow of the fresh leafy trees.
        Abruptly there was silence.
        Carlotta could hear the agonued clickety-clack of the computers in
the Nlensebenjager. The forest became a weird silhouette as the blue light
went back on.
        The machine returned.
        Standing on the far side of the brook, it spoke to her in the dry,
high-fluted singing German voice.
        "Now that I have found a Terman I will report to you once every
hundred years. That is correct. Perhaps that is correct. I do not know. I
was built to report to officers. You are not an officer. Nevertheless you
are a German. So I will report every hundred years. Meanwhile, watch out for
the Kaskaskia Effect."
        Carlotta, sitting again, was chewing some of the dry cubic food
scraps which the Moron had left behind. They tasted like a mockery of
chocolate. With her mouth full, she tried to shout to the Menschenjager,
"Was ist das?"
        Apparently the machine understood, because it answered, "The
Kaskaskia Effect is an American weapon. The Americans are all gone. There
are no Americans anywhere, no Americans anywhere, no Americans anywhere --"
        "Stop repeating yourself," said Carlotta. "What is that effect you
are talking about?"
        "The Kaskaskia Effect stops the Menschenjagers, stops the True Men,
stops the Beasts. It can be sensed, but it cannot be seen or measured. It
moves like a cloud. Only simple men with clean thoughts and happy lives can
live inside it. Birds and ordinary beasts can live inside it, too. The
Kaskaskia Effect moves about like clouds. There are more than twenty-one and
less than thirty-four Kaskaskia Effects moving slowly about this planet
Earth. I have carried other Menschenjagers back for restoration and
rebuilding, but the restoration center can find no fault. The Kaskaskia


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Effect ruins us. Therefore, we run away... even though the officers told us
to run from nothing. If we did not run away, we would cease to exist. You
are a German. I think the Kaskaskia Effect would kill you. Now I go to hunt
a man. When I find him I will kill him."
        The blue light went off.
        The machine whistled and clicked its way into the dark silence of
the wooded night.

IV. Conversation with the Middle-Sized Bear

        Carlotta was completely adult.
        She had left the screaming uproar of Hitler Germany as it fell to
ruins in its Bohemian outposts. She had obeyed her father, the Ritter vom
Acht, as he passed her and her sisters into missiles which had been designed
as personnel and supply carriers for the First German National Socialist
Moon Base.
        He and his medical brother, Professor Doctor Joachim von Acht, had
harnessed the girls securly in their missiles.
        Their uncle the Doctor had given them shots.
        Karla had gone first, then Juli, and then Carlotta.
        Then the barbed-wire fortress of Pardubice and the monotonous grind
of Wehrmacht trucks trying to escape the air strikes of the Red Air Force
and the American fighter-bombers died in the one night, and this mysterious
"forest in the middle of nothing-at-all" was born in the next night.
        Carloita was completely dazed.
        She found a smooth-looking place at the edge of the brook. The old
leaves wcrc heaped high here. Without regard for further danger, she slept.
        She had not been asleep more than a few minutes before the bushes
parted again.
        This time it was a bear. The bear stood at the edge of the darkness
and looked into the moonlit valley with the brook running through it. He
could hear no sound of Morons, no whistle of manshonyagger, as he and his
kind called the hunting machines. When he was sure all was safe, he twitched
his claws and reached delicately into a leather bag which was hanging ftom
his neck by a thong. Gently he took out a pair of spectacles and fitted hem
slowly and carefully in front of his tired old eyes.
        He then sat down next to the girl and waited for her to wake up.
        She did not wake until dawn.
        Sunlight and birdsong awakened her.
        (Could it have been the probing of Laird's mind, whose far-reaching
senses told him that a woman had magically and mystenously emerged from the
archaic rocket and that there was a human being unlike all the other kinds
of mankind waking at a brookside in a place which had once been called
Maryland?)
        Carlotta awoke, but she was sick.
        She had a fever.
        Her back ached.
        Her eyelids were almost stuck together with foam. The world had had
time to develop all sorts of new allergenic substances since she had last
walked on the surface of the Earth. Four civilizations had come and
vanished. They and their weapons were sure to leave membrane-inflaming
residue behind.
        Her skin itched.
        Her stomach felt upset.
        Her arm was numb and covered with some kind of sticky black. She did
not know it was a burn covered by the salve which the Moron had given her
the previous night.
        Her clothes were dry and seemed to be falling off her in shreds.
        She felt so bad that when she noticed the bear, she did not even
have strength to run.
        She just closed her eyes again.


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           Lying there with her eyes closed she wondered all over again where
she was.
        Said the bear in perfect German, "You are at the edge of the
Unselfing Zone. You have been rescued by a Moron. You have stopped a
Menschenjager very mysteriously. For the first time in my own life I can see
into a German mind and see that the word manshonyagger should really be
Menschenjager, a hunter of men. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the
Middle-Sized Bear who lives in these woods."
        The voice not only spoke German, but it spoke exactly the right kind
of German. The voice sounded like the German which Carlotta had heard
throughout her life from her father. It was a masculine voice, confident,
serious, reassuring. With her eyes still closed she realized that it was a
bear who was doing the talking. With a start, she recalled that the bear had
been wearing spectacles.
        Said she, sitting up, "What do you want?"
        "Nothing," said the bear mildly.
        They looked at each other for a while.
        Then said Carlotta, "Who are you? Where did you learn German? What's
going to happen to me?"
        "Does the Fraulein," asked the bear, "wish me to answer the
questions in order?"
        "Don't be silly," said Carlotta. "I don't care what order. Anyhow,
I'm hungry. Do you have anything I could eat?"
        The bear responded gently, "You wouldn't like hunting for insect
grubs. I have learned German by reading your mind. Bears like me are friends
of the True Men and we are good telepaths. The Morons are afraid of us, but
we are afraid of the manshonyaggers. Anyhow, you don't have to worry very
much because your husband is coming soon."
        Carloita had been walking down toward the brook to get a drink. His
last words stopped her in her tracks.
        "My husband?" she gasped.
        "So probably that it is certain. There is a True Man named Laird who
has brought you down. He already knows what you are thinking, and I can see
his pleasure in finding a human being who is wild and strange, but not
really wild and not really strange. At this moment he is thinking that you
may have left the centuries to bring the gift of vitality back among
man-kind. He is thinking that you and he will have wonderful children. Now
he is telling me not to tell you what I think he thinks, for fear that you
will run away." The bear chuckled.
        Carlotta stood, her mouth agape.
        "You may sit in my chair," said the Middle-Sized Bear, "or you can
wait here until Laird comes to get you. Either way you will be taken care
of. Your sickness will heal. Your ailments will go away. You will be hippy
again. I know this because I am one of the wisest of all known bears."
        Carlotta was angry, confused, frightened, and sick again. She
started to run.
        Something as solid as a blow hit her.
        She knew without being told that it was the bear's mind reaching out
md encompassing hers.
        It hit -- boom -- and that was all.
        She had never before stopped to think of how comfortable a bear's
mind was. It was like lying in a great big bed and having mother take care
of one when one was a very little girl, glad to be petted and sure of
getting well.
        The anger poured out of her. The fear left her. The sickness began
to lighten. The morning seemed beautiful.
        She herself felt beautiful as she turned-
        Out of the blue sky, dropping swiftly but gracefully, came the
figure of a bronze young man. A happy thought pulsed against her mind. That
is Laird, my beloved. He is coming. He is coming. I shall be happy forever
after.


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         It was Laird. And so she was.
         The Queen of the Afternoon

        Above all, as size began to awaken, size wishedfor herfamily. She
called to them, "Mutti, Vati, Carlotta, Karla! Where are you?" But of course
size cried it in German since she was a good Prussian girl. Then she
remembered.
        How long had it been since her father had put her and her two
sisters into the space capsules? She had no idea. Even her father, the
Ritter vom Acht, and her uncle, Professor Doctor Joachim vom Acht -- who had
administered the shots in Parbudice, Germany, on April 2, 1945 -- could not
have imagined that the girls would remain in suspended animation for
thousands of years. But so it was.

        Afternoon sunlight gleamed orange and gold on the rich purple shades
of the Fighting Trees. Charis looked at the trees, knowing that as the
sunset moved from orange to red and as darkness crept over the eastern
horizon, they would once again glow with quiet fire.
        How long was it since the trees were planted -- Fighting Trees, the
True Men cailed them -- for the express purpose of sending their immense
roots down into the earth, seeking out the radioactives in the soil and the
waters beneath, concentrating the poisonous wastes into their hard pods,
then dropping the waxy pods until, at some later time, the waters which came
from above the earth, and those yet in the earth, would once more be clean?
Charls did not know.
        One thing he did know. To touch one of the trees, to touch it
directly, was certain death.
        He wanted very much to break a twig but he did not dare. Not only
was it tambu, but he feared the sickness. His people had made much progress
in the last few generations, enough so that at times they did not fear to
face True Men and to argue with them. But the sickness was not something
with which one could argue.
        At the thought of a True Man, an unaccountable thickness gripped him
in the throat. He felt sentimental, tender, fearful; the yearning that
gripped him was a kind of love, and yet he knew that it could not be love
since he had never seen a True Man except at a distance.
        Why, Charls wondered, was he thinking so much about True Men? Was
there, perhaps, one nearby?
        He looked at the setting sun, which was by now red enough to be
looked at safely. Something in the atmosphere was making him uneasy. He
called to his sister.
        "Oda, Oda!"
        He did not answer.
        Again he called. "Oda, Oda!"
        This time he heard her coming, plowing recklessly through the
underbrush. He hoped she would remember to avoid the Fighting Trees. Oda was
sometimes too impatient.
        Suddenly there she was before him.
        "You called me, Charls? You called me? You've found something? Shall
we go somewhere together? What do you want? Where are mother and father?"
        Charls could not help laughing. Oda was always like that.
        "One question at a time, little sister. Weren't you afraid you would
die the burning death, going through the trees like that? I know you don't
want to believe in the tambu, but the sickness is real."
        "It isn't," she said. She shook her head. "Maybe it was once... I
guess it really was once" -- granting him a coneession -- "but do you,
yourself, know of anybody who has died from the trees for a thousand years?"
        "Of course not, silly. I haven't been alive a thousand years."
        Oda's impatience returned. "You know what I mean. And anyway, I
decided the whole thing is silly. We all accidentally brush against the
trees. So one day I ate a pod. And nothing happened."


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        He was appalled. "You ale a pod?"
        "That's what I said. And nothing happened."
        "Oda, one of these days you're going to go too far."
        She smiled at him. "And now I suppose you are going to say that the
oceans' beds were not always filled with grass."
        He was indignant. "No. of course I know better than that. I know
that the grass was put into the oceans for the same reason that the Fighting
Trees were planted -- to eat up all the poisons tha the Old Ones left in the
days of the Ancient Wars."
        How long they would have bickered he did not know, but just then his
ears caught an unfamiliar noise. He knew the sound the True Men made as they
sped on their mysterious errands in the upper air. He knew the ominous buzz
that the Cities gave off should he approach them too closely. He knew also
the clicking noises that the few remaining manshonyaggers made as they crept
through the Wild, alert for any non-German to kill. Poor blind machines,
they were so easy to outsmart.
        But this noise, this noise was different. It was nothing he had ever
heard before.
        The whistling sound rose and throbbed against the upper reaches of
his hearing. It had a curiously spiral quality about it as though it
approached and receded, all the while veering toward him. Charis was filled
with terror, feeling threatened beyond all understanding.
        Now Oda heard it too. Their quarrel forgotten, she seized his arm.
"What is it, Charls? What could it be?"
        His voice was hesitant and full of wonder. "I don't know."
        "Are the True Men doing something, something new that we never heard
before? Do they want to hurt us, or enslave us? Do they want to catch us? Do
we want to be caught? Charls, tell me, do we want to be caught? Could it be
the True Men coming? I seem to smell True Man. They did come once before and
caught some of us and took them away and did strange things to them, so that
they looked like True Men, didn't they, Charls? Could it be the True Men
again?"
        In spite of his fear, Charls had a certain amount of impatience with
Oda. She talked so much.
        The noise persisted and intensified. Charls sensed that it was
directly over his bead, but he could see nothing.
        Oda said, "Charls, I think I see it. Do you see it, Charls?"
        Suddenly he too saw the circle -- a dim whiteness, a vapor train
that increased in size and volume. Concomitantly the sound increased, until
he felt his eardrums would burst. It was nothing ever before seen in his
world....
        A thought struck him. It was as hard as a physical blow; it sapped
his courage and manhood as nothing before had ever done; he did not feel
young and strong any more. He could hardly frame his words.
        "Oda, could that be --"
        "Be what?"
        "Could it be one of the old, old weapons from the Ancient Past?
Could it be coming back to destroy us all, as the legends have always
foretold? People have always said they would come back..." His voice trailed
off.
        Whatever the danger, he knew that he was completely helpless,
helpless to protect himself helpless to protect Oda.
        Against the ancient weapons there was no defense. This place was no
safer than that place, that place no better than this. People still had to
live their lives under the threat of weapons from long, long ago. This was
the first time that he personally had met the threat, but he had heard of
it. He reached for Oda's hand.
        Oda, singularly courageous now that there was real danger, drew him
over onto the bank, away from the cenote. With half his mind he wondered why
she seemed to want to move away from the water. She tugged at his arm. and
he sat down beside her.


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         Already, he knew, it was too late to go looking for their parents or
others o[ their pack. Sometimes it took a whole day to round up the entire
family -- the thing was coming down relentlessly, and Charls felt so drained
of energy that he stopped talking. He thought at her: Let's just wait it out
here, and she squeezed his hand as she thought back: Yes, my brother.
         The long box in the circle of light continued to descend,
inexorable.
         It was odd. Charls could feel a human presence, but the mind was
strangely closed to him. He felt a quality of mind that he had never felt
before. He had read the minds of True Men as they flew far overhead; he knew
the minds of his own people; he could distinguish the thoughts of most of
the birds and beasts; it was no trouble to detect the crude electronic
hunger of the mechanical mind of a manshonyagger.
         But this -- this being had a mind that was raw, elemental, hot. And
closed.
         Now the box was very near. Would it crash in this valley or the
next? The screams from within it were extremely shrill. Charls's ears hurt
and his eyes smarted from the intensity of heat and noise. Oda held his hand
tightly.
         The object crashed into the ground.
         It ripped the hillside just across the cenote. Had Oda not
instinctively moved away from the cenote, the box would have hit them,
Charls realized.
         Charls and Oda stood up cautiously.
         Somehow the box must have decelerated: It was hot, but not hot
enough to make the broken trees around it burst into flame. Steam rose from
the crushed leaves.
         The noise was gone.
         Chans and Oda moved to within ten man-lengths of the object. Charls
framed his clearest thought and flung it at the box: Who are you?
         The being within obviously did not perceive him as he was. There
came forth a wild thought, directed at living beings in general.
         Fools, fools, help me! Get me out of here!
         Oda caught the thought, as did Charls. She stepped in mentally and
Charls was astonished at the clarity and force of her inquiry. It was simple
hut beautifully strong and hard. She thought the one idea:
         How?
         From the box there came again the frantic babble of demand: The
handles, you fools. The handles on the outside. Take the handles and let me
out!
         Charls and Oda looked at each other. Charls was not sure that he
really wanted to let this creature "out." Then he thought further. Maybe the
unpleasantness that radiated from the box was simply the result of
imprisonment. He knew that he himself would hate to be encased like that.
         Together CharIs and Oda risked the broken leaves, walking gingerly
up to the box itself. It was black and old; it looked like something the
elders called "iron" -- and never touched. They saw the handles, pitted and
scarred.
         With the ghost of a smile, Charls nodded to his sister. Each took a
handle and lifted.
         The sides of the box crackled. The iron was hot but not unbearably
so. With a rusty shriek, the ancient door flew open.
         They looked into the box.
         There lay a young woman.
         She had no fur, only long hair on her head.
         Instead of fur, she had strange, soft objects on her body but as she
sat up, these objects began to disintegrate.
         At first the girl looked frightened; then, as she glanced at Oda and
Charls, she began to laugh. Her thought came through, clearly and rather
cruelly: I guess I don't have to worry about modesty in front of puppy dogs.



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         Oda did not seem to mind the thought but Charls's feelings were
hurt. The girl said words with her mouth but they could not understand them.
Each of them took an elbow and led her to the ground.
         They reached the edge of the cenote and Oda gestured to the strange
girl to sit down. She did, and made more words.
         Oda was as puzzled as Charis, but then she began to smile. Spieking
had worked before, when the girl was in the box. Why not now? The only thing
was, this odd girl did not seem to know how to control her thoughts.
Everything she thought was directed at the world at large -- at the valley,
at the sunset sky, at the cenote. She did not seem to realize that she was
shouting every thought aloud.
         Oda put her question to the young woman: Who are you?
         The hot, strange mind flung back quickly: Juli, of course.
         At this point Charls intervened. There's no "of course" about it, he
spieked.
         What am I doing? the girl's thoughts ran. I'm in mental telepathy
with puppy-dog people.
         Embarrassed, Charls and Oda watched her as her thoughts splashed
out.
         "Doesn't she know how to close off her thoughts?" Charls wbndered.
And why had her mind seemed so closed when she was in the
box?
         Puppy-dog people. Where can I be if I'm mixed up with puppy-dog
people? Can this be Earth? Where have I been? How long have I been gone?
Where is Germany? Where are Carlotta and Karla? Where are Daddy and Mother
and Uncle Joachim? Puppy-dog people!
         Charls and Oda felt the sharp edge of the mind that was so
recklessly flinging all these thoughts. There was a kind of laughter that
was cruel each time she thought puppy-dog people. They could feel that this
mind was as bright as the brightest minds of the True Men -- but this mind
was different. It did not have the singleness of devotion or the wary wisdom
thit saturated the minds of the True Men.
         Then CharIs remembered something. His parents had once told him of a
mind that was something like this one.
         Juli continued to pour out her thoughts like sparks from a fire,
like raindrops fmm a big splash. Charls was frightened and did not know what
to do; and Oda began to turn away from the strange girl.
         Then Cliarls perceived it. Juli was frightened. She was calling them
puppy-dog people to cover her fear. She really did not know where she was.
         He mused, not directing his thought at Juli: Just because she's
frightened it doesn't mean she has the right to think sharp, bright things
at us.
         Perhaps it was his posture that betrayed his attitude; Juli seemed
to catch the thought.
         Suddenly she burst into words again, words that they could not
understand. It seemed as though she were begging, asking, pleading,
expostuliting. She seemed to be calling for specific persons or things.
Words poured forth, and these were names that the True Men used. Was it her
parents? Her lover? Her siblings? It had to be someone she had known before
entering that screaming hox, where she had been captive in the blue of the
sky for... for how long?
         Suddenly she was quuiet. Her attention had shifted.
         She pointed to the Fighting Trees.
         The sunset had so darkened that the trees were beginning to light
up. The soft fire was coming tolife as it had during all the years of
Charls's life and those of his forefathers.
         As she pointed, Jul made words again. She kept repeating them. It
sounded like v-a-s-i-s-d-a-s.
         Charls could not help being a little irritated. Why doesn't she just
think? It was odd that they could not read her mind when she was using the
words.


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        Again, altough Charls had not aimed the question at her, Juli seemed
to catch it. From her there came a flame of thought, a single idea, that
leapt like a fountain of fire from that tired little female head:
        What is this world?
        Then the thought shifted focus slightly. Vati, Vati, where am I?
Where are you? What has become of me? There was something forlorn and
desolate to it.
        Oda put out a soft hand toward the girl. Juli looked at her and some
of the harsh, fearful thoughts returned. Then the sheer compassion of Oda's
posture seemed to catch Juli's attention, and with relaxation came complete
collapse. The great and terrifying thought disappeared. Juli burst into
tears. She put her long arms about Oda. Oda patted her back and Juli sobbed
even harder.
        Out of the sobbing came a funny, friendly thought, loving and no
longer contemptuous: Dear little puppy dogs, dear little puppy dogs, please
help me. You are supposed to be our best friends... do help me now....
        Charls perked up his ears. Something -- or someone -- was coming
over the top of the hill.
        Certainly a thought as big and as sharp as Juli's could attract all
living forms within kilometers. It might even catch the attention of the
aloof but ominous True Men.
        A moment later Charls relaxed. He recognized the stride of his
parents. He turned to Oda.
        "Hear that?"
        She smiled. "It's father and mother. They must have heard that big
thought the girl had."
        Charls watched with pride as his parents approached. It was a
well-justified pride. Bil and Kae both appeared, as they were, sensitive and
intelligent. In addition, their fur was well-matched. Bil's beautiful
caramel coat had spots of white and black only along his cheekbones and nose
and at the tip of his tail; Kae was a uniform fawn-beige with which her
beautiful green eyes made a striking contrast.
        "Are you both all right?" Bil asked as they approached. "Who is
that? She looks like a True Man. Is she friendly? Has she hurt you? Was she
the one who was doing all that violent thinking? We could feel it clear
across the hillside."
        Oda burst into a giggle. "You ask as many questions as I do, Daddy."
        Charls said, "All we know is that a box came from the sky and that
she was in it. You heard that shrieking noise as it came down first, didn't
you?"
        Kae laughed. "Who didn't hear it?"
        "The box hit right over there. You can see where it hurt the
hillside."
        The area where the box had landed was black and forbidding. Around
it the fallen Fighting Trees gleamed in tangled confusion on the ground.
        Bil looked at jul and shook his head. "I don't see why she wasn't
killed if she hit that hard."
        Juli began to speak in words again, but at last she seemed to
understand. Shouting her language would not help any. Instead, she thought:
Please, dear little puppy dogs. Please help me. Please understand me.
        Bil kept his dignity but he noticed with dismay that his tail was
wagging of its own accord. He realized that the urge was uncontrollable. He
felt both resentful and happy as he thought back at her: Of course we
uiderstand you and we'll try to help you; but please don't think your
thoughts so hard or so recklessly. They hurt our minds when they are so
bright and sharp.
        Jul tried to turn down the intensity of her thought. She pleaded:
Take me to Germany.
        The four Unauthorized Men -- mother, father, daughter, and son --
looked at each other. They had no idea of what a Germany might be.



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        It was Oda who turned to Juli, girl to girl, and spieked: Think some
Germany at us so we can know what it is.
        There came forth from the strange girl images of unbelievable
beauty. Picture after clear picture emerged until the little family was
almost blinded by the magnificence of the display. They saw the whole
ancient world come to life. Cities stood bright in a green-encircled world.
There were no aloof and languid True Men; instead, all the people they saw
in Juli's mind resembled Juli herself. They were vital, sometimes fierce,
forceful; they were tall, erect, long-fingered; and of course they did not
have the tails of the Unauthorized Men. The children were pretty beyond
belief.
        The most amazing thing about this world was the tremendous number of
people in it. The people were thicker than the birds of passage, more
crowded than the salmon at running time.
        Charls had thought himself a well-traveled young man. He had met at
least four dozen other persons besides his own family, and he had seen True
Men in the skies above him hundreds of times. He had often witnessed the
intolerable brightness of Cities and had walked around them more than once
until, each time, he had been firmly assured that there was no way for him
to enter. He thought his valley a good one. In a few more years he would be
old enough to visit the nearby valleys and to look for a wife for himself.
        Put this vision that came from Juli's mind... he could not imagine
how so many people could live together. How could they all greet each other
in the mornings? How could they all agree on anything? How could they all
ever become still enough to be aware of each other's presence, cich other's
needs?
        There came a particularly strong, bright image. Small-wheeled boxes
were hurtling people at insensate speed up and down smooth, smooth roads.
        "So that's what roads were for," he gasped to himself.
        Among the people he saw many dogs. They were nothing like the
creatares of Charls's world. They were not the long, otter-like animals whom
the Unauthorized Men despised as lowly kindred; nor were they like the
Unauthorized Men themselves, and they were certainly not like those modified
animals who in appearance were almost indistinguishable from True Men. No,
these dogs of Juli's world were bounding, happy creatures with few
responsibilities. There seemed to be an affectionate relationship between
them and the people there. They shared laughter and sorrow.
        Juli had closed her eyes as she tried to bring Germany to them.
Concentrating hard, now she brought into the picture of beauty and happiness
something else-fearful flying things that dropped fire; thunder and noise; a
most unpleasant face, a screaming face with a dab of black fur above the
mouth; a licking of flame in the night; a thunder of death machines. Across
this thunder there was the image of Juli and two other girls who resembled
her; they were moving with a man, obviously their father, toward three iron
boxes that looked like the one Juli had landed in. Then there was darkness.
        That was Germany.
        Juli slumped to the ground.
        Gently the four of them probed at her mind. To them it was like a
diamond, as clear and transparent as a sunlit pool in the forest, but the
light it shot back to them was not a reflection. It was rich and bright and
dazzling. Now that it was at rest, they could see deeply into it. They saw
hunger, hurt, and loneliness. They saw a loneliness so great that each of
them in turn tried to think of a way to assuage it. Love, they thought, what
she needs is love, and her own kind. But where would they find an Ancient
One? Would a True Man answer?
        Bil said, "There's only one thing to do. We've got to take her to
the house of the Wise Old Bear. He has communications with the True Men."
        Oda cried out, "But she hasn't done anything wrong!"
        Her father looked at her. "Darling, we don't know what this is.
She's an Ancient One come back to this world after a sleep in space itself.
It's been thousands of years since her world lived; I think she's beginning


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to realize that, and that's what put her into shock. We need help. Our
people may once have been dogs, and that's what she thinks we are. We can't
let that bother us. But she needs a house, and the only unauthorized house
that I know of belongs to the Wise Old Bear."
         Charls looked at his parents. His eyes were troubled. "What is this
business about dogs? Is that why we feel so mixed up when we think about
True Men? I'm confused about her too. Do you suppose I really want to belong
to her?"
         "Not really," his father said. "That's just a feeling left over from
long, loog ago. We lead our own lives now. But this girl, she's too big a
probJem h)r us. We will take her to the Bear. At least he has a house."
         juli was still unconscious, and to them she was so big. Each took a
limb md with difficulty they managed to carry her. Within less than a tenth
of a night they had reached the house of the Wise Old Bear. Fortunately they
had not met any manshonyaggers or other dangers of the forest.
         At the door of the house of the Wise Old Bear they gently laid the
girl on the ground.
         Bil shouted, "Bear, Bear, come out, come out!"
         "Who is there?" a voice boomed from within.
         "Bil and his family. We have an Ancient with us. Come out. We need
your help."
         The light that had been streaming from the doorway with a yellow
glare was suddenly reduced to endurable proportions as the immense bulk of
the Bear loomed in the doorway before them.
         He pulled his spectacles from a case attached to his belt, put them
on his nose, and squinted at Juli.
         "Bless my soul," he said. "Another one. Where on earth did you get
an ancient girl?"
         Pompous but happy, Charls spoke up. "She came out of the sky in a
screaming box."
         The Bear nodded wisely.
         Then Bil spoke up. "You said 'another one.' What did you mean?"
         The Bear winced slightly. "Forget I said that," he told them. "I
forgot for a moment that you are not True Men. Please forget it."
         Bil said, "You mean it's something Unauthorized Men are not supposed
to know about?"
         The Bear nodded unhappily.
         Understanding, Bil said, "Well, if you can ever tell us about it,
will you, please?"
         "Of course," the Bear replied. "And now I think I'd better call my
housekeeper to take care of her. Herkie, Herkie, come here."
         A blonde woman appeared, peering anxiously. Obviously there was
something the matter with her blue eyes but she seemed to be functioning
adequately.
         Bil hacked away from the door. "That's an Experimental person," he
said. "That's a cat!"
         The Bear was completely uninterested. "So it is, but you can see
that her eyes are imperfect. That's why she is allowed to be my housekeeper
and why her name isn't prefaced by a C'."
         Bil understood. The errors True Men made in trying to breed
underpersons were often destroyed but occasionally one was allowed to live
if it seemed able to function at some necessary task. The Bear had
connections with True Men. If he needed a housekeeper, an imperfect modified
animal provided an ideal solution.
         Herkie bent over Juli's still form. She peered in puzzlement at
Juli's face. Then she looked up at the Bear. "I don't understand," she said.
"I don't see how it could be."
         "Later," the Bear said. "When we are alone."
         Herkie strained to see into the darkness and perceived the dog
family. "Oh, I see," she said.



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        Bil and Charls were embarrassed. Oda and Kae did not seem to notice
the slight.
        Bil waved his hand. "Well, good-bye. I hope you can take care of her
all right."
        "Thank you for bringing her," the Bear said. "The True Men will
probably give you a reward."
        In spite of himself, Bil felt his tail beginning to wag again.
        "Will we ever see her again?" Oda asked. "Do you think we'll ever
see her again? I love her, I love her...."
        "Perhaps," her father answered. "She will know who saved her, and I
think she will seek us out."

         Juli awoke slowly. Where am I? What is this place? She had a partial
return of memory. The puppy-dog people. Where are they? She felt conscious
of someone at her bedside. She looked up into clouded blue eyes staring
anxiously into hers.
         "I'm Herkie," the woman said. "I'm the Bear's housekeeper."
         Juli felt as though she had awakened in a mental hospital. It was
all so impossible. Puppy-dog people and now a bear? And surely the blonde
woman with the bad cycs was not a human?
         Herkie patted her hand. "Of course you're confused," she said.
         Juli was taken aback. "You're talking! You're talking and I
understand you. You're talking German. We're not just communicating
telepathically."
         "Of course," Herkie said. "I speak true Doych. It's one of the
Bear's favorite languages."
         "One of..." Juli broke off. "It's all so confusing."
         Again Herkie patted her hand. "Of course it is."
         Juli lay back and looked at the ceiling. I must be in some other
world.
         No, Herkie thought at her, but you've been gone a long time.
         The Bear came into the room. "Feeling better?" lie asked.
         Juli merely nodded.
         "In the morning we will decide what to do," he said. "I have some
connections with the True Men, and I think that we had best take you to the
Vomact."
         Juli sat up as if hit by a bolt of lightning. "What do you mean,
'the Vomacht'? That is my name, vom Acht!"
         "I thought it night be," the Bear said. Herkie, peering at her from
the bedside, nodded wisely.
         "I was sure of it," she said. Then, "I think you need some good hot
soup and a rcst. in the morning it will all straighten itself out."
         The tiredness of years seemed to settle in Juli's bones. I do need
to rest, she thought. I need to get things sorted out in my mind. So
suddenly that she did not even have a chance to be startled by it, she was
asleep.
         Herkie and the Bear studied her face. "There's a remarkable
resemblanee." the Bear said. Herkie nodded in agreement. "It's the time
differeatial I'm worried about. Do you think that will be important?"
         "I don't know," Herkie replied. "Since I'm not human, I don't know
what bothers people." She straightened and stretched to her full length. "I
know!" she said. "I do know! She must have been sent here to help us with
the rebellion!"
         "No," the Bear said. "She has been too long in Time for her arrival
to have bcen intentional. It is true that she may help us, she may very well
help us. but I think that her arrival at this particular time and place is
fortuitous rather than planned."
         "Sometimes I think I understand a particular human mind," Herkie
said, "hut I'm sure you're correct. I can hardly wait for them to meet each
other!"
         "Yes," he said, "although I'm afraid that it's going to be rather


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traumatic. In more than one way."

        When Juli awoke after her deep sleep, she found a thoughtful Herkie
awaiting her.
        Juli stretched and her mind, still uncontrolled, asked: Are you
really a cat?
        Yes, Herkie thought back at her. But you are going to have to
discipline that thought process of yours. Everyone can read your thoughts.
        I'm sorry, Juli spieked, but I'm just not used to all this
telepathy.
        "I know." Herkie had switched to German.
        "I still don't understand how you know German," Juli said.
        "It's rather a long story. I learned it from the Bear. I think,
perhaps, you had better ask him how he learned it."
        "Wait a minute. I'm beginning to remember what happened before I
fell asleep. The Bear mentioned my name, my family name, vom Acht."
        Herkie switched the subject. "We've made you some clothes. We tried
to copy the style of those you had on, but they were coming to pieces so
badly that we are not sure we got the new ones right."
        She looked so anxious to please that Juli reassured her immediately.
If they fit. I'm sure they'll be just fine.
        Oh, they fit, Herkie spieked. We measured you. Now, after your bath
and meal, you will dress and the Bear and I will take you to the City.
Underpersons like me are not ordinarily allowed in the City, but this time I
think that an exception will be made.
        There was something sweet and wise in the face with the clouded blue
eyes. Juli felt that Herkie was her friend. I am, Herkie spieked, and Juli
was once more made aware that she must learn to control her thoughts, or at
least the broadcasting of them.
        You'll learn, Herkie spieked. It just takes some practice.
        They approached the City on fool, the Bear leading the way, Juli
behind him, and Ilerkie bringing up the rear. They encountered two
manshonyaggers along the road but the Bear spoke true Doych to them from
some distance and they turned silently and slunk away.
        Juli was fascinated. "What are they?" she asked.
        "Their real name is 'Menschenjager' and they were invented to kill
people whose ideas did not accord with those of the Sixth German Reich. But
there are very few of them still functional, and so many of us have learned
Doych since... since..."
        "Yes?"
        "Since an event you'll find out about in the City. Now let's get on
with it."
        They neared the City wall and Juli became conscious of a buzzing
sound, and of a powerful force that excluded them. Her hair stood on end and
she felt a tingling sensation of mild electrical shock. Obviously there was
a force field around the City.
        "What is it?" she cried out.
        "Just a static charge to keep back the Wild," the Bear said
soothingly. "Don't worry, I have a damper for it."
        He held up a small device in his right paw, puslied a button on it,
and immediately a corridor opened before them.
        When they reached the City wall, the Bear felt carefully along the
upper ridge. At a certain point he paused, then reached for a
strange-looking key that hung from a cord around his neck.
        Juli could see no difference between this section of the wall and
any other but the Bear inserted his key into a notch he had located and a
section of the barrier swung up. The three passed through and silently the
wall fell back into position.
        The Bear hurried them along dusty streets. Juli saw a number of
people but most of them seemed to her aloof, austere, uncaring. They bore
little resemblance to the lusty Prussians she remembered.


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        Eventually they arrived at the door of a large building that looked
old and imposing. Beside the door there was an inscription. The Bear was
hurrying them through the entryway.
        Oh, please, Mr. Bear, may I stop to read it?
        Just plain Bear is all right. And yes, of course you may. It may
even help you to understand some of the things that you are going to learn
today.
        The inscription was in German, and it was in the form of a poem. It
looked as though it had been carved hundreds of years ear]ier (as indeed it
had. Juli could not know that at this time).
        Herkie looked up. "Oh, the first..."
        "Hush," said the Bear.
        Juli read the poem to herself silently.

         Youth
         Fading, fading, going
         Flowing
         Like life blood fro. our veins....
         Little remains.
         The glorious face
         Erased,
         Replaced
         By one which mirrors tears,
         The years
         Gone by.
         Oh, Youth,
         Linger yet a while!
         Smile
         Still upon us
         The wretched few
         Who worship
         You....

         "I don't understand it," said Juli.
         "You will," the Bear said. "Unfortunately, you will."

        An official in a bright green robe trimmed with gold approached.
        "We have not had the honor of your presence for some time," he said
respectfully to the Bear.
        "I've been rather busy," the Bear replied. "But how is she?"
        Juli realized with a start that the conversation was not telepathic
but was in German. How do all these people know German? She unthinkingly
flung her thought abroad.
        Hush came back the simultaneous warnings from Herkie and the Bear.
        Juli felt thoroughly admonished. "I'm sorry," she almost whispered.
"I don't know how I'll ever learn the trick."
        Herkie was immediately sympathetic. "It is a trick," she said, "but
you're already better at it than you were when you arrived. You just have to
be careful. You can't fling your thoughts everywhere."
        "Never mind that now," the Bear said and he turned to the
greenuniformed official. "Is it possible to have an audience? I think it's
important."
        "You may have to wait a little while," the official said, "but I'm
sure she will always grant audience to you."
        The Bear looked a little smug at that, Juli noticed.
        They sat down to wait and from time to time Herkie patted Juli's arm
reassuringly.

        It was actually not long before the official reappeared. "She will
see you now," he said.
        He led them through a long corridor to a large room at the end of


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which was a dais with a chair. "Not quite a throne," Juli thought to
herself. Behind the chair stood a young and handsome male, a True Man. In
the chair sat a woman, old, old beyond imagining; her wrinkled hands were
claws, but in the haggard, wrinkled face one could still delect some trace
of beauty.
        Juli's sense of bewilderment grew. She knew this person, but she did
not. Her sense of orientation, already splintered by the events of the past
"day," almost disintegrated. She grabbed Herkie's hand as if it were the
only familiar element in a world she could not understand.
        The woman spoke. Her voice was old and weak, but she spoke in
German.
        "So, Juli, you have come. Laird told me he was bringing you in. I am
so happy to see you, and to know that you are all right."
        Juli's senses reeled. She knew, she knew, but she could not believe.
Too much had changed, too much had happened, in the short time that she had
returned to life.
        Gasping, tentatively, she whispered, "Carlotta?"
        Her sister nodded. "Yes, Juli, it is I. And this is my husband,
Laird."
        He nodded her head toward the handsome young man behind her. "He
brought me in about two hundred years ago, but unfortunately as an Ancient I
cannot undergo the rejuvenation process that has been developed since we
left the Earth."
        Juli began to sob. "Oh, Carlotta, it's all so hard to believe. And
you're so old! You wcre only two years older than I."
        "Darling, I've had two hundred years of bliss. They couldn't
rejuvenate me hut they could at least prolong my life. Now, it is not from
purely altruistic purposes that I have had Laird bring you in. Karla is
still out there, hut since she was only sixteen when she was suspended, we
thought that you would he better suited to the task.
        "In fact, we really didn't do you any favor in bringing you in
because now you too will begin to age. But to be forever in suspended
animation is not any life either."
        "Of course not," Juli said. "And anyway, if I had lived a normal
life, I would have aged."
        Carlotta leaned over to kiss her.
        "At least we're together at last," Juli sighed.
        "Darling," Carlotta said, "it is wonderful to have even this little
time together. You sec, I'm dying. There comes a point when, with all
technology, the scientists cannot keep a body alive. And we need help, help
with the rebellion."
        "The rebellion?"
        "Yes. Against the Jwindz. They were Chinesians, philosophers. Now
they are the true rulers of the Earth, and we -- so they believe -- are
merely their Instrumentality, their police force. Their power is not over
the body of man but over the soul. That is almost a forgotten word here now.
Say 'mind' instead. They call themselves the Perfect Ones and have sought to
remake man in their own image. But they are remote, removed, bloodless.
        "They have recruited persons of all races, but man has not responded
well. Only a handful aspire to the kind of esthetic perfection the Jwindz
have as their goal. So the Jwindz have resorted to their knowledge of drugs
and opiates to turn True Man into a tranquilized, indifferent people -- to
make it easy to govern them, to control everything that they do.
Unfortunately some of our" -- she nodded toward Laird -- "descendants have
joined them.
        "We necd you, Juli. Since I came back from the ancient world, Laird
and I have done what we could to free True Men from this form of slavery,
because it is slavery. It is a lack of vitality, a lack of meaning to life,
We used to have a word for it in the old days. Remember? 'Zombie.'"
        "What do you want me to do?"
        During the entire conversation between the sisters, Herkie, the


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Bear, and Laird had remained silent.
        Now Laird spoke. "Until Carlotta came to us, we were drifting along,
uncaring, in the power of the Jwindz. We did not know what it was, really,
to be a human being. We felt that our only purpose in life was to serve the
Jwindz: If they were perfect, what other function could we perform? It was
our duty to serve their needs-to maintain and guard the cities, to keep out
the Wild, to administer the drugs. Some of the Instrumentality even preyed
upon the Unauthorized Men, the Unforgiven, and, as a last resort, the True
Men, to supply their laboratories.
        "But now many of us no longer believe in the perfection ofthe Jwindz
-- or perhaps we have come to believe in something more than human
perfection. We have been serving men. We should have been serving mankind.
        "Now we feel that the time has come to put an end to this tyranny.
Carlotta and I have allies among some of our descendants and among some of
the Unforgiven and, as you have seen, even among the Unauthorized Men and
other animal-derived persons. I think there must still be a connection from
the time that human beings had 'pets' in the old days."
        Juli looked about her and realized that Herkie was quietly purring.
"Yes," she said, "I see what you mean."
        Laird continued, "What we want to do is to set up a real
Instrumentality -- not a force for the service of the Jwindz, but one for
the service of man. We are determined that never again shall man betray his
own image. We will establish the Instrumentality of Mankind, one benevolent
but not manipulative."
        Carlotta nodded slowly. Her aged face showed concern. "I will die in
a few days and you will marry Laird. You will be the new Vomact. With any
luck by the time you are as old as I am, your descendants and some of mine
should have freed the Earth from the power of the Jwindz."
        Juli again felt completely disoriented. "I'm to marry your husband?"
        Again Laird spoke. "I have loved your sister well for more than two
hundred years. I shall love you too, because you are so much like her. Do
not think that I am being disloyal. She and I have discussed this for some
time before I brought you in. If she were not dying, I should continue to be
faithful to her. But now we need you."
        Carlotta concurred. "It is true. He has made me very happy, and he
will make you happy too, through all the years of your life. Juli, I could
not have had you brought in had I not had some plan for your future. You
could never be happy with one of those drugged, tranquilized True Men. Trust
me in this, please. It is the only thing to do."
        Tears formed in Juli's eyes. "To have found you at last and then to
lose you after such a short time..."
        Herkie patted her hand and Juli looked up to see sympathetic tears
in her clouded blue eyes.

                               "         "          "

        It was three days later that Carlotta died. She died with a smile on
her face and Laird and Juli each holding one of her hands. She spoke at the
last and pressed their hands. "I'll see you later. Out among the stars."
        Juli wept uncontrollably.
        They postponed the wedding ceremony for seven days of mourning. For
once the City gates were opened and the static fields of electricity cut off
because even the Jwindz could not control the feelings of the animal-derived
persons, the Unauthorized Men, even some of the True Men, toward this woman
who had come to them from an ancient world.
        The Bear was particularly mournful. "I was the one who found her,
you know, after you brought her in," he said to Laird.
        "I remember."
        So that's what the Bear meant when he said 'another one,' Bil said.
        Charls and Oda, Bil and Kae were among the mourners. Juli saw them
and thought, My dear little puppy-dog people, but this time the thought was


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loving and not contemptuous.
        Oda's tail wagged. I've thought of something, she spieked at Juli.
Can you meet me down by the cenote in two days' time?
        Yes, thought Juli, proud of herself at being sure, for the first
time, that her thought had gone only to the person for whom it was meant.
She knew that she had been successful when she glanced at Laird's face and
saw that he had not read her thought.
        When she met Oda at the cenote, Juli did not know what was expected
of her -- nor what she herself expected.
        You must be very careful in directing your thoughts, Oda spieked. We
never know when some of the Jwindz are overhead.
        I think I'm learning, Juli spieked. Oda nodded.
        What my idea was, it was to make use of the Fighting Trees. The True
Men are still afraid of the sickness. But, you see, I know that the sickness
is gone. I got so tired of brushing past the trees and always worrying about
it that I decided to test it out, and I ate a pod from one of the Fighting
Trees -- and nothing happened. I've never been afraid of them since. So if
we met there, we rebels, in a grove of the Fighting Trees, the officials of
the Jwindz would never find us. They'd be afraid to hunt for its there.
        Juli's face lightened. That's a very good idea. May I consult with
Laird?
        Certainly. He has always been one of us. And your sister was too.
        Juli was sad again. I feel so alone.
        No. You have Laird, and you have us, and the Bear, and his
housekeeper. And in time there will be others. Now we must part.
        Juli returned from her meeting with Oda at the cenote to find Laird
deep in conference with the Bear and a young man who bore a singular
resemblance to Laird -- and to the youthful Carlotta that Juli remembered.
        Laird smiled at her. "This is your great-nephew," he said, "my
grand-son."
        Juli's perspective of time and age received another jolt. Laird
appeared to be no older than his grandson. How do I fit in to this? she
wondered, and accidentally broadcast the thought.
        "I know that all of this must be difficult for you to comprehend,"
Laird said, taking her hand. "Carlotta had some difficulty in adjusting too.
But try, please try, my dear, because we need you so desperately and I, I
particularly, have already become dependent on you. I could not face
Carlotta's loss without you."
        Juli felt a vague sense of embarrassment. "What is my" -- she could
not say it -- "what is his name?"
        "I beg your pardon. He is named Joachim for your uncle."
        Joachim smiled and then gave her a brief hug. "You see," he said,
"the reason we need your help with the rebellion is the cult that was built
up around your sister, my grandmother. When she returned to earth as an
Ancient One, there was a kind of cult set up about her. That is why she was
'The Vomact' and why you must also be. It is a rallying point for those of
us who oppose the power of the Jwindz. Grandmother Carlotta had a
minikingdom here, and even the Jwindz could not keep people from coin-ing to
pay her court. You must have realized that at the mourning session for her."
        "Yes, I could see that she had a great deal of respect from many
kinds of people. If she was in favor of a rebellion, I am sure she must have
been correct. Carlotta was always a most upright person. And now I must tell
you about the plan that Oda proposes." She proceeded to do so.
        "It might work," the Bear said. "True Men have been very careful
about observing the tambu of the Fighting Trees. In fact, I may even have an
improvement on Oda's idea." He began to get excited and dropped his
spectacles. Joachim picked them up.
        "Bear," he said, "you always do that when you're excited."
        "I think it means I have a good idea," the Bear said. "Look, why
don't we use the manshonyaggers?"
        The others looked at him in bewilderment and Laird said slowly, "I


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think I may see what you're getting at. The manshonyaggers, although there
are not many of them left, respond only to German and --"
        "And the leaders of the Jwindz are Chinesian, too proud to have
learned another language," the Bear broke in, smiling.
        "Yes. So if we establish headquarters in the Fighting Trees and let
it be known that the new Vomact is there --"
        "And surround the grove with manshonyaggers --"
        They were breaking in upon each other as the idea began to take
shape. The excitement grew.
        "I think it will work," Laird said.
        "I think so too," Joichim reassured him. "I will get together the
Band of Cousins and after you' re established in the Fighting Trees, we'll
make a raid on the drug center and bring the tranquilizers to the grove,
where we can destroy them."
        "The Band of Cousins?" Juli asked.
        "Carlotta's and my descendants who have not joined the
Instrumentality of the Jwindz," Laird told her.
        "Why would any of them have joined?"
        Laird shrugged. "Greed, power, all kinds of very human motives. Even
an illusion of physical immortality. We tried to give our children ideals
but the corruption of power is very great. You must know that."
        Remembering a howling, hateful face with a black mustache above the
mouth, a face from her own time and place, Juli nodded.

        Herkie and the Bear, Charls abd Oda, Bil and Kae accompanied Juli
into the grove of Fighting Trees. At first Bil and Kae were reluctant. It
was only after 0da's confession of having eaten a pod that they agreed to
go, and then Bil's reaction was that of a typical father.
        "How could you take such a chance?" he asked Oda.
        Her eyes were bright and her tail wagged furiously. "I just had to,"
she said.
        He glinced at Herkie. "Now if she had done it..."
        Herkie drew herself tip to her full height. "I think that the
relationship if curiosity and cats has, perhaps, been a little exaggerated,"
she said. "Actually, we're generally rather careful."
        "I didn' t mean to be disrespectful," Bil said hastily, and Herkie
saw his tail droop.
        "It's a common misconception," she said kindly, and Bil's tail
straightened.
        When they reached the center of the grove, they spread a picnic and
gathered around. Juli was hungry. In the City she had been offered synthetic
food, no doubt healthful and full of vitamins but not satisfying to the
appetite of an Ancient Prussian girl. The animal-derived persons had brought
real food and Juli ate happily.
        The Bear, in particular, noticed her enjoyment. "You see," he said,
"that's how they did it."
        "Did what?" asked Juli, her mouth full of bread.
        "How they drugged the majority of True Men. True Men were so
accustomed to living on synthetic foodstuffs that when the Jwindz introducod
tranquilizers into the synthetics, True Men never knew the difference. I
hope that if the Band of Cousins succeeds in capturing the drug supply, the
withdrawal symptoms for the True Men will not be too severe."
        Bil looked up. "That's something we should consider," he said. "If
there arc severe withdrawal symptoms, a number of the True Men may be
tempted to join the Jwindz in an attempt to recover the drugs."
        The Bear nodded. "That's what I was thinking," he said.

        It was several days before Laird, Joachim, and the Band of Cousins
joined them. By this time Juli had become almost accustomed to the daylight
darkness under the thick leaves and branches of the Fighting Trees, and the
soft-glowing illumination at night.


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        Laird greeted her affectionately. "I have missed you," he said
simply. "Already I have grown very attached to you."
        Juli blushed and changed the subject. "Did you -- or, rather, the
Band of Cousins -- succeed?"
        "Oh, yes. There was very little difficulty. The officials of the
Jwindz had grown quite careless since they have had the minds of most True
Men under their control for generations. It was only a matter of Joachim's
pretending to be tranquilized, and he had free access to the drug room. Over
a period of days he managed to transfer the entire supply to the Cousins and
to substitute placebos. I wonder when that will be discovered."
        "As soon as the first withdrawal symptoms occur, I should think,"
Joachiim ventured.
        Something that had been nagging at the hack of Juli's mind surfaced.
"You have your grandson here, and the Band of Cousins. But where are your
and Carlotta's own children? Obviously you had some."
        His face saddened. "Of course. But since they were half-Ancient,
they could not only not be rejuvenated, but the combination of the chemistry
made it such that their lives could not even be prolonged. They all died in
their seventies and eighties. It was a great sadness to Carlotta and me. You
too, my dear, if we have children, must be prepared for that. By the time of
the next generation, however, the Ancient blood is sufficiently diluted that
rejuvenation may take place. Joachim is a hundred and fifty years old."
        "And you? And you?" she said.
        He looke at her. "This is very hard on you, isn't it? I'm over three
hundred years old."
        Juli could ot disbelieve but neither could she quite comprehend.
Laird was so handsome and youthful; Carlotta had been so old.
        She tried to shake the cobwebs from her mind. "What do we do with
the tranquilizers now hat we have them?"
        Oda had approached at the latter part of the conversation. Her eyes
sparkled and her tail wagged madly. "I have an idea," she announced.
        "I hope it's as good as your last one," Laird said.
        "I hope so too. Look, why don't we just feed the tranquilizers back
to the officials? The Jwindz probably will never notice. Then we won't have
to worry about fighting them. They could just gradually die off or maybe...
do you think... we could send them out into space? To another planet ?"
        Laird nodded slowly. "You do have good ideas. Yes, to feed the
tranquilizers back to them... but how?"
        "We work well together," the Bear said, indicating Oda. "She has an
idea and it triggers another one in my mind." Carefully he put on his
spectacles. "I have here a map of the terrain in this vicinity. Except for
the cenote there is no water for many kilometers in any direction. If we
dropped the tranquilizers -- all of them -- into the cenote, and then if one
of the Cousins could prepare the synthetic food of the Jwindz's officials so
it was very spicy -- I think that the problem would be solved."
        Laird said, "We do have one of the Cousins who has infiltrated the
Jwindz. But what would induce them to drink the water?"
        Charls had joined the group. "I have heard," he said, "of an ancient
spice people used to like which eventually produced thirst. It used to be
found in the oceans, before they were filled with grass. But some of it
remains on the banks of the sea. I believe that it was called 'salt.'"
        "Now that you mention it, I've heard of that too." The Bear nodded
wisely. "So that is what we need to do. 'Salt.' We introduce it into their
food, then we entice them to the grove with the knowledge that the new
Vomact is here together with the heart of a rebellion. It's risky but I
think it's the best idea, or combination of ideas, yet."
        Laird agreed "It's is you say, risky, but it may work, and they're
lot likely to execute any of us if it doesn't. They'll just tranquilize us.
I think that we have a better than even chance of winning. And if True Man
is not revitalized, not freed from this bondage of tranquility and apathy, I
believe that the entire breed will he extinguished within a few hundred


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years. They have cine ti the point that they care about nothing."

        All worlds know how the plan was carried out. It was exactly as the
Bear had foretold. The thirsty officials of the Jwindz, their food highly
salted, drank eagerly from the water of the cenote and were quickly
tranquilized. They put up no opposition to the members of the rebellion who
soon thereafter emerged from the shelter of the Fighting Trees.
        Joachim was sad. "One of my brothers had joined them," he said.
        Laird laid a comforting arm across his shoulder. "Well, he's only
tranquilized. We may be able to help him as he comes out of it."
        "Perhaps, hut it violates all my principles."
        "Don't be too high-minded, Joachim. Principles are fine, but there
is such a thing as rehabilitation."
        And this was the way that the Instrumentality of Mankind was
established. In time it would govern many worlds. Juli, by virtue of being
the Vomact, becatne one of the first Ladies of the Instrumentality. Laird,
as her husband, was one of the first Lords.
        Juli lived to see some of her descendants among the first great
Scanners in Space. She was very proud of them, and she was very old. Laird,
of course, was as young as ever. All of her animal-descended friends had nag
since died. She missed them, although Laird was ever faithful.
        At last, so old that she had difficulty in moving, Juli called Laird
to her, She looked up into his handsome face. "My darling, you have made me
very happy, just as you did Carlotta. But now I am old and, I think, dying.
You are still so young and vital. I wish it were possible for me to undergo
the rejuvenation, but since it isn't possible, I think we should call in
Karla."
        He responded so rapidly that her feelings were somewhat hurt. "Yes,
I think that we should call in Karla."
        He turned away from her momentarily.
        She said with a hint of tears in her voice, "I know that you will
make her happy and love her very much."
        His silence continued for a moment before he turned back to her.
        She saw suddenly that there were lines in his face, lines she had
never seen before.
        "What is happening to you?" she asked.
        "My darling and last love," he said, "I will be losing you twice. I
can not bear it. I have asked the physician for medicine to counteract the
rejuvenation. In an hour I shall be as old as you. We are going together.
And somewhere out there we will meet Carlotta and we will hold hands, the
three of us among the stars. Karla will find her own man and her own fate."
        Together they sat and watched the descent of Karla's spacecraft.
        SCANNERS LIVE IN VAIN


        Here, humanity is still emerging from the Dark Age that is more
fully described in the stories "Queen of the Afternoon" and "Mark Elf" and
which reveal the "Beasts" to be mutated, intelligent animals and the
"manshonyaggers" to be.old German killing machines -- taken from
Menschenjager, or "hunter of men." At the time Smith wrote the story in
1945, there was an abandoned shop in his neighborhood called the Little
Cranch -- what "cranch" meant, he had no idea -- but he used the word
anyway. The "ancient lady" ancestress of Vomact was one of the VomAcht
sisters mentioned in Dark Age stories -- which one, we don't know.

         Martel was angry. He did not even adjust his blood away from anger.
He stamped across the room by judgment, not by sight. When he saw the table
hit the floor, and could tell by the expression on Luci's face that the
table must have made a loud crash, he looked down to see if his leg was
broken. It was not. Scanner to the core, he had to scan himself. The action
was reflex and automatic. The inventory included his legs, abdomen, Chestbox


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of instruments, hands, arms, face and back with the mirror. Only then did
Martel go back to being angry. He talked with his voice, even though he knew

that his wife hated its blare and preferred to have him write.
        "I tell you, I must cranch. I have to cranch. It's my worry, isn't
it?"
        When Luci answered, he saw only a part of he words as he read her
lips: "Darling... you're my husband... right to love you... dangerous... do
it... dangerous... wait..."
        He faced her, but put sound in his voice, letting the blare hurt her
again: "I tell you, I'm going to cranch."
        Catching her expression, he became rueful and a little tender:
"Can't you understand what it means to me? To get out of this terrible
prison in my own head? To be a man again -- hearing your voice, smelling
smoke? To feel again -- to feel my feet on the ground, to feel the air move
against my face? Don't you know what it means?"
        Her wide-eyed worrisome concern thrust him back into pure annoyance.
He read only a few words as her lips moved: " ...love you... your own
good... don't you think I want you to be human?... your own good... too
much... he said... they said...."
        When he roared at her, he realized that his voice must be
particularly bad. He knew that the sound hurt her no less than did the
words: "Do you think I wanted you to marry a scanner? Didn't I tell you
we're almost as low as the habrermans? We're dead, I tell you. We've got to
be dead to do our work. How can anybody go to the up-and-out? Can you dream
what raw space is? I warned you. But you married me. All right, you married
a man. Please, darling, let me be a man. Let me hear your voice, let me feel
the warmth of being alive, of being human. Let me!"
        He saw by her look of stricken assent tnat he had won the arguement.
He did not use his voice again. Instead, he pulled his tablet up from where
it hung against his chest. He wrote on it, using the pointed fingernail of
his right forefinger -- the talking nail of a scanner -- in quick cleancut
script: Pls, drlng, whrs crnchng wire?
        She pulled the long gold-sheathed wire out of the pocket of her
apron. She let its field sphere fall to the carpeted floor. Swiftly,
dutifully, with the deft obedience of 3 a scanner's wife, she wound the
cranching wire around his head, spirally around his neck and chest. She
avoided the instruments set in his chest. She even avoided the radiating
scars around the instruments, the stigmata of men who had gone up and into
the out. Mechanically he lifted a foot as she slipped the wire between his
feet. She drew the wire taut. She snapped the small plug into the
high-burden control next to his heart-reader. She helped him to sit down,
arranging his hands for him, pushing his head back into the cup at the top
of the chair. She turned then, full-face toward him, so that he could read
her lips easily. Her expression was composed:
        "Ready, darling?"
        She knelt, scooped up the sphere at the other end of the wire, stood
erect calmly, her back to him. He scanned her, and saw nothing in her
posture but grief which would have escaped the eye of anyone but a scanner.
She spoke: he could see her chest-muscles moving. She realized that she was
not facing him, and turned so that be could see her lips:
        "Ready at last?"
        He smiled a yes.
        She turned her back to him again. (Luci could never bear to watch
him go under the wire.) She tossed the wire-sphere into the air. It caught
in the force-field, and hung there. Suddenly it glowed. That was all. All --
except for the sudden red stinking roar of coming back to his senses. Coming
back, across the wild threshold of pain.
        When he awakened, under the wire, he did not feel as though he had
just cranched. Even though it was the second cranching within the week, he
felt fit. He lay in the chair. His ears drank in the sound of air touching


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things in the room. He heard Luci breathing in the next room, where she was
hanging up the wire to cool. He smelt the thousand and one smells that are
in anybody's room: the crisp freshness of the germ-burner, the sour-sweet
tang of the humidifier, the odor of the dinner they had just eaten, the
smells of clothes, furniture, of people themselves. All these were pure
delight. He sang a phrase or two of his favorite song:

         "Here's to the Haberman, up-and-out!
         "Up -- oh -- and out -o oh! up-and-out!

         He heard Luci chuckle in the next room. He gloated over the sounds
of her dress as she swished to the doorway.
         She gave him her crooked little smile. "You sound all right. Are you
all right, really?"
         Even with this luxury of senses, he scanned. He took the flash-quick
inventory which constituted his professional skill. His eyes swept in the
news of the instruments. Nothing showed off scale, beyond the nerve
compression hanging in the edge of Danger. But he could not worry about the
nerve-box. That always came through cranching. You couldn't get under the
wire without having it show on the nerve-box. Some day the box would go to
Overload and drop back down to Dead. That was the way a haberman ended. But
you couldn't have everything. People who went to the up-and-out had to pay
the price for space.
         Anyhow, he should worry! He was a scanner. A good one, and he knew
it. If he couldn't scan himself, who could? This cranching wasn't too
dangerous. Dangerous, but not too dangerous.
         Luci put out her hand and ruffled his hair as if she had been
reading his thoughts, instead of just following them: "But you know you
shouldn't have! You shouldn't!"
         "But I did!" He grinned at her.
         Her gaiety still forced, she said: "Come on, darling, let's have a
good time. I have almost everything there is in the icebox -- all your
favorite tastes. And I have two new records just full of smells. I tried
them out myself, and even I liked them. And you know me --"
         "Which?"
         "Which what, you old darling?"
         He slipped his hand over her shoulders as he limped out of the room.
(He could never go back to feeling the floor beneath his feet, feeling the
air against his face, without being bewildered and clumsy. As if cranching
was real, and being a haberman was a bad dream. But he was a haberman, and a
scanner. "You know what I meant, Luci... the smells, which you have. Which
one did you like, on the record?"
         "Well-l-l," said she, judiciously, "there were some lamb chops that
were the strangest things --"
         He interrupted: "What are lambtchots?"
         "Wait till you smell them. Then guess. I'll tell you this much. It's
a smell hundreds and hundreds of years old. They found about it in the old
books."
         "Is a lambtchot a beast?"
         "I won't tell you. You've got to wait," she laughed, as she helped
him sit down and spread his testing dishes before him. He wanted to go back
over the dinner first, sampling all the pretty things he had eaten, and
savoring          them this time with his now-living lips and tongue.
         When Luci had found the music wire and had thrown its sphere up into
the force-field, he reminded her of the new smells. She took out the long
glass records and set the first one into a transmitter.
         "Now sniff!"
         A queer, frightening, exciting smell came over the room. It seemed
like nothing in this world, nor like anything from the up-and-out. Yet it
was familiar. His mouth watered. His pulse beat a little faster; he scanned
his heartbox. (Faster, sure enough.) But that smell, what was it? In mock


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perplexity, be grabbed her hands, looked into her eyes, and growled:
        "Tell me, darling! Tell me, or I'll eat you up!"
        "That's just right!"
        "What?"
        "You're right. It should make you want to eat me. It's meat."
        "Meat. Who?"
        "Not a person," said she, knowledgeably, "a Beast. A Beast which
people used to eat. A lamb was a small sheep -- you've seen sheep out in the
Wild, haven't you? -- and a chop is part of its middle -- here!" She pointed
at her cbest.
        Martel did not hear her. All his boxes had swung over toward Alarm,
some to Danger. He fought against the roar of his own mind, forcing his body
into excess excitement. How easy it was to be a scanner when you really
stood outside your own body, haberman-fasliion, and looked back into it with
your eyes alone. Then you could manage the body, rule it coldly even in the
enduring agony of space. But to realize that you were a body, that this
thing was ruling you, that the mind could kick the flesh and send it roaring
off into panic! That was bad.
        He tried to remember the days before be had gone into the haberman
device, before he had been cut apart for the up-and-out. Had he always been
subject to the rush of his emotions from his mind to his body, from. his
body back to his mind, confounding him so that he couldn't scan? But he
hadn't been a scanner then.
        He knew what had hit him. Amid the roar of his own pulse, he knew.
In the nightmare of the up-and-out, that smell had forced its way through to
him, while their ship burned off Venus and the habermans fought the
collapsing metal with their bare hands. He had scanned then: all were in.
Danger. Chestboxes went up to Overload and dropped to Dead all around him as
be had moved from man to man, shoving the drifting corpses out of his way as
he fought to scan each man in turn, to clamp vises on unnoticed broken legs,
to snip the sleeping valve on men whose instruments showed they were
hopelessly near Overload. With men trying to work and cursing him for a
scanner while he, professional zeal aroused, fought to do his job and keep
them alive in the Great Pain of Space, he had smelled that smell. It had
fought its way along his rebuilt nerves, past the habermail cuts, past all
the safeguards of physical and mental discipline. In the wildest hour of
tragedy, he had smelled aloud. He remembered it was like a bad cranching,
connected with the fury and nightmare all around him, He had even stopped
his work to scan himself, fearful that the first effect might come, breaking
past all Haberman cuts and ruining him with the pain of space. But he had
come through. His own instruments stayed and stayed at Danger, without
nearing Overload. He had done his job, and won a commendation for it. He had
even forgotten the burning ship.
        All except the smell.
        And here the smell was all over again-the smell of meat --
with-fire...
        Luci looked at him with wifely concern. She obviously thought he had
cranched too much, and was about to haberman back. She tried to be cheerful:
"You'd better rest, honey."
        He whispered to her: "Cut off -- that -- smell."
        She did not question his word. She cut the transmitter. She even
crossed the room and stepped up the room controls until a small breeze
flitted across the floor and drove the smells up to the ceiling.
        He rose, tired and stiff. (His instruments were normal, except that
heart was fast and nerves still hanging on the edge of Danger.) he spoke
sadly:
        "Forgive me, Luci. I suppose I shouldn't have cranched. Not so soon
again. But darling, I have to get out from being a Haberman. How can I ever
be near you? How can I be a man -- not hearing my own voice, not even
feeling my own life as it goes through my veins? I love you, darling. Can't
I ever be near you?"


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        Her pride was disciplined and automatic: "But you're a scanner!"
        "I know I'm a scanner. But so what?"
        She went over the words, like a tale told a thousand times to
reassure herself: "You are the bravest of the brave, and most skillful of
the skilled. All mankind owes most honor to the scanner, who unites the
Earths of mankind. Scanners are the protectors of the habermans. They are
the judges in the up-and-out. They make men live in the place where men need
desperately to die. They are the most honorcci of mankind, and even the
chiefs of the Instrumentality are delighted to pay them homage!"
        With obstinate sorrow he demurred: "Luci. we've heard that all
before. But does it pay us back --"
        "'Scanners work for more than pay. They are the strong guards of
mankind.' Don't you remember that?"
        "But our lives, Luci. What can you get out of being the wife of a
scanner? Why did you marry me? I'm human only when I cranch. The rest of the
time -- you know what I am. A machine. A man turned into a machine. A man
who has been killed and kept alive for duty. Don't you realize what I miss?"

        "Of course, darling, of course --"
        He went on: "Don't you think I remember my childhood? Don't you
think I remember what it is to be a man and not a haberman? To walk and feel
my feet on the ground? To feel a decent clean pain instead of watching my
body every minute to see if I'm alive? How will I know if I'm dead? Did you
ever think of that, Luci? How will I know if I'm dead?"
        She ignored the unreasonableness of his outburst. Pacifyingly, she
said: "Sit down, darling. Let me make you some kind of drink. You're
overwrought."
        Automatically, he scanned. "No I'm not! Listen to me. How do you
think it feels to be in the up-and-out with the crew tied-for-space all
around you? How do you think it feels to watch them sleep? How do you think
I like scanning, scanning, scanning month after month, when I can feel the
pain of space beating against every pirt of my body, trying to get past my
haberman blocks? How do you think I like to wake the men when I have to, and
have them hate me for it? Have you ever seen habermans fight -- strong men
fighting, and neither knowing pain, fighting until one reaches Overload? Do
you think about that, Luci?" Triumphantly he added: "Can you blame me if I
cranch, and come back to being a men, just two days a month?"
        "I'm not blaming you, darling. Let's enjoy your cranch. Sit down
now, and have a drink."
        He was sitting down, resting his face in his hands, while she fixed
the drink, using natural fruits out of bottles in addition to the secure
alkaloids. He watched her restlessly and pitied her for marrying a scanner;
and then, though it was unjust, resented having to pity her.
        Just as she turned to hand him the drink, they both jumped a little
is the phone ring. It should not have rung. They had turned it off. It rang
agiin, obviously on the emergency circuit. Stepping ahead of Luci, Martel
strode over to the phone and looked into it. Vomact was looking at him.
        The custom of Scanners entitled him to be brusque, even with a
senior scanner, on certain given occasions. This was one.
        Before Vomact could speak, Martel spoke two words into the plate,
not caring whether the old mam could read lips or not:
        "Cranching. Busy."
        He cut the switch and went back to Luci.
        The phone rang again.
        Luci said, gently, "I can find out what it is, darling. Here, take
your drink and sit down."
        "Leave it alone," said her husband. "No one has a right to call when
I'm cranching. He knows that. He ought to know that."
        The phone rang again. Tn a fury, Martel rose and went to the plate.
he cut it back on. Vomact was on the screen. Before Martel could speak,
Vomact held up his talking nail in line with his heartbox. Martel reverted


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to discipline:
        "Scanner Martel present and waiting, sir."
        The lips moved solemnify: "Top emergency."
        "Sir, I am under the wire."
        "Top emergency."
        "Sir, don't you understand? Martel mouthed his words, so he could be
sure that Vomact followed. "I.. am... under... the... wire. Unfit... for...
Space!"
        Vomact repeated: "Top emergency. Report to Central Tie-in."
        "But, sir, no emergency like this --"
        "Right. Martel. No emergency like this, ever before. Report to
Tie-in." With a final glint of kindness, Vomact added: "No need to
de-cranch. Report as you are."
        This time it was Martel whose phone was cut out. The screen went
gray.
        He turned to Luci. The temper had gone out of his voice. She came to
him. She kissed him, and rumpled his hair. All she could say was,
        "I'm sorry."
        She kissed him again, knowing his disappointment. "Take good care of
yourself, darling. I'll wait."
        He scanned, and slipped into his transparent aircoat. At the window
he paused, and waved. She called, "Good Luck!" As the air flowed past him he
said to himself,
        "This is the first time I've felt flight in -- eleven years. Lord,
but it's easy to fly if you can feel yourself live!"
        Central Tie-in glowed white and austere far ahead. Martel peered. He
saw no glare of incoming ships from the up-and-out, no shuddering flare of
space-fire out of control. Everything was quiet, as it should be on an
offduty night.
        And yet Vomact had called. He had called an emergency higher than
space. There was no such thing. But Vomact had called it.

II

        When Martel got there, he found about half the Scanners present, two
dozen or so of them. He lifted the talking finger. Most of the Scanners were
stinding face to face, talking in pairs is they read lips. A few of the old,
impatient ones were scribbling on their tablets and then thrusting the
tablets into other people's faces. All the faces wore the dull dead relaxed
look of a haberman. When Martel entered the room, he knew thit most of the
others laughed in the deep isolated privacy of their own heads, each
thinking things it would be useless to express in formal words. It had been
a long time since a scanner showed up at a meeting cranched.
        Vomact was not there: probably, thought Martel, he was still on the
phone calling others. The light of the phone flashed on ind off; the bell
rang. Martel felt odd when he realized that of all those present, he was the
only one to hear that loud bell. It made him realize why ordinary people did
not like to be around groups of habermans or Scanners. Martel looked around
for company.
        His friend Chang was there, busy explaining to some old and testy
scanncr that he did not know why Vomact had called. Martel looked farther
and saw Parizianski. Je walked over, threading his way past the others with
a dexterity that showed he could feel his feet from the inside, and did not
have to watch them. Several of the others stared at him with their dead
faces, and tried to smile. But they lacked full muscular control and their
faces twisted into horrid masks. (Scanners usually knew better thin to show
expression on faces which they could no longer govern. Martel added to
himself, I swear I'll never smile again unless I'm cranched.)
        Pariziatiski gave him the sign of the talking finger. Looking face
to face, he spoke:
        "You come here cranched?"


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        Parizianski could not hear his own voice, so the words roared like
the words on a broken and screeching phone; Martel was startled, but knew
that the inquiry was well meant. No one could be better-natured than me
burly Pole.
        "Vomact called. Top emergency."
        "You told him you were cranched?"
        "Yes."
        "He still made you come?"
        "Yes."
        "Then all this -- it is not for Space? You could not go up-and-out?
You are like ordinary men?"
        "That's right."
        "Then why did he call us?" Some pre-haberman habit made Parizianski
wave his arms in inquiry. The hand struck the back of the old man behind
them. The slap could be heard throughout the room, but only Martel heard it.
Instinctively, be scanned Parizianski and tho old scanner, and they scanned
him back. Only then did the old man ask why Martel had scanned him. When
Martel explained that he was under the wire, the old man moved swiftly away
to pass on the news that there was a crouched scanner present at the tie-in.

         Even this minor sensation could not keep the attention of most of
the Scanners from the worry about the top emergency. One young man, who had
scanned his first transit just the year before, dramatically interposed
himself between Parizitnski and Martel. He dramatically flashed his tablet
at them:
         Is Vmct mad?
         The older men shook their heads. Martel, remembering that it had not
been too long that the young men had been haberman, mitigated the dead
solemnity of the denial with a friendly smile. He spoke in a normal voice,
saying:
         "Vomact is the senior of Scanners. I am sure that he could not go
mad. Would he not see it on his boxes first?"
         Martel had to repeat the question, speaking slowly and mouthing his
words before the young scanner could understand the comment. The young man
tried to make his face smile, and twisted it into a comic mask. But he took
up his tablet and scribbled:
         Yr rght.
         Chang broke away from his friend and came over, his half-Chinese
face gleaming in the warm evening. (It's strange, thought Martel, that more
Chinese don't become Scanners. Or not so strange perhaps, if you think that
they never fill their quota of habermans. Chinese love good living too much.
The ones who do scan are a good ones.) Chang saw that Martel was cranched,
and spoke with voice:
         "You break precedents. Luci must be angry to lose you?"
         "She took it well. Chang, that's strange."
         "What?"
         "I'm cranched, and I can hear. Your voice sounds all right. How did
you learn to talk like -- like an ordinary person?"
         "I practiced with soundtracks. Funny you noticed it. think I am the
only scanner in or between the Earths who can pass for an ordinary man.
Mirrors and sound tracks. I found out bow to act."
         "But you don't... ?"
         "No. I don't feel, or taste, or hear, or smell things any more than
you do. Talking doesn't do me much good. But I notice that it cheers up the
people around me."
         "It would make a difference in the life of Luci."
         Chang nodded sagely. "My father insisted on it. He said, 'You may be
proud of being a scanner. I am sorry you are not a man. Conceal your
defects.' So I tried. I wanted to tell the old boy about the up-and-out, and
what we did there, but it did not matter. He said, 'Airplanes were good
enough for Confucius, and they are for me too.' The old humbug! He tries so


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hard to be Chinese when he can't even read Old Chinese. But he's got
wonderful good sense, and for somebody going on two hundred he certainly
gets around."
        Martel smiled at the thought: "In his airplane?"
        Chang smiled back. This discipline of his facial muscles was
amazing; a bystander would not think that Chang was a haberman, controlling
his eyes, cheeks and lips by cold intellectual control. The expression had
the spontaniety of life. Martel felt a flash of envy for Chang when he
looked at the dead cold faces of Parizianski and the others. He knew that he
himself looked fine: but why shouldn't he? He was cranched. Turning to
Parizianski he said,
        "Did you see what Chang said about his father? The old boy uses an
airplane."
        Parizianski made motions with his month, but the sounds meant
nothing. He took up his tablet and showed it to Martel ad Chang.
        Bzz bzz. Ha ha. Gd ol' boy.
        At that moment, Martel heard steps out in the corridor. He could not
help looking toward the door. Other eyes followed the direction of his
glance.
        Vomact came in.
        The group shuffled to attention in four parallel lines. They scanned
one another. Numerous hands reached across to adjust the electrochemical
controls on chestboxes which had begun to load up. One scanner held out a
broken finger which his counter-scanner had discovered, and submitted it for
treatment and splinting.
        Vomact had taken out his staff of office. The cube at the top
flashed red light through the room, the lines reformed, and all Scanners
gave the sign meaning, Present and ready!
        Vomact countered with the stance signifying, I am the senior and
take command.
        Talking fingers rose in the counter-gesture, We concur and commit
ourselves.
        Vomact raised his right arm, dropped the wrist as though it were
broken, in a queer searching gesture, meaning: Any men around? Any habermans
not tied? All clear for the Scanners?
        Alone of all those present, the cranched Martel heard the queer
rustle of feet as they all turned completely around without leaving
position, looking sharply at one another and flashing their beltlights into
the dark corners of the great room. When again they faced Vomact, he made a
further sign:
        All clear. Follow my words.
        Martel noticed that he alone relaxed. The others could not know the
meaning of relaxation with the minds blocked off up there in their skulls,
connected only with the eyes, and the rest of the body connected with the
mind only by controlling non-sensory nerves and the instrument boxes on
their chests. Martel realized that, cranched as he was, he had expected to
hear Vomact's voice: the senior had been talking for some time. No sound
escaped his lips. (Vomact never bothered with sound.)
        "... and when the first men to go up-and-out went to the moon, what
did they find?"
        "Nothing," responded the silent chorus of lips.
        "Therefore they went farther, to Mars and to Venus. The ships went
out year by year, but they did not come back until the Year One of Space.
Then did a ship come back with the first effect. Scanners, I ask you, what
is the first effect?"
        "No one knows. No one knows."
        "No one will ever know. Too many are the variables. By what do we
know the first effect?"
        "By the great pain of space," came the chorus.
        "And by what further sign?"
        "By the need, oh the need for death."


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          Vomact again: "And who stopped the need for death?"
          "Henry Haberman conquered the first effect, in the Year 93 of
Space."
        "And, Scanners, I ask you, what did he do?"
        "He made the habermans."
        "How, 0 Scanners, are habermans made?"
        "They are made with the cuts. The brain is cut from the heart, the
lungs. The brain is cut from the ears, the nose. The brain is cut from the
mouth, the belly. The brain is cut from desire, and pain. The brain is cut
from the world. Save for the eyes. Save for the control of the living
flesh."
        "And how, 0 Scanners, is flesh controlled?"
        "By the boxes set in the flesh, the controls set in the chest, the
signs made to rule the living body, the signs by which the body lives."
        "How does a haaberman live and live?"
        "The haberman lives by control of the boxes."
        "Whence come the habermans?"
        Martel felt in the coming response a great roar of broken voices
echoing through the room as the Scanners, habermans themselves, put sound
behind their mouthings:
        "Habermans are the scum of mankind. Habermans are the weak, the
cruel, the credulous, and the unfit. Habermans are the
sentenced-to-more-than-death. Habermans live in the mind alone. They are
killed for space but they live for space. They master the ships that connect
the Earths. They live in the great pain while ordinlry men sleep in the
cold, cold sleep of the transit."
        "Brothers and Scanners, I ask you now: are we habermans or are we
not?"
        "We are habermans in the flesh. We are cut apart, brain and flesh.
We are ready to go to the up-and-out. All of us have gone through the
habennan device."
        "We are habermans then?" Vomact's eyes flashed and glittered as he
asked the ritual question.
        Again the chorused answer was accompanied by a roar of voices heard
only by Martel: "Habermans we are, and more, and more. We are the chosen who
are habermans by our own free will. We are the agents of the Instrumentality
of Mankind."
        "What must the others say to us?"
        "They must say to us, 'You are the bravest of the brave, the most
skillful of the skilled. All mankind owes most honor to the scanner, who
unites the Earths of mankind. Scanners are the protectors of the habermans.
They are the judges in the up-and-out. They make men live in the place where
men need desperately to die. They are the most honored of mankind, and even
the chiefs of the Instrumentality are delighted to pay them homage!'"
        Vomact stood more erect: "What is the secret duty of the scanner?"
        "To keep secret our law, and to destroy the acquirers thereof."
        "How to destroy?"
        "Twice to the Overload, back and Dead."
        "If habermans die, what the duty then?"
        The Scanners all compressed their lips for answer. (Silence was the
code.) Martel, who -- long familiar with the code -- was a little bored with
the proceedings, noticed that Chang was breathing too heavily; he reached
over and adjusted Chang's lung-control and received the thanks of Chang's
eyes. Vomact observed the interruption and glared at them both. Martel
relaxed, trying to imitate the dead cold stillness of the others. It was so
hard to do, when you were cranched.
        "If others die, what the duty then?" asked Vomact.
        "Scanners together inform the Instrumentality. Scanners together
accept the punishment. Scanners together settle the case."
        "And if the punishment be severe?"



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        "Then no ships go."
        "And if Scanners be not honored?"
        "Then no ships go."
        "And if a scanner goes unpaid?"
        "Then no ships go."
        "And if the Others and the Instrumentality are not in all ways at
all times mindful of their proper obligation to the Scanners?"
        "Then no ships go."
        "And what, 0 Scanners, if no ships go?"
        "The Earths fall apart. The Wild comes back in. The Old Machines and
the Beasts return."
        "What is the first known duty of a scanner?"
        "Not to sleep in the up-and-out."
        "What is the second duty of a scanner?"
        "To keep forgotten the name of fear."
        "What is the third duty of a scanner?"
        "To use the wire of Eustace Cranch only with care, only with
moderation." Several pair of eyes looked quickly at Martel before the
mouthed chorus went on. "To cranch only at home, only among friends, only
for the purpose of remembering, of relaxing, or of begetting."
        "What is the word of the scanner?"
        "Faithful though surrounded by death."
        "What is the motto of the scanner?"
        "Awake though surrounded by silence."
        "What is the work of the scanner?"
        "Labor even in the heights of the up-and-out, loyalty even in the
depths of the Earths."
        "How do you know a scanner?"
        "We know ourselves. We are dead though we live. And we talk with the
tablet and the nail."
        "What is this code?"
        "This code is the friendly ancient wisdom of Scanners, briefly put
that we may be mindful Lnd be cheered by our loyalty to one another."
        At this point the formula should have run: "We complete the code. Is
there work or word for the Scanners?" But Vomact said, and he repeated:
        "Top emergency. Top emergency."
        They gave him the sign, Present and ready!
        He said, with every eye straining to follow his lips:
        "Some of you know the work of Adam Stone?"
        Martel saw lips move, saying: "The Red Asteroid. The Other who lives
at the edge of Space."
        "Adam Stone has gone to the Instrumentality, claiming success for
his work. He says that he has found how to screen out the pain of space. He
says that the up-and-out can be made safe for ordinary men to work in, to
stay awake in. He says that there need be no more Scanners."
        Beltlights flashed on all over the room as Scanners sought the right
to speak. Vomact nodded to one of the older men. "Scanner Smith will speik."

        Smith stepped slowly up into the light, watching his own feet. He
turned so that they could see his face. He spoke: "I say that this is a lie.
I say that Stone is a liar. I say that the Instrumentality must not be
deceived."
        He paused. Then, in answer to some question from the audience which
most of the others did not see, he said:
        "I invoke the secret duty of the Scanners."
        Smith raised his right bind for emergency attention:
        "I say that Stone must die."

III

         Martel, still cranched, shuddered as he heard the boos, groans,


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shouts, squeiks, grunts and moans which came from the Scanners who forgot
noise in their excitement and strove to make their dead bodies talk to one
another's deaf cars. Beltlights flashed wildly all over the room. There was
a rush for the rostrum and Scanners milled around at the top, vying for
attention until Parizianski -- by sheer bulk -- shoved the others aside and
down, and turned to month it the group.
        "Brother Scanners, I want your eyes."
        The people on the floor kept moving, with their numb bodies jostling
one another. Finally Vomact stepped up in front of Parizianski, faced the
others, and said:
        "Scanners, be Scanners! Give him your eyes."
        Parizianski was not good at public speaking. His lips moved too
fast. He waved his hands, which took the eyes of the others away from his
lips. Nevertheless, Martel was able to follow most of the message:
        "... can't do this. Stone may have succeeded. If he has succeeded,
it means the end of the Scanners. It means the end of the habermans, too.
None of us will have to fight in the up-and-out. We won't have anybody else
going under the wire for a few hours or days of being human. Everybody will
be Other. Nobody will have to cranch, never again. Men can be men. The
habermans can be killed decently and properly, the way men were killed in
the old days, without anybody keeping them alive. They won't have to work in
the up-and-out! There will be no more great pain -- think of it!
No...more...great...pain! How do we know that Stone is a liar --" Lights
began flashing directly into his eyes. (The rudest insult of scanner to
scanner was this.)
        Vomact again exercised authority. He stepped in front of Parizianski
and said something which the others could not see. Parizianski stepped down
from the rostrum. Vomact again spoke:
        "I think that some of the Scanners disagree with our brother
Parizianski. I say that the use of the rostrum be suspended till we have had
a chance for private discussion. In fifteen minutes I will call the meeting
back to order."
        Martel looked around for Vomact when the senior had rejoined the
group on the floor. Finding the senior, Martel wrote swift script on his
tablet, waiting for a chance to thrust the tablet before the senior's eyes.
He had written:
        Am crnchd. Rspctfly requst prmisn lv now, stnd by fr orders.
        Being cranched did strange things to Martel. Most meetings that he
attended seemed formal, hearteningly ceremonial, lighting up the dark inward
eterbities of habermanhood. When he was not cranched, he noticed his body no
more than a marble bust notices its marble pedcstal. He had stood with them
before. He had stood with them effortless hours, while the long-winded
ritual broke through the terrible loneliness behind his eyes, and made him
feel that the Scanners, though a confraternity of the damned, were none the
less forever honored by the professional requirements of their mutilation.
        This time, it was different. Coming cranched, and in full possession
of smell-sound-taste-feeling, he reacted more or less as a normal man would.
He saw his friends and colleagues as a lot of cruelly driven ghosts,
posturing out the meaningless ritual of their indefeasible damnation. What
difference did anything make, once you were a haberman? Why all this talk
about habermans and Scanners? Habermans were criminals or heretics, and
Scanners were gentlemen-volunteers, but they were all in the same fix --
except that Scanners were deemed worthy of the short-time return of the
cranching wire, while habermans were simply disconnected while the ships lay
in port and were left suspended until they should be awakened, in some hour
of emergency or trouble, to work out another spell of their damnation. It
was a rare haberman that you saw on the street -- someone of special merit
or bravery, allowed to look at mankind from the terrible prison of his own
mechanified body. And yet, what scanner ever pitied a haberman? What scanner
ever honored a haberman except perfunctorily in the line of duty? What had
the Scanners as a guild and a class ever done for the habermans, except to


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murder them with a twist of the wrist whenever a haberman, too long beside a
scanner, picked up the tricks of the scanning trade and learned how to live
at his own will, not the will the Scanners imposed? What could the Others,
the ordinary men, know of what went on inside inside the ships? The Others
slept in their cylinders, mercifully unconscious until they woke up on
whatever other Earth they had consigned themselves to. What could the Others
know of the men who had to stay alive within the ship?
        What could any Other know of the up-and-out? What Other could look
at the biting acid beauty of the stars in open space? What could they tell
of the great pain, which started quietly in the marrow, like an ache, and
proceeded by the fatigue and nausea of each separate nerve cell, brain cell,
touchpoint in the body, until life. itself became a terrible aching hunger
for silence and for death?
        He was a Scanner, All right, he was a Scanner. He had been a Scanner
from the moment when, wholly normal, he had stood in the sunlight before a
subchief of the Instrumentality, and had sworn:
        "I pledge my honor and my life to mankind. I sacrifice myself
willingly for the welfare of mankind. In acccpting the perilous austere
honor, I yield all my rights without exception to the Honorable Chiefs of
the Instrumentality and to the Honored Confraternity of Scanners."
        He had pledged.
        He had gone into the Haberman Device.
        He remembered his hell. He had not had such a bad one, even though
it had seemed to last a hundred-million years, all of them without sleep. He
had learned to feel with his eyes. He had learned to see despite the heavy
eyeplates set back of his eyeballs to insulate his eyes from the rest of
him. He had learned to watch his skin. He still remembered the time he had
noticed dampness on his shirt, and had pulled out his scanning mirror only
to discover that he had worn a hole in his side by leaning against a
vibrating machine. (A thing like that could not happen to him now; be was
too adept at reading his own instruments.) He remembered the way that he had
gone up-and-out, and the way that the great pain beat into him, despite the
fact that his touch, smell, feeling, and hearing were gone for all ordinary
purposes. He remembered killing habermans, and keeping others alive, and
standing for months beside the Honorable Scanner-Pilot while neither of them
slept. He remembered going ashore on Earth Four, and remembered that he had
not enjoyed it, and had realized on that day that there was no reward.
        Martel stood among the other Scanners. He hated their awkwardness
when they moved, their immobility when they stood still. He hated the queer
assortment of smells which their bodies yielded unnoticed. He hated the
grunts and groans and squawks which they emitted from their deafness. He
hated them, and himself.
        How could Luci stand him? He had kept his chestbox reading Danger
for weeks while he courted her, carrying the cranch wire about with him most
illegally, and going direct from one cranch to the other without worrying
about the fact his indicators all crept to the edge of Overload. He had
wooed her without thinking of what would happen if she did say, "Yes." She
had.
        "And they lived happily ever after." In old books they did, but how
could they, in life? He had had eighteen days under the wire in the whole of
the past year yet she had loved him. She still loved him. He knew it. She
fretted about him through the long months that he was in the up-and-out. She
tried to make home mean something to him even when he was haberman, make
food pretty when it could not be tasted, make herself lovable when she could
not be kissed -- or might as well not, since a haberman body meant no more
than fumiture. Luci was patient.
        And now, Adam Stone! (He let his tablet fade: how could he leave,
now?)
        God bless Adam Stone!
        Martel could not help feeling a little sorry for himself. No longer



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would the high keen call of duty carry him through two hundred or so years
of the Others' time, two million private eternities of his own. He could
slouch and relax. He could forget High Space, and let the out-and-out be
tended by Others. He could cranch, as much as he dared. He could be almost
normal -- almost -- for one year or five years or no years. But at least he
could stay with Luci. He could go with her into the Wild, where there were
Beasts and Old Machines still roving the dirk places. Perhaps he would die
in the excitement of the hunt, throwing spears it an ancient manshonyagger
as it leapt from its lair, or tossing hot spheres at the tribesmen of the
Unforgiven who still roamed the Wild. There was still life to live, still a
good normal death to die, not the moving of a needle out in the silence and
agony of Space!
        He had been walking about restlessly. His ears were ,attuned to the
sounds of normal speech, so that he did not feel like watching the mouthings
of his brethren. Now they seemed to have come to a decision. Vomact was
moving to the rostrum. Martel looked about for Chang, and went to stand
beside him. Chang whispered.
        "You're is restless as water in mid-air! What's the matter?
De-cranching?"
        They both scanned Martel, but the instruments held steady and showed
no sign of the cranch giving out.
        The great light flared in its call to attention. Again they formed
ranks. Vomact thrust his lean old face into the glare, and spoke:
        "Scanners and Brothers, I call for a vote." He held himself in the
stance which meant: I am the senior and take command.
        A beltlight flashed in protest.
        It was old Henderson. He moved to the rostrum, spoke to Vomact, and
-- with Vomact's nod of approval -- turned full-face to repeat his question:

        "Who speaks for the Scanners out in space?"
        No beltlight or hand answered.
        Henderson and Vomact, face to face, conferred for a few moments.
Then Henderson faced them again:
        "I yield to the senior in command. But I do not yield to a meeting
of the Confraternity. There are sixty-eight Scanners, and only forty-seven
present, of whom one is cranched and U.D. I have therefore proposed that the
senior in command assume authority only over an emergency committee of the
Confraternity, not over a meeting. Ts that agreed and understood by the
honorable Scanners?"
        Hands rose in assent.
        Chang murmured in Martel's ear, "Lot of difference that makes! Who
can tell the difference between a meeting and a committee?" Martel agreed
with the words, but was even more impressed with the way that Chang, while
haberman, could control his own voice.
        Vomact resumed chairmanship: "We now vote on the question of Adam
Stone.
        "First, we can assume that he has not succeeded, and that his claims
are lies. We know that from our practical experience as Scanners. The pain
of space is only part of scanning." (But the essentual part, the basis of it
all, thought Martel.) "and we can rest assured that Stone cannot solve the
problem of space discipline."
        "That tripe again," whispered Chang, unheard save by Martel.
        "The space discipline of our confraternity has kept high space clean
of war and dispute. Sixty-eight disciplined men control all high space. We
are removed by our oath and our habermm status from all Earthly passions.
        "Therefore, if Adam Stone has conquered the pain of space, so that
Others can wreck our confraternity and bring to space the trouble and ruin
which afflicts Earths, I say that Adam Stone is wrong. If Adam Stone
succeeds, Scanners live in vain!
        "Secondly, if Adam Stone has not conquered the pain of space, he
will cause great trouble in all the Earths. The Instrumentality and the


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subcliicfs may not give us as many habermans as we need to operate the ships
of mankind. There will be wild stories, and fewer recruits, and, worst of
all, the discipline of the Confraternity may relax if this kind of
nonsensical heresy is spread around.
        "Therefore, if Adam Stone has succeeded, he threatens the ruin of
the Confraternity and should die.
        "I move the death of Adam Stone."
        And Vomact made the sign, The honorable Scanners are pleased to
vote.

IV

        Martel grabbed wildly for his beltlight. Chang, guessing ahead, had
his light out and ready; its bright beam, voting No, shone straight up at
the ceiling. Martel got his light out and threw its beam upward in dissent.
Then he looked around. Out of the forty-seven present, he could see only
five or six glittering.
        Two more lights went on Vomact stood as erect as a frozen corpse.
Vomact's eyes flashed as he stared back and forth over the group, looking
for lights. Several more went on. Finally Vomact took the closing stance:
        May it pleave the Scanners to count the vote.
        Three of the older men went up on the rostrum with Vomact. They
looked over the room. (Martel thought: These damned ghosts are voting on the
life of a real man, a live man! They have no right to do it. I'll tell the
Instrumentality! But he knew that he would not. He thought of Luci and what
she might gain by the triumph of Adam Stone: the heart-breaking folly of the
vote was then almost too much for Martel to bear.)
        All three of the tellers held up their hands in unanimous agreement
on the sign of the number: Fifteen against.
        Vomact dismissed them with a bow of courtesy. He turned and again
took the stance: I am the senior and take command.
        Marveling at his own daring, Martel flashed his beltlight on. He
knew that any one of the bystanders might reach over and twist his heartbox
to Overload for such an act. He felt Chang's hand reaching to catch him by
the aircoat. But he eluded Chang's grasp and ran, faster than a scanner
should, to the platform. As he ran., he wondered what appeal to make. It was
no use talking common sense. Not now. It had to be law.
        He jumped up on the rostrum beside Vomact, and took the stance:
Scanners, an Illegality!
        He violated good custom while speaking, still in the stance: "A
committee has no right to vote death by a majority vote. It takes two-thirds
of a full meeting."
        He felt Vomact's body lunge behind him, felt himself failing from
the rostrum, hitting the floor, hurting his knees and his touch-aware hands.
He was helped to his feet. He was scanned, Some scanner he scarcely knew
took his instruments and toned him down.
        Immediately Martel felt more calm, more detached, and hated himself
for feeling so.
        He looked up at the rostrum. Vomact maintained the stance
signifying: Order!
        The Scanners adjusted their ranks. The two Scanners next to Martel
took his arms. He shouted at them, but they looked away, and cut themselves
off from communication altogether.
        Vomact spoke again when be saw the room was quiet: "A scanner came
here cranched. Honorable Scanners, I apologize for this. It is not the fault
of our great and worthy scanner and friend, Martel. He came here under
orders. I told him not to de-cranch. I hoped to spare him in unnecessary
haberman. We all know how happily Martel is married, and we wish his brave
experiment well. I like Martel. I respect his judgment. I wanted him here. I
knew you wanted him here. But he is cranched. He is in no mood to share in
the lofty business of the Scanners. I therefore propose a solution which


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will meet all the requirements of fairness. I propose that we rule Scanner
Martel out of order for his violation of rules. This violation would be
inexcusable if Martel were not cranched.
        "But at the same time, in all fairness to Martel, I further propose
that we deal with the points raised so improperly by our worthy but
disqualified brother."
        Vomact gave the sign, The Honorable Scanners are pleased to vote.
Martel tried to reach his own beltlight; the dead strong hands held him
tightly and he struggled in vain. One lone light shone high: Chang's no
doubt.
        Vomact thrust his face into the light again: "Having the approval of
our worthy Scanners and present company for the general proposal, I now move
that this committee declare itself to have the full authority of a meeting,
and that this committee further make me responsible for all misdeeds which
this committee may enact, to be held answerable before the next full
meeting, but not before any other authority beyond the closed and secret
ranks of Scanners."
        Flamboyantly this tii-ne, his triumph evident, Vomact assumed the
vote stance.
        Only a few lights shone: far less, patently, than a minority of
one-fourth.
        Vomact spoke again. The light shone on his high calm forehead, on
his dead relaxed cheekbones. His lean checks and chin were half-shadowed,
save where the lower light picked up and spotlighted his mouth, cruel even
in repose. (Vomact was said to be a descendant of same ancient lady who had
traversed, in an illegitimate and inexplicable fashion, some hundreds of
years of time in a single night. Her name, the Lady Vomact, had passed into
legend; but her blood and her archaic lust for mastery lived on in the mute
masterful body of her descendent. Martel could believe the old tale, as he
stared at the rostrum, wondering what untraceable mutation had left the
Vomact kin as predators among mankind.) Calling loudly with the movement of
his lips, but still without sound, Vomact appealed:
        "The honorable committee is now pleased to reaffirm the sentence of
death issued against the heretic and enemy, Adam Stone." Again the vote
stance.
        Again Chang's light shone lonely in its isolated protest.
        Vomact their made his final move:
        "I call for the designation of the senior scanner present as the
manager of the sentence. I call for authorization to him to appoint
executioners, one or many, who shall make evident the will and majesty of
Scanners. I ask that I be accountible for the deed, and not for the means.
The deed is a noble deed, for the protection of mankind and for the honor of
the Scanners; but of the means it must be said that they are to be the best
at hand, and no more. Who knows the true way to kill an Other, here on a
crowded and watchful Earth? This is no mere matter of discharging a
cylindered sleeper, no mere question of upgrading the needle of a haberman.
When people die down here, it is not like the up-and-out. They die
reluctantly. Killing within the Earth is not our usual business, 0 Brothers
and Scanners, as you know well. You must choose me to choose my agent as I
see fit. Otherwise the common knowledge will become the common betrayal
whereas if I alone know the responsibility, I alone could betray us, and you
will not have far to look in case the Instrumentality comes searching."
(What about the killer you choose? thought Martel. He too will know unless
-- unless you silence him forever.)
        Vomact went into the stance: The Honorable Scanners are pleased to
vote.
        One light of protest shone; Chang's, again. Martel imagined that he
could see a cruel joyful smile on Vomact's dead face -- the smile of a man
who knew himself righteous and who found his righteousness upheld and
affirmed by militant authority.
        Martel tried one last time to come free.


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         The dead hands held. They were locked like vises until their owners'
eyes unlocked them: how else could they hold the piloting month by month?
         Martel then shouted: "Honorable Scanners, this is judicial murder."
         No ear heard him. He was cranched, and alone.
         Nonetheless, he shouted again: "You endanger the Confraternity."
         Nothing happened.
         The echo of his voice sounded from one end of the room to the other.
No held turned. No eyes met his.
         Martel realized that as they paired for talk, the eyes of the
Scanners avoided him. He saw that no one desired to watch his speech. He
knew that behind the cold faces of his friends there lay compassion or
amusement. He knew that they knew him to be cranched -- absurd, normal,
manlike, temporarily no scanner. But he knew that in this matter the wisdom
of Scanners was nothing. He knew that only a cranched scanner could feel
with his very blood the outrage and anger which deliberate murder would
provoke among the Others. He knew that the Confraternity endangered itself,
and knew that the most ancient prerogative of law was the monopoly of death.
Even the ancient nations, in the times of the Wars, before the Beasts,
before men went into the up-and-out -- even the ancients had known this. How
did they say it? Only the state shall kill. The states were gone but the
Instrumentality remained, and the Instrumentality could not pardon things
which occurred within the Earths but beyond its authority. Death in space
was the business, the right of the Scanners: how could the Instrumentality
enforce its laws in a place where all men who wakened, wakened only to die
in the great pain? Wisely did the Instrumentality leave space to the
Scanners, wisely had the Confraternity not meddled inside the Earths. And
now the Confraternity itself was going to step forth as an outlaw band, as a
gang of rogues as stupid and reckless as the tribes of the Unforgiven!
         Martel knew this because he was cranched. Had he been haberman, he
would have thought only with his mind, not with his heart and guts and
blood. How could the other Scanners know?
         Vomact returned for the last time to the rostrum: The committee has
met and its will shall be done. Verbally he added: "Senior among you, I ask
your loyalty and your silence."
         At that point, the two Scanners let his arms go. Martel rubbed his
numb hands, sinking his fingers to get the circulation back into the cold
fingertips. With real freedom, he began to think of what he might still do.
He scanned himself: the cranching held. He might have a day. Well, he could
go on even if haberman, but it would be inconvenient, having to talk with
finger and tablet. He looked about for Chang. He saw his friend standing
patient and immobile in a quiet corner. Martel moved slowly, so as not to
attract any more attention to himself than could be helped. He faced Chang,
moved until his face was in the light, and then articulated:
         "What are we going to do? You're not going to let them kill Adam
Stone, are you? Don't you realize what Stone's work will mean to us, if it
succeeds? No more Scanners. No more habermans. No more pain in the
up-and-out. I tell you, if the others were all cranched, as I am, they would
see it in a human way, not with the narrow crazy logic which they used in
the meeting. We've got to stop them. How can we do it? What are we going to
do? What does Parizianski think? Who has been chosen?"
         "Which question do you want me to answer?"
         Martel laughed. (It felt good to laugh, even then; it felt, like
being a man.) "Will you help me?"
         Chang's eyes flashed across Martel's face as Chang answered: "No.
No. No."
         "You won't help?"
         "No."
         "Why not, Chang? Why not?"
         "I am a scanner. The vote his been taken. You would do the same if
you were not in this unusual condition."



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        "I'm not in an unusual condition. I'm cranched. That merely means
that I see things the way that the Others would. I see the stupidity. The
recklessness. The selfishness. It is murder."
        "What is murder? Have you not killed? You are not one of the Others.
You are a Scanner. You will be sorry for what you are about to do, if you do
not watch out."
        "But why did you vote against Vomact then? Didn't you too see what
Adam Stone means to all of us? Scanners will live in vain. Thank God for
that! Can't you see it?"
        "No."
        "But you talk to me, Chang. You are my friend?"
        "I talk to you, I am your friend. Why not?"
        "But what are you going to do?"
        "Nothing, Martel. Nothing."
        "Will you help me?"
        "No."
        "Not even to save Stone?"
        "No."
        "Then I will go to Parizianski for help."
        "It will do no good."
        "Why not? He's more human than you, right now."
        "He will not help you, because he has the job. Vomact designated him
to kill Adam Stone."
        Martel stopped speaking in mid-movement. He suddenly took the
stance: I thank you, Brother, and I depart.
        At the window he turned and faced the room. He saw that Vomact's
eyes were upon him. He gave the stance, I thank you, Brother, and I depart,
and added the flourish of respect which is shown when seniors are present.
Vomact caught the sign, and Martel could see the cruel lips move. He thought
he saw the words "... take good care of yourself..." but did not wait to
inquire. He stepped backward and dropped out the window.
        Once below the window and out of sight, he adjusted his aircoat to a
maximum speed. Be swain lazily in the air, scanning himself thoroughly, and
adjusting his adrenal intake down. He then made the movement of release, and
felt the cold air rush past his face like running water.
        Adam Stone had to be at Chief Downport.
        Adam Stone had to be there.
        Wouldn't Adam Stone be surprised in the night? Surprised to meet the
strangest of beings, the first renegade among Scanners. (Martel suddenly
appreciated that it was of himself he was thinking. Martel the Traitor to
Scanners! That sounded strange and bad. But what of Martel, the Loyal to
Mankind? Was that not compensation? And if he won, he won Luci. If he lost,
he lost nothing -- an unconsidered and expendable haberman. It happened to
he himself. But in contrast to the immense reward, to mankind, to the
Confraternity, to Luci, what did that matter?)
        Martel thought to himself: "Adam Stone will have two visitors
tonight. Two Scanners, who are the friends of one another." he hoped that
Parizianski was still his friend. "And the world," he added, "depends on
which of us gets there first."
        Multifaceted in their brightness, the lights of Chief Downport begin
to shine through the mist ahead. Martel could see the outer towers of the
city and glimpsed the phosphorescent periphery which kept back the Wild,
whether Beasts, Machines, or the Unforgiven.
        Once more Martel invoked the lords of his chance: "Help me to pass
for an Other!"

V

        Within the Downport, Martel had less trouble than he thought. He
draped his aircoat over his shoulder so that it concealed the instruments.
He took up his scanning mirror, and made up his face froiii the inside, by


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adding tone and animation to his blood and nerves until the muscles of his
face glowed and the skin gave out a healthy sweat. That way he looked like
an ordinary man who had just completed a long night flight.
        After staightening out his clothing, and hiding his tablet within
his jacket, he faced the problem of what to do about the talking finger. If
he kept the nail, it would show him to be a scanner. He would be respected,
but he would be identified. He might be stopped by the guards whom the
Instrumentality had undoubtedly set around the person of Adam Stone. If he
broke the nail -- But he couldn't! No Scanner in the history of the
Confraternity had ever willingly broken his nail. That would be resignation,
and there was no such thing. The only way out, was in the up-and-out! Martel
put his finger to his month and bit off the nail. He looked at the now-queer
finger, and smiled to himself.
        He stepped toward the city gate, slipping his hand into his jacket
and running up his muscular strength to four times normal. He started to
scan, and then realized that his insruments were masked. Might as well take
all the chances at once, he thought.
        The watcher stopped him with a searching wire. The sphere thumped
suddenly against Martel's chest.
        "Are you a Man?" said the unseen voice. (Martel knew that as a
scanner in haberman condition, his own field-charge would have illuminated
the sphere.)
        "I am a Man." Martel knew that the timbre of his voice had been
good; he hoped that it would not he taken for that of a manshonyagger or a
Beast or an Unforgiven one, who with mimicry sought to enter the cities and
ports of mankind.
        "Name, number, rank, purpose, function, tme departed."
        "Martel." He had to remember his old number, not Scanner 34.
"Sunward 4234, 782nd Year of Space. Rank, rising subchief." That was no lie,
but his substantive rank. "Purpose, personal and lawful within the limits of
this city. No function of the Instrumentality. Departed Chief Outport 2019
hours." Everything now depended on whether he was believed, or would be
checked against Chief Outport.
        The voice was flat and routine: "Time desired within the city."
        Martel used the standard phrase: "Your honorable sufferance is
requested."
        He stood in the cool night air, waiting. Far above him, through a
gap in the mist, he could see the poisonous glittering in the sky of
Scanners. The stars are my enemies, he thought: I have mastered the stars
but they hate me. Ho, that sounds ancient! Like a book. Too much cranching.
        The voice returned: "Sunward 4234 dash 782 rising Subchief Martel,
enter the lawful gates of the city. Welcome. Do you desire food, raiment,
money, or companionship?" The voice had no hospitality in it, just business.
This was certainly different from entering a city in a scanner's role! Then
the petty officers came out, and threw their beltlights on their fretful
faces, and mouthed their words with preposterous deference, shouting against
the stone deafness of Scanner's ears. So that was the way that a subchief
was treated: matter of fact, but not bad. Not bad.
        Martel replied: "I have that which I need, but beg of the city a
favor. My friend Adam Stone is here. I desire to see him, on urgent and
personnel lawful affairs."
        The voice replied: "Did you have an appointment with Adam Stone?"
        "No."
        "The city will find him. What is his number?"
        "I have forgotten it."
        "You have forgotten it? Ts not Adim Stone a magnate of the
Instrumentality? Are you truly his friend?"
        "Truly." Martel let a little annoyance creep into his voice.
"Watcher, doubt me and call your subchief."
        "No doubt implied. Why do you not know the numher? This must go into
the record," added the voice.


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        "We were friends in childhood. He his crossed the --" Martel started
to say "the up-and-out" and remembered that the phrise was current only
among Scanners. "He has leapt from Earth to Earth, and has just now
returned. I knew him well and I seek him out. I have word of his kith. May
the Instrumentality protect us!"
        "Heard and believed. Adam Stone will be searched."
        At a risk, though a slight one, of having the sphere sound an alarm
for nonhuman, Martel cut in on his Scanner speaker within his jacket. He saw
the trembling needle of light await his words and he started to write on it
with his blunt finger. That won't work, he thought, and had a moment's panic
until he found his comb, which had a sharp enough tooth to write. He wrote:
"Emergency none. Martel Scanner calling Parizianski Scanner."
        The needle quivered and the reply glowed and faded out: "Pariziinski
Scanner on duty and D.C. Calls taken by Scanner Relay."
        Martel cut off his speaker.
        Parizianski was somewhere around. Could he have crossed the direct
way, right over the city wall, setting off the alert, and invoking official
business when the petty officers overtook him in mid-air? Scarcely. That
meant that a number of other Scanners must have come in with Parizianski,
all of them pretending to be in search of a few of the tenuous pleasures
which could be enjoyed by a habeman, such as the sight of the newspictures
or the viewing of beautiful women in the Pleasure Gallery. Parizianski was
around, but he could not have moved privately, because Scanner Central
registered him on duty and recorded his movements city by city.
        The voice returned. Puzzlement was expressed in it. "Adam Stone is
found and awakened. He has asked pardon of the Honorible, and says he knows
no Martel. Will you see Adam Stone in the morning? The city will bid you
welcome."
        Martel ran out of resources. It was hard enough mimicking a man
without having to tell lies in the guise of one. Martel could only repeat:
"Tell him I am Martel. The husband of Luci."
        "It will be done."
        Again the silence, and the hostile stars, and the sense that
Parizianski was somewhere near and getting nearer; Martel felt his heart
beating faster. He stole a glimpse at his chestbox and set his heart down a
point. He felt calmer, even though he had not been able to scan with care.
        The voice this time was cheerful, as though an annoyance had been
settled: "Adam Stone consents to see you. Enter Chief Downport, and
welcome."
        The little sphere dropped noiselessly to the ground and the wire
whispered away into the darkness. A bright arc of narrow light rose from the
ground in front of Martel and swept through the city to one of the higher
towers -- apparently a hostel, which Martel had never entered. Martel
plucked his aircoat to his chest for ballast, stepped heel-and-toe on the
beam, and felt himself whistle through the air to an entrance window which
sprang up before him as suddenly as a devouring month.
        A tower guard stood in the doorway. "You are awaited, Sir. Do you
bear weapons, sir?"
        "None," said Martel, grateful that he was relying on his own
strength.
        The guard led him past the check-screen. Martel noticed the quick
flight of a warning across the screen as his instruments registered and
identified him as a scanner. But the guard had not noticed it.
        The guard stopped at a door. "Adam Stone is armed. He is lawfully
armed by authority of the Instrumentality and by the liberty of this city.
All those who enter are given warning."
        Martel nodded in understanding at the man and went in.
        Adam Stone was a short man, stout and benign. His gray hair rose
stiffly from a low forehead. This whole face was red and merry-looking. He
looked like a jolly guide from the Pleasure Gallery, not like a man who had



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been it the edge of the up-and-out, fighting the great pain without haberman
protection.
        He stared at Martel. His look was puzzled, perhaps a little annoyed,
but not hostile.
        Martel came to the point. "You do not know me. I lied. My name is
Martel, and I mean you no harm. But I lied. I beg the honorable gift of your
hospitality. Remain armed. Direct your weapon against me."
        Stone smiled: "I am doing so," and Martel noticed the small
wirepoint in Stone's capable, plump hand.
        "Good. Keep on guard against me. It will give you confidence in what
I shall say. But do, I beg you, give me a screen of privacy. I want no
casual lookers. This is matter of life and death."
        "First: whose life and death?" Stone's face remaine calm, his voice
even.
        "Yours and mine, and the worlds."
        "You are cryptic but I agree." Stone called through the doorway:
"Privacy please." There was a sudden hum, and all the little noises of the
night quickly vanshed from the air of the room.
        Said Adam Stone: "Sir, who are you? What bring you here?"
        "I am Scanner Thirty-Four."
        "You a Scanner? I don't believe it."
        For answer, Martel pulled his jacket open, showing his chestbox.
Stone looked up at him, amazed. Martel explained:
        "I am cranched. Have you never seen it before?"
        "Not with men. On animals. Amazing! But -- what do you want?"
        "The truth. Do you fear me?"
        "Not with this," Stone, grasping the wirepoint. "But I shall tell
you the truth."
        "Is it true that you have conquered the great pain?"    Stone
hesitated, seeking words for in answer.
        "Quick, can you tell me how you have done it, so that I may believe
you?"
        "I have loaded the ships with life."
        "Life?"
        "Life. I don't know what the great pain is, but I did find that in
the experiments, when I sent out masses of animals or plants, the life in
the center of the mass. lived longest. I built ships -- small ones, of
course -- and sent them out with rabbits, with monkeys --"
        "Those are Beasts?"
        "Yes. With small Beasts. And the Beasts came back unhurt. They came
back because the walls of the ships were filled with life. I tried many
kinds, and finilly found a sort of life which lives in the waters. Oysters.
Oyster-beds. The outermost oysters died in the great pain. The inner ones
lived. The passengers wure unhurt."
        "But they were Beasts?"
        "Not only Beasts. Myself."
        "You!"
        "I came through space alone. Through what you call the up-and-out,
alone. Awake and sleeping. I am unhurt. If you do not believe me, ask your
brother Scanners. Come and see my ship in the morning. I will be glad to see
you then, along with your brother Scanners. I am going to demonstrate
before, the chiefs of the Instrumentality."
        Martel repeated his question: "You came here alone?"
        Adam Stone grew testy: "Yes, alone. Go back and check your scanner's
register if you do not believe me. You never put me in a bottle to cross
Space."
        Martel's face was radiant. "I believe you now. It is true. No more
Scanners. No more habermans. No more cranching."
        Stone looked significantly toward the door.
        Martel did not take the hint. "I must tell you that --"
        "Sir, tell me in the morning. Go enjoy your cranch. Isn't it


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supposed to be pleasure? Medically I know it well. But not in practice."
         "It is pleasure. It's normality -- for a while. But listen. The
Scanners have sworn to destroy you, and your work."
         "What!"
         "They have met and have voted and sworn. You will make Scanners
unnecessary, they say. You will bring the ancient wars back to the world, if
scanning is lost and the Scanners live in vain!"
         Adam Stone was nervous but kept his wits about him: "You're a
Scanners Are you going to kill me -- or try?"
         "No, you fool. I have betrayed the Confraternity. Call guards the
moment I escape. Keep guards around you. I will try to intercept the
killer."
         Martel saw a blur in the window. Before Stone could turn, the
wirepoint was whipped out of his hand. The blur solidified and took form as
Parizianski.
         Martel recognized what Parizianski was doing: High speed.
         Without thinking of his cranch, he thrust his hand to his chest, set
himself up to High speed too. Waves of fire, like the great pain, but
hotter, flooded over him. He fought to keep his face readable as he stepped
in fron of Parizianski and gave the sign,
         Top emergency.
         Parizianski spoke, while the normally moving body of Stone stepped
away from them as slowly as a drifting cloud: "Get out of my way. I am on a
mission."
         "I know it. I stop you here and now. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stone is
right."
         Parizianski's lips were barely readable in the blaze of pain which
flooded Martel. (He thought: God, God God of the ancients! Let me hold on!
Let me live under Overload just long enough!) Parizianski was saying: "Get
out of my way. By order of the Confraternity, get out of my way!" And
Parizianski gave the sign, Help I demand in the name of my duty!
         Martel choked for breath in the syruplike air. He tried one last
time: "Parizianski, friend, friend, my friend. Stop. Stop." (No scanner had
ever murdered scanner before.)
         Parizianski made the sign: You are unfit for duty, and I will take
over.
         Martel thought, For the first time in the world! as he reached over
and twisted Parizianski's brainbox up to Overload. Parizianski's eyes
glittered in terror and understanding. His body began to drift down toward
the floor.
         Martel had just strength enough to reach his own chestbox. As he
faded into haberman or death, he knew not which, he felt his fingers turning
on the control of speed, turning down. He, tried to speak, to say, "Get a
scanner, I need help, get a scanner..."
         But the darkness rose about him, and the numb silence clasped him.

        Martel awakened to see the face of Luci near his own.
        He opened his eyes wider, and found that he was hearing -- hearing
the sound of her happy weeping, the sound of her chest as she caught the air
back into her throat.
        He spoke weakly: "Still cranchcd? Alive?"
        Another face swam into the blur beside Luci's. It was Adam Stone.
His deep voice rang across immensities of space before coming to Martel's
hearing. Martel tried to read Stone's lips, but could not make them out. He
went back to listening to the voice:
        "...not cranched. Do you understand me? Not cranched!"
        Martel tried to say: "But I can hear! I can feel!" The others got
his sense if not his words.
        Adam Stone spoke agaiin: "You have gone back through the haberman. I
put you back first. I didn't know how it would work in practice, but I had
the theory all worked out. You don't think the Instrumentality would waste


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the Scanners, do you? You go back to normality. We are letting the habermans
die as fast as the ships come in. They don't need to live any more. But we
are restoring the Scanners. You are the first. Do you understand? You are
the first. Take it easy, now."
        Adam Stone smiled. Dimly behind Stone, Martel thought that he saw
the face of one of the chiefs of the Instrumentality. That face, too, smiled
at him, and then both faces disappeared upward and away.
        Martel tried to lift his head, to scan himself. He could not. Luci
stared it him, calming herself, but with an expression of loving perplexity.
She ssid,
        "My darling husband! You're back again, to stay!"
        Still, Martel tried to see his box. Finally he swept his hand across
his chest with a clumsy motion. There was nothing there. The instruments
were gone. He was back to normality but still alive. In the deep weak
peacefulness of his mind, another troubling thought took shape. He tried to
write with his finger, the way that Luci wanted him to, but he had neither
pointed fingernail nor scanner's tablet. He had to use his voice. He
summoned up his strength and whispered:
        "Scanners?"
        "Yes, darling? Whaat is it?"
        "Scanners?"
        "Scanners. Oh, yes, darling, they're all right. They had to arrest
some of them for going into High speed and runing away. But the
Instrumentality caught them all -- all those on the ground -- and they're
happy now. Do you know, darling," she laughed, "some of them didn't wait to
be restored to normality. But Stone and the chiefs persuaded them."
        "Vomact?"
        "He's fine, too. He's staying cranched until he can be restored. Do
you know, he has arranged for Scanners to take new jobs. You're all to be
deputy chiefs for Space. Isn't that nice? But he got himself made chief for
Space. You're a11 going to be pilots, so that your fraternity and guild can
go on. And Chang's getting changed right now. You'll see him soon."
        Her face turned sad. She looked at him earnestly and said: "I might
as well tell you now. You'll worry otherwise. There his been one accident.
Only one. When you and your friend called on Adam Stone, your friend was so
happy that he forgot to scan, and he let himself die of Overload."
        "Called on Stone?"
        "Yes. Don't you remember? Your friend."
        He still looked surprised, so she said:
        "Parizianski."




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