John D. Macdonald

Death Quotient and Other Stories

Death Quotient

Originally published in Super Science Stories, April 1949.

Into the hearts of warring nations came Martin Rhode’s voice, heard on every radio in the world: “You must lay down your weapons, live out your last days in peace. Because — before the week is out, this planet will be no more!”

Chapter One

Foray

Second Lieutenant Martin Rhode stood well back from the cave mouth and watched the slow dusk settle over the Chemung valley. By force of habit, he kept his hand cupped around the glow of his cigarette, though there was no chance that it could be seen from aloft.

Far down the slanting throat of the cave a shaft of light glowed, and Rhode turned, angrily warned the man who had carelessly parted the blackout curtains.

“Sorry, Martin,” the man said as he came up. Martin recognized the voice of Guy Deressa, the civilian responsible for convoy loading.

They stood together, looking toward the silver-grey shape of the river a quarter-mile away.

“Anything new?” Martin asked Deressa.

“Same old picture. Enemy patrols penetrated our lines at several points during last night. Main lines still static. Our rockets were mostly intercepted, but a few got through and did unknown damage to enemy shore installations. As usual, the camera rocket failed to get through interception.”

Martin yawned. “This was the ‘twenty-minute’ war,” he said.

There was no mirth in Guy Deressa’s answering laugh. “Twenty minutes or twenty years. Somewhere in between. Are you going to see Alice this trip?”

“If she can get away from the station hospital. But only for a few minutes. We’ll have to turn around, and get back here before daylight. How many vehicles? They told me there’d be twenty.”

“Only eighteen could pass inspection. The load is small arms and small arms ammunition. High-velocity stuff.”

There was a lean, dark alertness about Martin Rhode. During the three long years of invasion, he had learned to relax in his idle moments. He had learned how to seek cover, how to kill, how to harden himself to the death of those who were close to him.

The atomic bomb had proven to be an almost perfect weapon during the first two weeks of the war. Millions had died. But human courage and resource had rendered obsolete the vast, white flare, the mushroom cloud.

In the first weeks of war, every center of industrial production in the United States had been wiped out, along with an estimated forty-five million people. But from the secret launching stations that were undamaged, the retaliatory rockets had smashed the vast resources of the potential invader.

There followed a lull of almost a year, while each participant licked wounds, decentralized, made a national inventory of tools and resources, and established new production facilities in deep places in the earth.

Having suffered the least damage, the invader was able to equip a fleet and, after almost crippling losses, establish a beachhead on the New England coast. Six months later the expanded beachhead reached to within eighteen miles of where the city of Albany had once stood. It reached south to Atlantic City, and north to the eastern shore of Hudson Bay.

And for a year and a half the lines had remained practically static. It was vicious war, without principle, without mercy. Due to the decentralization of facilities and the use of vast underground defensive networks, the usefulness of the atomic bomb had become much like that of a sledge hammer for driving a tack. In the Second World War, no sane artillery commander would have tried to kill a single man on a distant hill by the use of a 240 mm. howitzer.

The parallel of trying to smash a small outpost with an atomic bomb was a close one. The production of each bomb was a serious drain on the resources of the weakened nations. There had been a return to guided missiles with high-explosive warheads. A dead-center hit with such a rocket would do as much damage to the personnel involved as would the far greater and more wasteful power of the atom.

The nations of the world had, for all practical purposes, given up the symbols of independent nations. There were merely “we” and “they.”

The invader had a bridgehead of equivalent size in Brazil, and the third focus of combat was along the Salween River, where an industrialized India had joined forces with Burma and Siam to halt the invader in the heart of the malarial country.

For a year and a half it had been a war of knife and pistol and bare hands. As the rockets became more accurate, so did the interceptor rockets. As the powerful vortex stations increased the fury and height of their invisible aimed cyclones, the crewed bombers flew ever higher. As pestilence struck, the inoculations became more effective, and bacteria distribution had been abandoned as an effective weapon.

In the end, both sides had learned that the weapon which would win would be brave men, armed with portable weapons, who could kill other brave men at close quarters.

Martin Rhode lifted the cigarette to his lips with an awkward gesture. Each week the stiffened shoulder became more limber. Soon, he knew, he would be returned from detached service to his original unit, and would once more head up his trained and experienced patrol on their nightly forays into invader territory. As he thought of it, fear was a cold, wet substance in his guts. Combat had been a hell of a lot different than he had expected. He had been eleven years old when he saw the movies of the Jap surrender in Tokyo Bay. At that time he had lived in a dream world where he was a staunch Marine running cursing up some sandy beach, hurling grenades, thrusting with the bayonet.

He mashed the cigarette out against the rock wall of the cave, followed Guy in through the blackout curtains. Eighteen huge trucks, loaded, with the tarps tied down, stood nose to tail on the quasi-level floor of the cave. The drivers stood in a small group, laughing and talking.

Since the roads had been pretty well smashed, the trucks were semi-tracked vehicles with drive on the front wheels as well, diesel-powered, weighing twelve tons empty.

“Okay,” Martin shouted. “Ready to Roll.”

The group split up and the men sauntered to their trucks, clambered up into the high cabs. The driver of the lead truck was already behind the wheel, wearing a black blindfold so that his night vision would be at peak as soon as they rolled out the tunnel entrance.

On handy brackets in each cab were the lightweight Galton guns, with their full drum load of two thousand of the tiny twelve-caliber slugs, ready to fire at muzzle velocity of 6000 feet per second, a cycle of fire of 1500. No man had ever survived who had been hit in any part of his body by a Galton slug within a half-mile range. The impact of the slug produced hydrostatic shot, exploding the heart. Very little talent was needed to fire a Galton gun effectively, as the drop was only an inch and a half at six hundred yards.

The massive trucks were loaded with more Galtons and tremendous loads of ammunition.

When they were ready, the tunnel lights snapped out. The driver of the lead truck took off his blindfold and as the curtains drew back, they could see ahead the pale oval of the tunnel entrance.

The starters whined and the motors caught, roared. The lead truck lurched into motion, crawling out through the tunnel entrance, turning left to reach the junction of what had once been Route 17. The destination was near the relatively undamaged town of Oneonta, a division supply point some nine miles beyond the town where camouflaged elevators would take the huge trucks, one at a time, down to the third level for unloading. Division vehicles would distribute the supplies from there.

The invader bomb that had smashed Binghampton had been exploded at a height of nine hundred feet. The radiation from the jumbled debris had long since dropped below the danger point. The vast patch of vitrified earth made maximum night speed possible.

As the hours stretched out, Martin Rhode slouched in the seat and thought of Alice. He remembered how wan and tired she had been the last time he had seen her. Her resistance was low, and in a forward area, she was in more danger than he. He found himself wishing that the woman’s draft had qualified her for factory work in some safe place far behind the lines, rather than in a forward hospital where there was constant danger of being overrun by an enemy patrol.

She too, had seen a lot of death. The moments they had together were precious beyond description, and his heart ached when he thought of the way her slim shoulders trembled when his arms were tight around her. The world was giving the two of them a damn poor break. The war was sapping their youth. Should she die, there would be little point in any of the rest of it. He knew that she felt the same way too.

Brogan had felt that way. Brogan and his girl. They had stolen supplies and a light plane and headed for the Canadian wilds. He smiled wryly in the darkness. Brogan had picked what he thought was wild and empty country, and had landed directly above one of the biggest synthetic food plants in the country.

The drumhead trial had lasted forty minutes. They had shot Brogan’s wife first. Then him. Desertion in time of war.

He felt sleepy, but knew he should remain alert. If the invader’s aircraft, so high as to be invisible and almost inaudible, appeared over them, only the delicate radar would give them warning.

When it happened the driver, startled, braked the truck too fast and the jagged sound of crashes from the rear told that he had piled up the convoy. Martin Rhode was hurled, cursing, against the windshield.

All Martin could think of was a perfectly straight bolt of lightning, thicker than any lightning flash he had ever seen, driving straight down from the cloudless heavens to bury itself in the earth with a thick, chunking noise that seemed to shake the road.

“Sorry, sir,” the driver said in a high nervous voice. “I was startled and I couldn’t—”

“It’s done now,” he said shortly. He climbed down to take a look. All the other drivers were out of their trucks, looking over the damage.

Of the eighteen trucks, only three were so disabled as to be unable to continue. The driver of one of the disabled trucks was a competent-looking sergeant. Martin said, “Get in the lead truck, sergeant. You know the destination. Take the trucks on through. Whatever that thing was, it seems to have made a hell of a hole up ahead. I’m going to stay and find out what it is. Give that hole a wide circle. You two men, you’ll stay with me. Pick us up on your way back, sergeant.”

It took ten minutes to get the trucks in running condition untangled from the disabled trucks. The two drivers stood near Martin Rhode and watched the convoy lumber off, turning sharply across country to avoid the huge hole made by whatever it was that had flashed down out of the night sky. When he shut his eyes, Martin could still see the after-image of the blue-white line drawn from sky to earth.

The two men who had remained behind were obviously nervous.

Martin tested his flashlight against the palm of his hand, said, “You two men stay well back while I take a look. Go on back to that crest and get on the far side of it so that if it should blow up, some kind of a report will get back. I’ll take a hand set and tell you what I see.”

The starlight was bright enough to show him the dimensions of the vast hole. He gasped as he saw it, estimating its diameter at a hundred and eighty feet. The aged concrete of the highway had been sliced as cleanly as though by a sharp knife.

He said, “The hole seems to be close to two hundred feet in diameter, and it is very regular. Seems to be made by a cylindrical object much larger than any rocket known to be in use. I’m approaching it on the concrete. Now I’m on my stomach looking down over the edge. I’m shining my light down into the hole. It’s beginning to clear a little. Dust from the broken concrete is still broiling around down there, so I can’t see very well. It’s beginning to clear a little. Now I can just vaguely see the bottom. It appears to be about six hundred feet deep. It’s hard to estimate it. From here it looks as though the object took a curved path after it entered the ground. The concrete here on the edge is still warm to the touch from the pressure and friction. I can’t hear anything or smell anything.”

He stood up and walked back, saying into the hand mike, “One of you men come over here to the trucks.”

They found one truck which was in good enough working order to get over to the rim of the hole. Its winch carried two hundred feet of fine wire cable. By robbing the winches of the other two trucks, Martin was able to link up a cable six hundred feet long. In forty minutes he was ready, and with his feet in a loop at the end of the cable, his good arm wrapped around the cable itself, the mike close to his lips, he gave the details of his descent to the second man whom he had posted a good quarter-mile from the edge of the hole.

“The walls seem to be smooth. The object penetrated the topsoil and then crashed through various strata of rock without appearing to change its shape or size. Now the side walls are granite. There is considerable seepage of water. Now I can plainly see that the hole curves. Yes, it is a sharp curve. From here, it looks as though it might be a full ninety-degree turn. I can feel an odd throbbing in the air around me... Now the curve is so sharp that I’m scraping against the far side of the hole from the side where the truck is parked. After I slide down a bit further, the slant will be shallow enough that I can climb down.”

In a few seconds he shouted up the shaft, “Hold it right there. Don’t haul up until I give the order.”

Leaving the loop resting against the rock slope, he gave one quick glance up at the bright stars, then walked clown to where the side became the floor of what seemed to be a mammoth tunnel stretching away into the gloom.

He turned his light down the tunnel. His voice was tense as he said into the mike, “I can see a shining object that reflects my light. It’s only about a hundred feet from where I stand. And... Wait! Yes, I can seem to detect some sort of move—”

Twenty minutes later, hearing no further sound, the listener, one Corporal Denty, came cautiously to the edge of the hole. He whispered to Pfc. Chase, “Not a peep out of him for nearly a half-hour.”

They both looked down into the darkness. Denty was the one who unhooked the spotlight, spliced wires so they could shine it down. They saw the empty loop of the cable far below.

“Cave-in maybe?” Chase asked. “No, it couldn’t be. I would have heard it. What the hell happened!”

“You want to go down and look!”

“Not me, brother!”

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Suppose he’s okay and wants to be hauled up?”

“If he was okay we would have heard something. This makes me nervous. Let’s get the hell out. Come on!”

Before dawn, after the empty vehicles had returned to the Chemung Valley cave, a distant tower radioed a report in code to the Commanding General of Advance Section Three. The general’s name was Walter Argo, and he was a very tired and very apprehensive man. But he was also very familiar with the odd tricks that imagination can play in time of war.

He passed the report on to his G-2, who in turn gave it to the Staff Ordnance Officer who passed it on to Colonel Rudley Wing, the Rocket Disposal Officer, who assigned it to Captain Jakob Van Meer, who, shortly before noon, picked up the necessary equipment and a squad of nine technicians. and two disposal trucks and headed back for the rear area of Advance Section Three to the spot indicated in the radio.

Jakob Van Meer was a doughty little officer with a fat slack face, sleepy eyes and enough raw courage for a dozen men.

He whistled softly as he saw the size of the hole. Even in the autumn sunlight it looked ominous.

He deposited his radio truck a good six miles away after he saw the hole, and made very certain that each broadcast word was being inscribed on the metal tape. If this was a new weapon, Jakob Van Meer would give future disposal experts plenty to go on, when he himself went up in bits at the heart of a mighty blast.

One trustworthy man stayed on the brink with the special winch equipment. Before Van Meer went down the hole, he listened to the verbal account of Corporal Denty, then put what seemed to be a gigantic stethoscope flat against the ground and bent over to listen.

He frowned. “Damn! I can hear something down there. But there’s no regularity to it. Just some miscellaneous thumping. Well, go ahead; lower away.”

Colonel Rudley Wing, a lean and sallow man, felt a thickness in his throat as he read the report which was, in effect, the obituary of Jakob Van Meer. He shut his jaw hard and walked down the dimly-lighted corridor to the offices of General Argo. Argo saw him at once, had him sit down and held a match for his cigarette.

Wing’s voice sounded odd in his own ears as he said, “That oversized rocket, sir. One of my... No. My best officer investigated. He got halfway down when it all went wrong.”

“Exploded?”

“No. This is pretty odd. The man on the brink went off his nut. Then a man posted three hundred yards back felt panic and extreme exhaustion. He said he was being forced somehow to desert his post and run like hell. Even the men six miles back felt very depressed. After a time, the feeling of depression lifted. They went cautiously back to the hole. The one who had gone mad was dead. So was Van Meer when they hauled him up. His face was contorted. The examining doctor said there was serious damage to the inner ear. He also said that the cause of death was the generation of internal heat in the bodies of the two men. You know the answer to that one, sir.”

“Hypersonics!” the general gasped, his face white.

“Yes, but more effective than anything we’ve heard of before. Panic within hundreds of yards. Black depression six miles away.”

Argo picked up a pencil and tapped the point gently against the steel surface of his desk. “The projectile was what generated this hypersonic wave?”

“There’s no other answer.”

“Then that must be its purpose. I can’t see how we can rightly anticipate a dual function there.”

“What are your orders, sir?”

“Take one of Joe Branford’s engineer units and seal the hole up for good.”

Wing was relieved not to be asked to send another man. He knew that he would go himself rather than send another of his officers. And he did not relish the thought of hypersonic death.

Two hours after dusk the explosives blasted and hundreds of tons of crumbled rock and dirt filled the vast cavity. All civilians living within five miles of the edge of the hole were ordered to evacuate the area, and military roads were diverted to alternate routes.

Chapter Two

The Wall

Alice Powell sat on the edge of the hard cot in her cubicle a quarter-mile underground. The circulation fan high in the corner made a soft droning.

The lid of her foot locker was open, and through tear-dimmed eyes she stared at the smiling picture of Martin Rhode, taped to the inside of the lid. It had been taken the day he enlisted, the day after the bombs had wiped out ten major cities. So long ago. Countless thousands of years ago.

She was a tall girl, her dusky blonde hair pulled tightly back, her uniform crisp and white. But her face was puffy with tears.

She held her own wrist so tightly that the nails bit into the skin, and yet there was no pain which could equal the pain of her great loss.

“There will, of course, be a posthumous decoration,” Colonel Wing had said gently.

What good is that? When those strong brown hands are sealed in the eternal darkness far below the shattered earth.

She heard the distant determined whine of one of the ward buzzers. She sighed, stood up, brushed a wisp of hair back with the back of her hand. It was bed four again. The double amputation. With swift and gentle fingers she injected the morphine.

The lieutenant of engineers saluted crisply and Colonel Wing smiled tiredly, said, “How did it go?”

There was a taught look about the young man’s mouth. “What’s down in that hole, sir?”

“We don’t exactly know. Some sort of device that generates supersonic waves, we believe. Why?”

“Well, sir, we sealed it. Did a good job, too. When we were I’d say about five hundred yards away, I looked back and saw dirt and rock go up like a fountain. I didn’t hear any second explosion. It looked as though the dirt went up about two thousand feet. We went like hell to get out of there, but even so, a hunk of rock as big as my fist came down through the hood and disabled us. The driver said he could make temporary repairs. Two of my men and I went back and took a look. The hole was as clean as a whistle. The diameter at the brink was so much bigger that we couldn’t seal it again. Not enough stuff with us. So I thought I’d better report, sir. Do you want me to try again?”

Wing looked at him for long moments, then stood up. “Come along. I want the general to hear this.”

General Argo listened, asked a few questions, then said angrily, “That affair is taking too much of my time.” He opened a switch on the interphone, said, “Benny? I’ve got a special job for one of your boys. Pick a good one, one that can drop a lump of sugar into a cup of tea from eighty thousand. Low level work. I want a four-thousand-pound D.A. dropped into some mysterious damn hole we’ve got in the rear area. Have your boy get the dope from Colonel Wing. Thanks, Benny.”

The runway started in the heart of a mountain. Johnny Roak had the ship airborne by the time he hit daylight. The jets lifted the ship in an almost vertical climb as Johnny whistled between his teeth. It was one of the hit-and-run bombers, capable of a top speed of eleven hundred, and a minimum speed of forty, once the huge flaps were at full. As the tight cockpit began to heat up, Johnny increased the refrigeration. Directly under him, concealed by the bomb-bay doors, was the egg he was to drop. In the map panel sandwiched between dials, the three-dimensional map, synchronized for ground speed and direction, moved smoothly.

He saw that he was nearing his target and decided to take a practice run at it, then make a 180° and come hack. When he was ten miles away he looked at the landscape and frowned. The autumn grass and leaves had an odd look. Almost as though they had been scorched. The hole seemed to be well inside this scorched area, possibly at the middle of it. He saw that very soon he would begin to pass over the scorched area.

He began once more to whistle. It was a nice day.

Colonel Benjamin Cord wheeled on the young captain and said, “Let me know when you begin to need my permission to spit, or wash your face. Send another plane.”

Three hours later Colonel Cord flung open the door of the general’s office without knocking. Argo was on the verge of reminding Cord of the common courtesies when he saw the expression on Cord’s face.

“What on earth is the matter, Benny?” he asked.

“That — that damnable hole! It’s cost me three planes and three good men.”

Argo’s eyes widened. “How?”

“The first ship blew up in midair. So did the second ship, and at just about the same place. The third time I sent two, one trailing the other at a mile. The third ship gave a running verbal account. Apparently that hole you talk about is the center of a parched area. The following chip reported that as the third ship reached the edge of the parched area, it blew up. Just like that!” Cord snapped his fingers. “Nobody had a chance.”

The lead truck of a fast convoy stopped dead much faster than any brakes could have brought it to a halt. It was on the alternate route which was supposed to take it around the area where the mysterious rocket had fallen.

The two men in the lead truck were killed instantly, and the single man in the second truck was badly injured. The third truck was so far back that the driver had time to wrench the wheel over and slam into a deep ditch. The truck overturned, but the driver was uninjured. The other trucks managed to stop without serious injury.

The first man to reach the lead truck saw that the hood was curiously crumpled. The door was jammed, but he climbed up and flashed his light in the window. The heavy motor had crushed the two men where they sat. As yet he hadn’t seen what they had hit. He stood and flashed his light ahead. There was nothing there. He wondered if some sort of dud artillery shell had hit the truck dead center.

He walked up to look, and slammed into something solid. It was so unexpected that it knocked him down. He flashed his light and saw... nothing. By then several other men had come up to him. He warned them, and then advanced cautiously. His fingertips touched a smooth hard surface, a surface that was faintly warm to the touch. The other in men thought he was suffering from shock until he finally grabbed one of them and thrust him against the invisible wall. It was higher than they could reach and, at the deep ditch, it followed the contour so that there was no place to crawl under or measure the thickness of the obstacle.

They talked about it being some new sabotage device planted there by an invader patrol, but it was too far in the rear to have been so planted.

One of the men suggested that it might have something to do with the large rocket that had fallen in the area, but he was laughed down. The rocket was three miles away.

Their lights shone through the obstacle without any of the distortion of vision which would have indicated a glassy substance.

The man who had first discovered the obstacle lifted one of the Galton guns from a truck and, standing six feet from the barrier, held the gun at waist level and fired a prolonged burst. There was no danger of ricochet, because the heat generated by impact at that velocity turned the tiny slugs immediately from a solid to a gas. The gun made its high siren wail, and the area of impact glowed red-white with the hot gases. After the burst that point of the barrier was too hot to touch. When it had cooled, they were able to feel no scratch or dent on its surface, thus proving it to be a harder substance than any they had ever encountered.

They found a drum which contained tracer load, and one man took a gun back two hundred yards. He fired short bursts at a constantly increasing angle. A thousand feet above the road the thin white lines of the tracer slugs still stopped sharply at the barrier.

The convoy was reorganized and before they left, one man found white paint and slapped huge crosses on the invisible barrier to warn any subsequent convoy. He was subsequently commended for this foresight.

On pleasant days, Stanford Rider, the President of the United States, Supreme Commander of the United Forces of the Allied Nations, was permitted to board the silent elevator and ride, with his bodyguard, up the two-thousand-foot shaft to the observation room.

The observation room fronted on a sheer rock wall in one of the lesser peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. A powerful electric motor slid back the whole wall of the observation room; the wall was heavy because the outer surface of it was made of slabs of native rock.

Stanford Rider was a tall lean man with a pale, pouched face, sparse sandy hair and alert blue eyes. Years before, the lines in his face had accentuated his gift of laughter. But the years of war and danger, the constant threat of defeat, had sagged those lines into a continual moroseness, almost apathetic in its perpetual intensity.

His eyes brightened when he saw the blue of the sky, the misted purple of the far mountains. No three-dimensional color photography, no amount of synthetic sunlight could compensate for the reality he witnessed.

He knew that even as he had stepped into the elevator two thousand feet below, radar watch had been re-doubled and fighters had been sent up so high as to be invisible. Interceptor rockets lay fat and sleeping in the deep launching ramps, their dull stubborn noses shining metallically, their single-purpose brains ready to begin functioning at the first thrust of incredible acceleration.

He stood, his shoulders slumped, his arms hanging slack at his sides, looking at the sunlight through which he could not walk in freedom. Far below, in the warm guts of the inner earth, the nine-man War Council was in session. Later he would listen to the transcription after all repetitions and asides had been deleted. More decisions to be made. More lives to be lost. They were getting ever more anxious for him to launch another attack, impatient of the way he insisted on waiting for further development of the robot gun carriers.

He remembered the utter failure of the last attack, the horror and the agony of knowing that it had failed, and as he remembered, his mouth twisted. Yes, the attacking force had reached the sea, splitting the invader forces in half, but rocket supply had failed, they had been cut off and those who were not killed had been sent into slavery, the weapons they had carried being turned on their countrymen.

The potential attack was even more questionable in light of the odd new development in Advance Section Three. He puzzled over the report he had read. It was a war of technology, and he felt fear as he realized that the invader had created something beyond their ability to understand.

What was the name of the division commander? Oh, yes. Argo. Able man. He had sent in a very complete report. “The point of entrance of the large rocket appears to be the center point of a circular, transparent impenetrable barrier having a diameter of 9.14 miles. The surface of the barrier has a temperature of 88.1 degrees, and it accurately follows all ground contours. An attempt was made to tunnel under it, using the newest type mole, but at ninety feet below the surface, the mole struck the barrier and was unable to progress. Tests have indicated that the barrier reaches higher than the ceiling of any ship based here, but no attempt has yet been made to strike the barrier with a guided missile at stratosphere height, i.e. above one hundred miles. The vegetation inside the barrier appears to be parched, as though it had been subjected to great heat. It is surmised that certain civilian personnel may have been trapped inside the barrier, but close watch has disclosed no sign of them.

“The barrier appears to be impervious to all except light rays. Close watch with high power spotting scopes has indicated no activity within the area enclosed by the barrier. The thickness of the barrier is not accurately known. By close observation of the movement of dried grass just inside the barrier, it is believed to be extraordinarily thin, possibly less than an inch in thickness.

“No reasonable conjectures can be made. Morale within this section is suffering due to there being no official explanation of this phenomenon. Were such a barrier to be created so as to enclose some of our essential subterranean production facilities, our position would be seriously affected.

“Recommendations: 1. That the best scientific minds available be sent immediately to examine the barrier at first hand. 2. That an atomic bomb be placed so as to explode against the barrier.”

Yes, it was a good report. Within an hour or so, he would hear the report of the results of the atomic blast.

He took a long look at the sunshine, then turned and signaled to the guard. The motor droned and the wall slid slowly back into place. With tired, heavy steps he walked into the elevator. As it started down, he leaned against the inside wall and closed his eyes.

Field Marshal Torkel Jatz stretched out on the hard cot in his headquarters and frowned up at the ceiling. He knew that he was in no physical danger, and yet he was oddly uncomfortable. His headquarters were two thousand feet below the surface of Manhattan Island. Above him were the shattered buildings, the lethal radioactivity that had resulted from the underwater explosions which had hoisted countless millions of tons of radioactive sea water high in the air, the in-shore wind carrying them across the shattered buildings and empty streets.

The entrance to his headquarters was through an amazingly long lateral tunnel which connected with a winding shaft, the opening of which was beyond the boundaries of dangerous radioactivity.

He thought of the biting sarcasm of the last orders he had received from his home country. Yes, they were growing tired of the holding war, tired of the ceaseless drain on resources and manpower.

Ah, but they did not understand these people. Yes, the invasion had been successful, and the beachhead, in the first weeks of surprise, had grown enormously. But these people fought for their home soil, prodigious in their courage, reckless in their hate.

They could not understand it at home, but all he could do was to cling tenaciously to his perimeter defences and continually request new and better weapons which would once more give him the edge, make a further advance possible.

He snorted. They were politicians who continually nibbled at him. Jatz had no interest in politicians. He was a soldier, a lean, hard, tough man in his middle forties, a man who, if necessary, could go out into the filth and mud of the lines and carry the burden of a combat soldier. A man who could handle any command in his forces, from platoon leader to Field Marshal.

Why did they keep sniping at him? Was Rinelli doing any better in Brazil? Was Sigitz performing any miracles along the Salween?

If only he could have the pleasure of the company of a few of those bureaucrats for several weeks. He’d take them out and give them a look at the vicious night-patrol warfare, let them hear the dread siren scream of the Galton guns, let them see a soldier struck by one of those tiny slugs, the instant convulsive death.

What they couldn’t understand was that there were no targets for the rockets, no concentrations of production facilities. And the use of spies was technologically obsolete. Each man in the defending forces, before being given knowledge of any installation, was tested with the serums.

He remembered the attack that had split the beachhead into two parts, and had almost succeeded. Another such attack would be due before long. He hammered his fist against the stone wall, cursing the scientists of his country.

After being spurred on to peak activity, it was the defenders who, after all, had developed a new weapon. He didn’t know very much about it yet. Just one report of it.

An aerial photograph had given the rocket command a faint target, a traffic pattern in the hills of the Chemung Valley, and what looked like a cave entrance.

Ten huge rockets had been launched simultaneously, with the idea that possibly one or two would get through. The observers had reported that the entire flight of rockets had been destroyed at the highest point of their arc. No interceptor rockets had gone up. Of that the observers were certain. Their report said that it was as though all ten rockets had hit some solid object towering high above the earth.

His aide walked briskly in, saluted, his hand slapping the side of his thigh as he brought his arm down smartly.

“Sir, the robot gun carrier that was captured in the northern sector is ready for inspection.”

Jatz stood up wearily, and he knew that in his heart he was afraid. Robot gun carriers, ray screens, rockets detonating harmlessly miles above the earth. How soon would they be driven back into the sea?

Chapter Three

The Beast

Martin Rhode had learned many new and intricate convolutions of the emotion commonly known as fear. There was, of course, a feeling of horror, primitive, superstitious awe at seeing anything so completely alien. But had gradually diminished in intensity.

The fear that didn’t diminish was the acute physical fear of the sweating and the pain. He had walked a little way along the floor of the raw tunnel, the loop of cable behind him. Then he had seen movement. He had tried to tell of seeing the movement, and suddenly he could not move. The sweat boiled out of his body and he had stood, his underlip sagging away from his teeth, unable to change even the focus or direction of his glance.

The pain was in his ears and his head. Because it seemed to be focused in his ears, he thought of hypersonics.

He could see slow, fumbling movements in the distance, faintly lighted by a glow that seemed to come from a huge metallic thing that filled the tunnel from wall to wall.

He could not move, and the fumbling thing had come toward him, and it was like a nightmare of childhood, himself unable to turn, unable to escape. It was a large thing, greyish white, moving along the dirt floor of the tunnel.

Because his eyes were still focused on the distant place, he could not look at it.

Greyish white, moving along the dirt floor.

It was as though mental fingers fumbled at his mind. It was as though a stranger were fitting an unfamiliar key to an unknown door in a strange house in a foreign city...

Thoughts, unexpressed in words. Thoughts to which he had to fit the words.

The thought of heaviness, and intense cold. He could not move. Slowly the odd pressure on him diminished, and with a great effort he turned his glance downward.

His eyes had become used to the faint glow. The thing on the floor was a vast, pulpy, obscene caricature of a man. Naked and grey. Eyes with faceted prisms protruding from the face, a tiny furred orifice below the eyes, and a wide lemon-yellow gash that was a mouth. Ten feet tall if standing, he guessed. The arms were oddly jointed and there was something horribly wrong about the hands and fingers, the fingers curling to the outside of where the wrists should be, rather than in toward the body.

Something else horribly wrong. The suety grey fat of the body was dragged down toward the floor of the cave, and the creature moved with great difficult as though it were being subjected to a centrifuge. He comprehended that this was an alien, a creature from space, and that it was accustomed to far lesser gravity.

The mental fingers moved in his brain with more certainty. The thoughts said, “You are a primitive creature. Where are your masters?”

He found his lips could move. “There are no masters,” he said, startled by the sound of his voice in the silence. He tried to lift the microphone to his lips but he could not move it.

“You are the apex of life on this planet,” the thoughts said.

And he was ashamed, somehow. Humbled. As though contempt had somehow been put in his mind. It was primitive and absurd to have made sounds with his lips.

The creature seemed to be contemplating him. Suddenly the mike slipped, fell to the short length of flexible cord, banged against his thigh. Woodenly his hands unbuckled the straps and the equipment fell to the crushed rock floor.

With even regular steps he walked toward the big shining ship from space. As he walked he marveled that one part of his mind could accept orders and issue the neural instructions to the necessary parts of his body without his being aware of the action until it was under way. For the first time he began to wonder if actually the walls of the deep hole had fallen in on him without warning, and this was one of the early dreams in death.

Behind him he heard the click of small stones as the creature followed him laboriously. A vast port was open in the stern of the ship. He stepped through and his second step inside the ship, in the warm blue-grey glow, sent him floating toward a far wall. The sensation twisted his stomach and he was suddenly and violently ill.

When he turned, the creature was behind him, and it stood erect. He saw that the hairless head was far too small for the massive body. In the lesser gravity inside the ship the big creature moved with the controlled ease of a man on earth. Martin’s slightest movement sent him blundering out of control.

He turned sharply and floated into a slow fall as another of the creatures appeared in a huge doorway to his right.

He knew that they communicated with each other, as alien thoughts seemed to rush through his mind, just beyond his ability to comprehend. He detected the contempt of the second creature, and it seemed a sharper scorn than that which the first one had expressed.

One quick thought seemed to smell of death, and the first one protested and there was a mental shrug from the second one. A mental shrug which said, “Do what you please with it.”

The second creature turned and left. The one who had crawled on the tunnel floor and now stood erect sent flashing into Martin’s mind a vague thrust of amusement, of casual interest. Martin suddenly realized that it was the same sort of emotion that he might express concerning a strange dog who had wandered across his path.

At that, the creature’s amusement seemed to grow more intense, and Martin guessed that he had intercepted and interpreted the thought.

The air inside the ship was very hot, and very moist. The creature seemed to sweat not at all. Martin Rhode felt his clothes clinging to him. He was still nauseated from the effect of the lesser gravity.

Once again his legs began to move without his volition, thrusting him awkwardly against a wall, then carrying him through the doorway. He gasped as he looked up a seemingly endless corridor, illuminated by the blue-grey radiance that seemed to shine out from the metallic corridor walls. Everything was too big.

His steps carried him down the hall in long bounds, halting him before another doorway. He went into the room and he was alone. It was a room twenty feet square, half as high. He could move freely. He wanted to look out in the corridor again. But when he tried to go through the doorway, he ran against an invisible, transparent substance. He could not get through the doorway. He removed most of his clothes, and made a rude bed of them. He was tired and he went to sleep, as though ordered to sleep.

He awakened hearing a throb of power, a distant clanking. He was in a different part of the ship: a larger room with a huge port in one side. He stood up, forgetting the gravity, smacked lightly against the high ceiling and floated down gently.

He looked through the port and saw a vast square room. The two creatures he had seen before were outside the ship, and yet they moved easily. The room had evidently been hollowed out of the solid rock. It appeared to be at least two hundred feet square and fifty feet high. The side of the ship had been brightened in some manner so that the radiance of it filled the furthest corners of the room.

When he looked more closely at the two creatures, he saw that they wore close-fitting suits of metal. He guessed that the garments duplicated the gravitational conditions existing within the ship.

He was puzzled by their activities, apparently they were assembling some sort of equipment, but it was foreign to anything in his experience. The way they walked about was odd, due to the extra joint in their legs, a joint which was like a second knee bending in the opposite direction.

A huge cube of milky glass, thirty feet on a side, rested near the far wall. Within the cube he could vaguely make out the intricate form of what appeared to be a large natural crystal formation, hexagonal in shape. The crystal seemed to shimmer behind the clouded walls of the cube.

Supports slanted out from the top four corners of the cube as though the cube were supporting the weight of a far greater area of the ceiling.

He saw no other representatives of the odd race, and began to wonder if only the two of them had arrived in this spaceship which had punched its way down through the Earth’s crust, as though diving into water.

A great desire for sleep welled over him and he let himself sink to the floor. Something about the warm, moist air inside the ship, he guessed...

He awakened the second time on a high bench. One of the creatures stood looking down at him, and he saw the fine hair encircling the oval orifice in the middle of its face move as it breathed. The lemon-yellow slash of its mouth showed no semblance of teeth.

The mental fumbling was gone. The thoughts were clear, precise, incisive.

“You are of a warlike race. We have had difficulty with your people. A — has been placed around this area to keep them away.” One word was a blank. He had no word to fit the thought. It gave him the impression of immovable force, a linkage of particles of pure force.

“Where are you from?” Martin Rhode projected the thought as clearly as he could.

“A far place.”

“Who are you?”

“This will be difficult for a primitive to comprehend. We are two of a warrior race. This planet is much as our planet must have been countless eons ago. I have never seen our home planet. My brother and I were born in space, as were thirty generations before us. We are accustomed to lesser gravity, and the constant heat inside our ship. Your planet is cold, and gravity makes us very heavy. My brother has requested that I destroy you, as we have learned from you all that is necessary for us to know. But I have a foolish sentiment about you. You are as our race must have once been. To see you is to look into the dim past. We have seen many primitives on many strange planets that circle unknown suns. You are more like what we must have once been than any we have yet seen. Thus, there is a sentiment that fills my mind when I look on you and think on your desperate, petty little wars, like children with rocks and slings.”

In the thoughts there was such a powerful impression of great age and aloofness that Martin Rhode felt small and awed.

His lips trembled as he expressed the thought, “You called your people a warrior race?”

“Like yours. In the beginning tribe fights tribe, then city fights city, then nation fights nation, then continent fights continent. That is your present stage. Should you survive this stage, you will find planet fighting planet, then solar system fighting foreign solar system, and at last galaxy warring with galaxy. Who can tell? Possibly beyond that is universe making war with universe, or dimension against dimension. In each step there is always the possibility of mutual extermination, and with that, the peace that living things can find. Only in death is there peace, and death is the final step.”

There was horror in those thoughts. Horror and great age and great resignation.

“We have been at war with another race for eight hundred of your lifetimes. This other race is aquatic, and their spaceships are filled with the fluids of their home planet, long since destroyed. Our great fleets are no more. All told, we probably have no more than five thousand ships, four hundred thousand individuals out of the millions upon millions who once existed. This small patrol ship of ours was pursued. The ships from which we fled are somewhere in this vicinity.”

Martin’s head was whirling. He thought, “What are you planning to do here?”

“We will make certain preparations. Then we will let our presence here be known. When the pursuing ships are within proper range, we will explode this planet. We will die, of course, but the gases of the explosion with great speed, will engulf some of their ships and the heat will kill a great many of them, boil them alive in the fluids of their ships.”

Martin Rhode’s mind rocked under the implications of the statement. He wanted to believe that it was some sort of a trick, and yet the calm certainty in the thoughts that had lanced his mind made belief inescapable.

“Kill all of us! All of us!” he said aloud.

“Believe me, creature, it is something that you will eventually do to yourselves if we do not do it. For uncounted generations we talked of the end of war. Now we know — there is no end.”

Martin searched unsuccessfully for some way to refute the alien’s argument. Impossible. The alien had all the weight of fact on its side. Fighting down his despair, Martin asked, “How will you explode our planet?”

“With an ancient technique. It is a technique that you creatures possess. The power of the atom. It was used without avail against our—.” Again that thought for which there was no word. “Our power is derived from the controlled oscillation of crystals subjected to electromagnetic impulses. That is what drives this ship at speed equal to forty times the circumference of your planet within a space of time equal to three pulsations of the organ which circulates your blood.

“With the power of the crystals, we will compress hundreds of thousands of tons of the matter of which your planet is composed into a very small space. It is the principle which limits the maximum size of planets through molecular compression at the core. The atoms will be crushed. With this small substance of enormous weight, we will have a fuse. By heating it instantaneously to critical temperature, once again through the crystal, we will induce a chain reaction which will detonate this planet. That is the work my brother is doing now. He is setting up the necessary equipment to begin the task of compression. The ultimate bit of matter will have ten million times the density of water.”

Martin was silent. The thoughts were once again clear to him. “I can feel your grief and your sense of loss, creature. You are thinking that those of your race will continue with their pointless war up to the moment of extinction. You are thinking that if you could escape, you could warn them. They would think you mad. They cannot come to this place because of the—. Your wish is futile.”

Martin Spoke aloud: “Could you — could you give my people some unmistakable evidence of all this? Just so they would stop fighting for the short time they have left?”

He could read no expression in the faceted eyes. There was a slight movement of the lemon-yellow mouth.

“It might be amusing. What mechanical device do you use to communicate with each other? I will speak to my brother.”

“I dropped a short-range radio on the floor of the tunnel.”

The creature stood up and left. Martin Rhode sat on the bench, his face in his hands. So this was the climax of the empty years. There was no denying the truth of the thoughts he had read.

He guessed that it was a half-hour before the creature came back. “This is a simple device. Apparently your whole planet is served with less power than is needed to operate our small ship. Within a few hours I can construct a device which will enable you to reach every one of these devices on your planet, covering simultaneously all bands and wavelengths. Do many of your people have them?”

“Every soldier wears a small one on his wrist. Orders are given over them. There are few dwellings on the planet without one.”

The alien grimaced. “My brother does not object to my amusing myself by giving all of your people some small period of peace before death.”

In the long ward there was soft music, selected for its therapeutic value. It also concealed the drugged moans of the seriously wounded.

Alice Powell was marking a chart when the music faded and the strong voice, the familiar voice rang out. She dropped the pen and put her hand to her throat.

“This is Martin Rhode speaking. My voice is coming simultaneously from every radio set in the world. The earth has been invaded from outer space. The barrier which you cannot penetrate protects these strange beings while they work. I am held captive. I know their plans...”

On Colonel Wing’s desk was a picture of his wife and children. They had died during the first week of the war. After Martin finished speaking, Colonel Wing picked up the picture and sat very still, looking at the familiar faces.

Field Marshall Jatz listened until the voice died, and then he struck his aide heavily in the mouth. “Listen!” he roared. “Another weapon they have developed! What is wrong with our people?”

The aide crawled to the doorway, blood smearing his chin.

Stanford Rider sat at his long desk, his face in his hands. After Martin had stopped speaking he began to laugh. The tone of his laughter crept constantly higher and the tears began to run down his face. It took a long time to quiet him.

In all the places below the hard crust of the world, people listened to the words of Martin Rhode. Many of them did not understand his language. But many millions did understand, and it was easier to believe that it was a trick than to believe what Martin Rhode had said.

Martin Rhode stood and looked into the shining screen as the huge grey-white creature manipulated the dials. In a barren ravine men fought and died, and blood stained the rocks in the pale sunshine.

“You see, creature, they did not believe you. It is as I told you.”

Martin felt grief well up within him. “Can’t you do anything to make them believe?” he asked desperately.

No thought came to Martin for many minutes. Then he received the thought of laughter. Wry laughter.

“You creatures do not communicate through thought. I believe I am beginning to understand your psychology. I will hook up the drive crystal of the ship, using it to amplify my thoughts. I will use you as a target so that my thoughts will be keyed to the minds of your creatures. Then I will give each of them a clear mental picture of me, an impression of great fear, and a view of the destruction of this planet. Then they will no longer doubt.”

An hour later the hookup was ready. A small room near the rear of the ship. A large metallic object, shaped like a funnel.

The full impetus of the thoughts crashed in on Martin Rhode’s brain. In the beginning the thoughts had been like awkward fingers. Then they had achieved deftness and finish. But he knew at that moment that all that had gone before had been gentle, almost tender. These were not thoughts to be articulated into words. These were raw emotions, driven into his mind as though by a pneumatic hammer placed against the grey jelly of his brain.

He recoiled and he felt his mouth twisting, heard his own weak scream echo in his ears. In his mind he saw a huge image of one of the aliens, faceted eyes blazing. The fear was like no fear he had ever experienced. It was complete and utter horror! Then it was as though he were snapped off into space, looking down at the Earth, a planet the size of half a grain of rice. Huge ships ripped noiselessly by, headed for Earth. Then once again he was below the Earth’s surface. The two grey-white creatures stood, intent, watching a view-screen. Red light emanating from the heart of a crystal played fitfully across a dark one-inch cube which rested in the centre of a huge plate of grey metal.

Once again he was in outer space. The ships drove closer to earth. This time Earth seemed to be the size of a baseball.

Suddenly it erupted into a glaring sheet of white flame which engulfed the spaceships, and he fell fainting to the floor.

When he awakened, before his eyes, he intercepted the thought of anger. He looked up into the face of the creature. “You nearly destroyed the effect, creature. In the midst of it you made a loud sound with your mouth. It gave me pain. Do not do it again.”

Chapter Four

The Final War

Joseph Huddy, one of eight survivors of a daylight infiltration patrol, stood up behind the rock where he had sought shelter. He rubbed the back of a dirty hand across his wet forehead and glanced apprehensively toward the grey sky.

He thought, “That joker that talked this morning wasn’t kidding!” He did not think it odd that, though he had failed to believe the broadcast at the time, he suddenly believed it now. If asked, he would have said, “Hell, all of a sudden I could see those zombies, the big grey boys. Scared me, damn if it didn’t!”

Dazed, he looked up the small ravine. One of “them” was standing in plain sight. By force of habit, Joe snatched up his forgotten weapon, leveled it at the stocky foreigner. But suddenly he thought that it was pretty silly to get all hot about killing one of “them” when there was a far greater danger. His finger relaxed, slid off the trigger.

With sudden resolution, he tossed the gun aside, yelled, “Hey there!”

The stocky man looked down toward him, grinned nervously. A few moments later they had exchanged cigarettes, were squatting on their heels.

“I be damn,” Joe said. “You all of a sudden saw that big grey thing too?”

“I see,” the man said, his eyes round and wide. He shuddered.

“What about this war we’re having?” Joe asked.

The man thumped his chest. “Me, I quit. Go home. See wife before — boom!”

“Not a bad idea. Hell, if any officers see us though, we’ll both be shot.”

In response the man merely pointed with his thick thumb. Joe looked over his shoulder. Fifty feet away the lieutenant in charge of Joe’s patrol stood chatting with an enemy officer. They both seemed excited.

“Something tells me the war’s over,” Joe said wonderingly.

General Argo and Field Marshal Jatz looked at each other with impassive faces. Suddenly Argo grinned. “I’m going to get myself court-martialed for this little tea-party.”

Jatz relaxed and scratched his head. He looked worried. “I also. Never should have come here to this country in the first place.”

Argo said quietly, “We’ve been trying to convince you people of that, you know.”

Jatz grinned. “You have been very convincing, my friend. But somehow... I do not know how to say it. We were enemies. Now we are both... men. Brothers. Like two relatives fighting and along comes a peacemaker and they both turn on him. Now we have a strange race. A stronger enemy.”

“Would you like to take a look at the barrier?”

For a moment Jatz hesitated. Then he shrugged. “I have nothing to fear from you, my friend. I would like very much to take a look at this barrier. I lost rockets against it and thought it was something you people had devised.”

“We thought it was something you put there.”

Side by side they walked down the long corridor toward the waiting elevator. Their staff officers followed along, seeing nothing particularly strange in this odd and amicable alliance.

All over the world hate was forgotten — hate for other men. Fear of other men was forgotten. In its place was hatred of the invader from space, fear of the sudden death of the world.

The three battle fronts of the world dissolved. The leaders of all nations flew by fastest means to the hidden field in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

A lean and tired man presided at the long polished table. His name was Stanford Rider.

“Possibly all of you share my own feeling of guilt. We, the statesmen and politicians of the world, made possible the conditions which resulted in this deadly and barren war which has laid waste our countries and impoverished our peoples.”

He paused, saw reluctant agreement on every face. He continued. “Now we are met on a far different battlefield. Now our conflicts between nations are childish by comparison. We are in the position of small creatures of the forest beneath whom has been placed a mighty charge of explosives. It may be that we will be as powerless to alter the course of events as the wild creatures would be to halt the operation of the time fuse on the hidden mines.

“These may be the last few days of our lives. At least for these last few days there will be peace among men of all nations. Our psychiatrists have told me that the visions we all saw were activated by a projection of thought more powerful than we can contemplate. It is futile to question the accuracy of the visions we all saw. We saw our planet being destroyed in order to wipe out the ships of some unknown race which is at war with the strangers from space who have invaded our planet.

“In this perilous extremity, I invite your suggestions.”

Every known force was applied to the barrier. The most powerful atomic explosion ever released on Earth was detonated close to the barrier. Squadrons of high-explosive rockets exploded in sequence, in unison, in bursts of ten, fifty and five hundred, expended their fury against the barrier.

And in the end they accomplished no more than would have been achieved by one small boy armed with a pebble and a dry stick.

Martin Rhode felt the distant rumble and thud, heard the flakes of rock dropping from the tunnel roof. He learned to operate the clear and perfect screen and watched the efforts to destroy the barrier. He saw that peace had come to the world, and smiled wryly, knowing that for the first time since crude pictures were scratched on the walls of caves, no men were locked in combat anywhere in the world. Here and now was the dream of all Utopians.

The alien had gained such new facility with Martin’s mind that he could reach him from great distances.

“My brother has completed his preparations. It may interest you to watch the actual operation. Soon we will be ready.”

The huge room that had been hollowed out of the rock had been enlarged to an incredible distance. Martin Rhode stood near the glowing hull of the spaceship and saw that six crystals stood at equal intervals around a dull black cube that measured ten feet on a side.

The thoughts knifed into his mind. “All the matter excavated here has been compressed into that cube. It weighs half a million tons. The atomic structure is partially crushed. Stay where you are. This final operation will completely crush the atomic structure, compressing it to a smaller area than exists at the heart of any known planet. This final operation will compress that cube until it is two centimeters on each side.”

Martin gasped. Half a million tons contained within a space of eight cubic centimeters!

“The large block is resting on a metal plate. After the compression operation, the small cube will be supported by the thick metal plate, which is electronically stiffened to hold it. One crystal will be brought closer to it, with its heat potential focused directly upon it. At that point we will attract the attention of our pursuers and wait until they are within range. Every last fragment of the atomic energy in half a million tons of matter will be released instantaneously. This planet will cease to exist, as it becomes, for a brief space, a supernova.”

Martin Rhode stood and his nails bit into his palms and he gulped the hot, moist air in shallow breaths. The crystals began to glow and a low humming sound filled the chamber. Their glow was pale violet, and as the sound increased, the glow rose through the spectrum. By the time the glow was a hot, angry red, the humming had risen to a shrill scream. The scream faded away and Martin was torn by the agony of hypersonics.

The cube shrank! So slowly at first that he could barely see the change, and then more rapidly. Soon the top surface was level with his eyes, then he could see the top of it. From the cube came an angry crackling, a groan of tortured matter. It was the size of a hatbox. Constantly smaller. He felt his internal body heat rise under the unheard whine of hypersonics and the crystals vibrated until they could be seen only as deep glowing spots.

Suddenly the pressure stopped. Martin’s knees sagged and he nearly fell. As though hypnotized, he walked slowly forward so that he could see more clearly the tiny cube.

The thoughts that he intercepted were thoughts of satisfaction, of accomplishment.

He stood and looked down at the metal plate. The cube was black, and it shone like polished ebony.

Then he noticed an odd thing. It appeared to be sinking into the metal plate, and the metal seemed to be floating away from it as though suddenly molten.

Even as he looked down at it, the warm and satisfied thoughts that had come to him changed abruptly to alarm. He caught scattered phrases.

“... gravity too great... metal not strong enough... reinforce quickly... full power...”

Quickly he comprehended that with the full half-million tons of weight, the tiny cube was like the point of a huge pyramid, and by pure weight it was sinking into the plate like the sharp point of a drill.

He looked and saw one of the grey-white creatures running awkwardly toward an instrument panel which it had left but a few seconds before.

He remembered the anger that he had witnessed when he had screamed faintly under the shock of the emotional images that had been placed in his mind.

Even as the creature reached a pulpy hand out toward the instrument panel, Martin Rhode threw his head back and screamed with the full power of his lungs, screamed knowing that the alien vibration would torture them, screamed with the anger and pride and courage of all outraged mankind.

The running creature stumbled, fell heavily against the instrument panel and tumbled to the floor. The massive metal plates curled slowly up on either side, and then there was an odd noise, like a cork pulled from an enormous bottle through the underside of the plate.

He screamed again, the sound tearing his throat as he watched the twisted faces of the two creatures.

When he paused to catch his breath, their thoughts came clearer to him, and in them he sensed resignation, as though someone were saying sadly and softly, “Too late, too late.” Their anger was gone. The crystals were inert. There was a dim sound, the crackling and grinding of rocks, and that diminished into the distance, into the silence. Then there was nothing...

Martin knew that the tiny cube was sinking into the earth, gaining speed with increased momentum, and not even the resources of the two alien creatures could halt its progress.

They ignored him. They turned, clothed in the light mail, and began to walk toward the ship: two towering grey-white creatures out of an obscene dream of horror. He knew that they ignored him because he was too puny, too powerless.

With a low sound in his throat he attacked them from behind, and even as he charged, he felt their thoughts, dim because they were not directed at him, thoughts of escape from this place...

One started to turn even as his hand reached out. The mail ripped like wet cardboard and his hard hand bit through the very substance of the creature, cleaving through the damp, porous flesh. His hand struck the creature in the small of the back, ripped through, staggering Martin with the lack of resistance so that he fell, bounded to his feet to see the creature he had struck moving feebly against the rock floor, his thick body fluids lemon-yellow in the glow from the ship.

Once again the anger struck him and he bounded toward the remaining one, feeling the paralyzing whine of hypersonics, feeling the sudden heat that invaded his body. But he retained the will, the power to strike one blow before he became motionless. His clenched fist punched through the chain mail, slammed deep into the abdominal cavity of the thing, and it fell back toward the place where the metal plate lay, warped and useless.

But the faceted eyes still watched him and he stood, his face slack, trying in vain to break the paralysis engendered in him by the vibrations.

The creature held a grotesque hand over the torn hole in its middle, and tried to get up. Beyond it a wisp of smoke rose from the tiny hole in the plate and an acrid, sulphurous odor filled the cavern.

There was a rumbling sound, a low roaring, in the bowels of the earth. The smoke danced grey-white in the glow of the ship. Martin Rhode stood frozen and helpless, his stained fist still clenched, his teeth meeting in the flesh of his lower lip.

The low roar was louder and the metal plate quivered, was suddenly flipped over, as by a careless giant. Martin Rhode suddenly realized that the enormously heavy pellet had plunged down into the molten heart of the planet, providing an escape channel for the lava that boiled far below.

He was hearing the yowling birth of a volcano — and he was powerless to escape. He would have to remain fixed until the increasing heat boiled the blood in his veins.

The creature was closer to the opening, and as the first tentative reddish glow seared the mouth of the orifice, it tried feebly to move away.

But with the old, familiar clarity, the thoughts arrowed into Martin’s mind. He heard the mental laughter of the thing; wild laughter; the absurd, hysterical laughter of a being defeated by a far weaker creature.

The laughter slowly ended, and in its place came something oddly like compassion.

“Go!” the thoughts said. “Go quickly!”

The hypersonic spell was suddenly broken and Martin backed slowly away, his arm shielding his face from the increasing heat.

A viscous gout of lava arced up, splattered across the dying thing, and in Martin’s mind was the scream, telephathed in naked clarity.

He raced into the ship, down the long corridor, out the rear port into the tunnel the ship had made, floating and falling while in the ship, clawing raggedly at the smooth walls in his eagerness to leave.

No cable dangled as a means of escape when he reached the bend; but the explosions had made the hole like a vast funnel. Far above him sparkled the night stars. Sobbing aloud with reaction, with new fear, he clawed his way up where the slope seemed the most gentle, ripping his hands on the jagged rock, tasting the blood in his mouth from his mangled lip. Once a foothold crumpled and he slid, spread-eagled down for a dozen feet, stopped and clawed his way up with new anxiety.

At last he rolled panting, on the ground, the deep cavity beside him. The air was hot and still. He ran along the road, stumbling, falling, getting up once more, his breath wheezing and rasping in his throat, tears of weakness filling and stinging his eyes.

It seemed to him as though he were running in a dream. His legs were leaden, heavy, dull, and the pain was a jagged skewer in his side.

He ran against something solid, collapsed, his fingertips touching the firm warmth of the barrier, the concrete of the road warm and rough against his inflamed cheek.

Slowly and painfully he got to his feet, trapped in the odd warmth behind the barrier. He strained his eyes, staring into the night, trying to see if the atomic bombs had been tried at that place, leaving dangerous radioactives behind, which might sear him even through the barrier. The earth was pitted with high explosives, but he could see none of the vitrification that would indicate the use of atomics.

A distant thud and rumble behind him made him turn sharply. A red glare was spewing up into the night, the reflected glow pinkening the clouds that were shunted aside by the invisible barrier. He guessed that he had covered nearly four miles since clambering out of the deep pit. Even at that distance he could clearly make out the glowing white-hot clots of stone thrown toward the sky.

He was weak and he leaned one hand against the barrier for support. The barrier was indubitably created and maintained by some device aboard the spaceship. The spaceship was near the heart of the inferno...

Suddenly the support was gone and he sprawled awkwardly, cool air striking his face. The barrier was gone as if turned off by a distant switch, gone as though it had never existed.

He made his way across the shattered earth. On a high crest he saw the lights of dwellings far ahead. It was so long since man had lived above ground, had been able to show lights during the night.

Once again there were tears on his face, but this time they were tears of joy and thanksgiving.

After the conference, held for the sake of convenience in the great hall deep under the mountains, five of them rode up in the elevator: President Rider, Martin Rhode and the three guards.

The wall was already rolled back in the observation room. Stanford Rider’s shoulders were straighter than they had been in many a day. Martin Rhode was still lean and haggard from his experience.

The conference of the heads of nations at which Martin Rhode had given a detailed summary of his eight days of captivity had been over for a half-hour.

“I hope I made them understand, sir,” Martin said.

They stood side by side looking out across the wild and lovely mountains. “They understood,” Rider said simply.

“How long will all this last, sir?” Martin asked.

“What do you mean, Rhode?”

“Before we got to war again. Before it all starts over again.”

Rider’s smile was amused. “Ah, the pessimism of youth! No, Rhode, I believe that you have underestimated the effect of all this. You must realize that for a few moments a great and deadly fear was implanted in the minds of men. Fear of the unknown. Fear of distant worlds and stronger beings. We all know now that the universe is peopled by beings more terrible than ourselves, and no man living will forget that fear. It will find its way into song and story.

“You see, Rhode, we know for a certainty that to survive we must put an end to wars of man against man. We have come to the end of that particular era. The volcano, now five thousand feet high, is a living memorial to the narrowness of our escape. From now on all nations will begin to forget the narrow boundaries of nationalism and begin to think of the human race as a unit. Our combined resources will bring the stars closer.”

The fervor of his tone had increased as he had spoken, and Martin Rhode was infected by his enthusiasm. For the first time, the dream seemed possible.

Rider sighed. “But you’ve got to do more than to listen to an old man mumble his dreams, Rhode. It is stupid for me to try to make the gesture of thanking you in the name of humanity. Your own continued existence is your reward. I’ve lined up a series of conferences with the top technologists of all nations. They intend to pick your brains, Rhode, and find out just a little bit about the power crystals.”

Martin felt sharp disappointment. There was something else...

Rider laughed. “You don’t have a poker face, my boy. And I guess I’m teasing you a little. Those conferences will start the day after tomorrow. In the meantime I took the liberty of sending for a... a certain young woman. She should be here by now.”

Martin turned quickly toward the elevator, then regained control of himself, turned back and said, “Thank you, sir.”

But Stanford Rider had already forgotten his presence. The lean man was standing, his hands locked behind him, looking out over the fair land where he and all his people could once again walk free and unafraid in the light of the sun.

All Our Yesterdays

Originally published in Super Science Stories, April 1949; as John Wade Farrell.

One man sat in his death cell, hoping for the miracle he knew would never come. Another watched him, owl-eyed, across the abyss of time; and neither dreamed that their lives were bound up together — that of these two, who were separated by centuries, one must die for the other!

* * * *

It is more than a problem of focus. It is more than a question of intellectual curiosity. Though the tendency is for divergence to swing back to norm, it is recognized that objective interference in any case may have a long range effect sufficient to cause objective alterations in present society. Thus, the entertainment quotient of Crime-seeking is perforce limited to those tenth-level mentalities where, due to knowledge, thalamic motivations can be recognized as such, and discounted. Any attempt by a tenth-level mentality to indoctrinate any lesser mentality in Crime-seeking procedure will result in social isolation for an indefinite period. The clearest analogy of the danger of objective interference is that of the primitive man who, clinging to a limb, saws it off between his body and the trunk of the tree.

John Homrik sucked on the cigarette butt until the red ring crept close to his fingers, then with rigid nails he snapped it against the steel wall of the cell. The sparks showered, died.

“Like that,” he thought. “Just like that.” Please be seated, Mr. Homrik. We want to put this black cap over your head. You don’t mind if we strap your arms down. Of course not.

Heeney, the guard, sat on the far side of the corridor. The kitchen chair was incongruous, red and cream, chipped paint. He had thumbs under the gunbelt and a slant of sun into the deathhouse cell block picked out the enlarged pores of Heeney’s pendulous nose, the blackheads at the corners of his loose mouth.

Homrik walked over to the cell door, felt the chill of the bars in his sweating palms. He looked steadily at Heeney, was half amused to see Heeney turn away rather than meet his glance.

“Suppose it was you in here, Heeney,” he said softly.

“I didn’t kill any dames,” Heeney said sullenly.

“That’s right. Neither did I, Heeney. Suppose, knowing your own innocence, you were in here, like I am. What would you do? What would you say?”

“I wouldn’t be in there,” Heeney said.

Homrik grinned and there was no humor in it. “I’m in here, Heeney. And I didn’t kill a ‘dame’. I didn’t kill anybody.”

Heeney scowled, said, “Fella, I’m not as smart as you are. But if it was me, I wouldn’t die before I made a full confession. It would make me feel better. You ought to get it off your chest.”

John Homrik laughed. “You too, Heeney. You too.” He walked over, sat on the cot, lit another cigarette. He looked at his hands, fingers outspread. The long months of prison hadn’t faded all of the deep tan. His hands were deft and steady. They had called them the hands of a killer. And these were the hands that so soon would be forever stilled. Coffin hands. Rotting hands. Cold and dead after the convulsive twitch when the current hit.

With a quick movement he put them behind him. A sad knowledge filled him. He was innocent of murder, but no man would ever believe it. The pattern of the trial had been too clear.

“Yes, I knew that Anna had been unfaithful. But she was just a kid. Just eighteen. I forgave her. Certainly I forgave her. I tried to keep her from punishing herself over it. She wanted to kill herself. That was no good. That would solve nothing. I wanted to keep what we had. The two of us. Love and a home. No, it wasn’t gone. Yes, I forgave her. I was away for a year. He saw her loneliness. I forgave her. It didn’t matter. Only Anna mattered to me. We were together again. She wept. I comforted her. In the night I woke up. She wasn’t beside me.”

Stentorian voice, pointing finger. “And, John Homrik, you would have the jury believe that this child bride, this young girl, left your side in the darkness of the night of June eleventh, took the puppy’s leash, knotted it about her throat, stood on a chair, tied it around the stem pipe and then kicked the chair away?”

“That... that is what happened.”

Sarcasm. Irony. “And you, John Homrik, you rushed to her, cut the leash, untied it from her young throat and then called the police?”

“Yes.”

Brazen accusation, throat of iron. “Then how do you explain that your fingerprints, not hers, were on the chair, your thumbprint, not hers, on the metal buckle of the leash? How do you explain the scratches on your face, the shreds of skin, proven to be yours, under her fingernails, the bruise on her shoulder? You have told us, John Homrik, that in the evening before she was murdered, you cheered her up, that the two of you indulged in horseplay, and that is how you were scratched and she was bruised. I ask the court, would a young girl, gay and happy enough to wrestle and fight happily with her husband, turn around and hang herself? No, this was murder! Foul murder!”

He sat on the cot and thought of Anna’s smile, of the limp, dead heaviness of her body as he had cut her down, her staring eyes, thickened tongue, black-mottled face.

And though he thought there were no more tears, he sobbed once more. And in his heart he told Anna that in a very little while, in another fifteen hours, he would be with her.

Heeney belched, then began to stuff tobacco into his pipe with a blunt thumb.

John Homrik looked up at the far corner of his cell. Odd! It was as though he had detected some movement out of the corner of his eyes. But of course there could be nothing there. Of course.

Gahn, the younger, stood tense with anticipation. With hurried stride he went over to the communication screen, set the controls so that, should anyone call him, the screen would advise that Gahn, the younger, was not at home.

Mixed with his anticipation was a sense of guilt and defiance. The Law said that a tenth-level mentality should mate with a tenth-level mentality. His lips twisted in scorn as he thought of the brittle, cool women of the tenth-level.

Coldly he realized that the feeling of guilt was the result of the stratification of society, drummed into him since he was first able to take the examinations for the first level at the age of four.

Defiance was the answer. What would they have him do? Mate with Dextra? That would be like the clash of bitter crystals. No, his blood yearned for the flowing warmth of Luria of the eighth level. With mild and affectionate condescension, he realized that she would never, never progress beyond the eighth-level. He had left the eighth level when he was seventeen. And in five more years he could aspire to the eleventh-level.

But should a man mate with an intellectual equal? There was a basic fallacy in that reasoning.

He felt the anticipatory thud of his pulse. With nervous fingers he again adjusted the arrangement of the slim pastel bottles on the ancient tray. Luria liked the ancient ways. And so did he. A common yearning for the days that were gone.

Should any of his friends of the tenth level see her coming to his rooms... But none would. The acid of jealousy filled him as he thought of Powell. Luria spoke of Powell. He was eighth-level also, a hulking brute of a man. Gahn shuddered in distaste. If she should prefer Powell...

The door swung open with a suddenness that startled him. Luria, smiling, shut it softy behind her, then came quickly across to him as he advanced to meet her. Luria of the cobalt eyes, the honey flesh, the rounded warm arms and soft lips.

The golden mesh of her single garment made tiny chimes as he held her close, inhaled the heady fragrance of her.

“Darling!” she said. It was a word they had found in the ancient hooks. A word that was no longer used, except by the two of them.

They both knew that what they had was forbidden. And thus it was more sweet. There were many games. In one, he was a senator in the days of ancient Rome and she was a barbarian slave girl, and their love had to be kept from all the others.

Two hours later she was languorous beside him like a great golden cat. She ran her fingertips down his cheek, along the line of his jaw and said, “Gahn, you are a Crime-seeker. Is that not true?”

For a moment his voice took on a tenth-level mentality speaking to one of the eighth level. “We do not speak of that.”

Her eyes glittered angrily, and she pouted as she turned away. “Very well, then. We do not speak of anything.”

Though he caressed her, kissed her indifferent lips, her sulky eyes, it was many long minutes before she would respond. Then her arms held him tightly and she whispered, “Tell me about being a Crime-seeker.”

He could not risk making her angry again. He said, in an indifferent tone, “Oh, it is nothing. Just entertainment provided for us of the tenth-level. It is like a club, you know. Restricted membership.”

She pouted. “I know what you do,” she said. “You go into the past and watch the ancient ones. For us they have silly plays, made-up things. Things without blood and reality. They are stupid. I hate them. I want my entertainment from life. I am still annoyed with you, Gahn. And I will never come here again unless you show me how it is done.”

He laughed uneasily. “But that is against the rules, Luria. I could do no such thing. You have to be prepared for... for Crime-seeking.”

She looked at him coldly, stood up and fastened the clasps on the gold mesh garment. “Anything you say, Gahn. I must go now. I am to meet Powell.”

He held her wrist. “Don’t go, Luria. Please!”

“You said you loved me,” she said coolly.

“I do. I swear I do!”

“Then this silly little Crime-seeker affair should not come between us. Goodby, Gahn.”

He heard himself saying, “All right, Luria. I will show it to you. Together we will watch it.” In his mind there was fear, but the step had been taken.

She turned to him, her smile brilliant, and lifted her lips to be kissed. “Now, Gahn? Now?”

Hand in hand they went into the front room. He darkened the room, unhooded the mechanism, arranged two chairs side by side six feet from the three dimensional screen. The instrument panel swung into his lap, and he locked it in place.

“You must promise never to speak of this,” he said.

“I promise,” she said, her eyes warm.

“This, as you know, is a device for time-travel. We do not go back in time, of course, but the lens and microphone of the seeker equipment can be placed in whatever era we desire. I... I have found the crimes of the middle twentieth century most absorbing.”

“How do you decide where to start?”

“Here is a reference book. This one contains a list of all executions in the United States between 1940 and 1950. Select one.”

Luria ran a tinted finger down a page selected at random. “How about this one? A man named John Homrik, executed at Ossining, New York on the third of February, 1949, at six in the morning. It says here that he killed his wife on June 11th, 1948, in their home at two ten Main Boulevard, Kingston, New York.”

“It sounds like a routine case. Let’s try a different one.”

“No,” she said, pouting. “I like his name. And I want to see him kill the woman.”

The screen came to life, and Gahn, with practised fingers, selected century, year, month, day, hour. The geographical selector was so compensated as to allow for the movement of the planet. The Ossining quadrant was familiar to him, and he brought the lens down through the grey roof of the death house at exactly five minutes of six on the morning of the third of February, 1949. He heard Luria gasp at the three-dimensional color image on the screen.

“This is all... real,” she said in a small voice.

“Just as it happened.”

He made minute adjustments, then took his hands from the dials. There was the bitter clang of steel, and a small group of men with grave faces stood in the corridor. They were seen at an angle, from a spot three feet above their heads.

A tall man with a grave face held a small black book and, in archaic English, he was reading, “I am the resurrection and the light...”

His voice droned on as the prisoner came out of the cell. He was a tall man with a strong face and a bitter mouth. His fists were clenched, the leg of his trousers slashed.

He stood, shoulders straight, the back of his head shaven bare, walked in the center of the group of men toward a door at the end of the corridor.

Gahn heard Luria’s heavy breathing. He glanced at her, saw in the dim glow from the instrument panel that she was leaning forward, her lips parted, a wisp of her golden hair unnoticed across her forehead.

He smiled tightly in the darkness. The little group walked to the door, and he kept the lens behind them, following them. The voice droned on, and they heard the muffled tread of the shoes against the concrete floor.

The chair was waiting. With a showman’s knack, Gahn, the younger, brought the lens to within a foot of John Homrik’s face, saw the writhing lips, the livid complexion, and then it was covered by the hood.

He moved the lens back, and then the man leaped against his bonds under the surge of current — and was still.

He darkened the screen, brightened the lights in the room. “Enough?” he asked.

Her pretty, almost animal, face twisted and she said, “No, Gahn. I... I liked the way he looked. He looked strong and... like a man. In these days there are no men like that.”

“No men that stupid,” he said cuttingly.

“Gahn, I understand that you Crime-seekers try to find where justice has miscarried. I want to see that man kill his wife.”

“You have seen enough.”

“In that case, you have seen enough of me, Gahn!”

He sighed. Having given in once before, it was easy to give in this time. With flying fingers he set the dial, found the year, the day, found Kingston. It took fifteen minutes of search before he found the proper street, the proper house.

When he focused on the house from a distance of one hundred feet in the air, he saw the white vehicles parked in front, and knew that he had to set his time back just a bit. The screen blurred, cleared, and the cars were still there. Further back. It was night. Rain fell. He moved the lens down into the house, but could see nothing in the darkness. Slowly he reversed the time until suddenly he saw light.

John Homrik, a different John Homrik, a laughing John Homrik, was teasing a sturdy young girl who stood at a mirror, combing long pale hair.

Suddenly she turned, and said, “You can say it’s all right a thousand times, but that doesn’t make it all right.”

He sobered instantly. “Anna, darling, I know you as well as I know myself. You’re not a cheat. You’re not dishonest. I love you. One day I’ll meet him. I want to hurt him, but not you, Anna.”

Her eyes were not laughing. “You hate me,” she said softly.

“I love you.”

“John, I’m not worthy of you. I... I spoiled everything for us. Everything!”

Tears rolled down her face. He went to her, held her tightly. “Nothing is spoiled,” he said.

Luria whispered, “He is not going to kill her.”

Gahn shrugged. He watched the screen, saw the man and woman of a thousand years before hold each other tightly, saw the devotion and intensity of their love. The bedroom light clicked out, and in the screen they could see only the glow of the dial of the alarm clock, but they could hear the whispered endearments. Gahn reached out, took Luria’s hand, held it tightly.

“He will soon kill her,” he whispered.

Cautiously he advanced the time dial, releasing it when a dim light filled the room. The woman, Anna, stepped out of the bed, stood very still, looking down at the sleeping face of her husband. Then she moved so quickly that for a moment Gahn lost her.

He found her again in another room, and the light was on. She held a leather thong in her hand, and tears streaked down her face. She moved a chair over under a steam pipe, knotted the leather thong around her smooth throat, tied it firmly to the pipe over her head. She stood for a moment and they heard her whisper, “Good-by, my darling!”

The chair thudded over, and she hung, writhing, twisting, her face contorted, blackening, her hand flailing the smooth plaster wall, until at last she hung quietly.

He moved the lens back to the bedroom. John Homrik stirred in his sleep, and flung one arm out across the empty space beside him. The light from the room shone across him. Suddenly he sat up, knuckling his eyes.

He walked out, stood transfixed, screamed, “Anna! Anna!”

As he cut her down, lowered her dead body tenderly to the floor, Gahn darkened the screen. He turned up the lights in the room.

Luria’s face was pale, and there were tears on her smooth cheeks. “He didn’t kill her! He didn’t kill her!” she said.

Gahn smiled. “You see? You are taking it too seriously. All that happened a long, long time ago.”

“But it happened! It happened to him! Don’t you see? He didn’t kill her, he tried to save her, and for that they... put him in that chair.”

“I’ve seen many such cases,” he said calmly.

She jumped up. “How can you be so cold? Couldn’t he be... warned, or something? If you could stop it, I’d think you’d have the decency to.”

Gahn felt smoothly superior. “Of course I could stop it. It would be very simple in this case. All I would have to do would be to move the lens down until it appeared to penetrate his skull. Actually at the vision point there is a mild electrical discharge, sufficient to awaken him abruptly. And then he would catch her in time and—”

“Let’s do it!” she said, her eyes glowing.

He laughed. “My dear girl, don’t be absurd! To alter the objective past would be like kicking out the bottom block of a tower.

“We are built on that past. As you saw, Homrik appears to have been a man of intelligence and determination. If he lived and his wife lived, some of their descendants would be alive today. And who knows what alterations they would have made? That’s why this whole procedure is limited to tenth-level mentalities. We can perceive the dangerous results of doing such a foolhardy thing. It is only theory that any interference with the past would result in a divergence plus a tendency to return to the norm. For all we know, there would be no tendency to return to the norm. How do we know this is a ‘norm’?”

She looked at him for long seconds, moved over to him, pushed the control panel aside and slid onto his lap, her warm arms around his neck. She daintily bit the lobe of his ear, and then whispered, “I want to look at it all again. I want to watch her hang herself.”

He laughed. “You’re a bloodthirsty minx, Luria. Well, there’s no harm in it.”

She went and sat in her own chair close to him, and he dimmed the room lights, turned it on again. This time he had no difficulty in locating the proper place and moment.

He watched carefully, thinking that Luria had hit on a very good case. He decided to mention it to Jellery and Blanz. They would enjoy it. The motives of the woman in the case were rather obscure; interesting. Sturdy little girl. Quite young. Guilt complex, apparently.

The light clicked on in the bedroom of a thousand years before. Anna slid her firm young legs out of the bed, stood up and looked down at her sleeping husband. She turned toward the bedroom door. Gahn, the younger, smiled and reached for the dial so as to follow her.

But instead of the dial, his fingers touched the warm flesh of Luria’s plump hand. He looked at the screen, saw the head of the sleeper growing so as to fill the whole screen, and he instantly realized that Luria had merely pretended to agree, that she was trying to awaken the sleeper, that she was attempting to make an objective change in their common past, in the heritage of small events that supported the world as they knew it.

Even as he seized her hand, he knew it was too late. The lens slipped through the mastoid bone of the sleeper into moist darkness...

All space-time shifted in a grinding, shuddering wrench, that seemed to tear all atomic structure, shift it instantaneously into a new pattern. Gahn felt the scream tear his throat, felt the brink of shuddering nothingness, and screamed again.

The tears dimmed her eyes so that the steam pipe above her head was a weaving blur. Once again she tried, and then she heard the pound of feet behind her, heard John’s hoarse cry, and then he had pulled her off the chair down into his arms.

He rocked her back and forth and said thickly, “Oh my darling! My poor, silly darling! I nearly lost you.”

And suddenly she knew that only the fates had kept her from being a fool — knew that she could never leave him. Never. Tears were salt on her lips as she tried to tell him.

Goland spat into the yellow dust, showed his broken teeth in a wide grin, and began to shake his begging bowl again. Surely the Martian sun was too hot, even for a space tramp. It had given him strange visions. Even now they were fading from his mind. How absurd to think he was someone named Gahn, the younger, messing around with a screwy time-machine. Waking dreams in the hot Martian sun are weird. And all that guff about tenth-level minds. Nice babe in that dream though. Eighth-level, whatever that meant. A nice lush blonde creature named Luria. Reminded him of that waitress about ten-fifteen years ago in the NewMex terminal. He looked with disgust at the few bits of metal in the begging bowl and began to shake it vigorously, yowling in his cracked voice, “He’p an ole man git back to Earth! He’p an ole man git back to Earth!”

Delusion Drive

Originally published in Super Science Stories, April 1949; as Peter Reed.

The space rat was green, had never been in a vessel that used the dread Rip... He had to learn the hard way that once you’re entered the Rip, you’re dead — or only a grey thought in the mind of a machine!

* * * *

I shipped out on the Leandor, one of the middle-sized freighters of the Troy Line, as a cook’s helper. We were packed to the ports with hydroponic tanks for the colony on Negus IX, and the scuttlebutt was that we were bringing back a full load, of the high vitamin concentrate that they were growing there. I’d read about it in the Space Times.

I signed on at the Troy offices and the man gave me my sign-on bonus and told me what day to climb aboard. I got there early and swaggered into the port, hoping that any crew member I saw would notice that even though I was eighteen, I was a hardened space rat. My kit was battered, but I had no plans of telling anybody that it got that way on a beat-up excursion liner in the VEM run. I wanted them to think I’d been outside the system and knew all about Space Rip, which was the way the Leandor traveled.

A sleepy guy showed me where to go to pick a bunk and when I got there, a fellow about my age was unpacking his duffel. He nodded absently and after I’d picked a bunk and stowed my stuff in the locker, I went to find the cook. He hadn’t come aboard.

At noon sharp, when the last man came aboard, the ports were dogged down and the PA told everybody not on duty to hit the sack.

I felt a lot better when we blasted off, because it was the same sort of thing I was used to — at least it felt that way.

As soon as the initial load was over, I forgot myself and called over to the young man, whose name was Jameson, saying, “What’s so funny about this Space Rip?”

He gave me a sour grin and said, “Greeny, hey? We aren’t in it yet. We take physical drive to our reference point and then rip off.”

I shut up, wanting to bite my tongue off.

After a little while he said, “You’ll know when it starts, Greeny.”

He had a nasty, superior way about him and I didn’t answer. But I saw that he kept licking his lips and that he was afraid.

It made me afraid to watch him and so I just watched the underside of the bunk overhead.

My remark had been stupid. I’d read enough about Space Rip to know that nobody has been able to explain the feeling.

The big gyros made a distant throbbing hum and I knew that they’d made a course correction. Somebody at the PA mike said, “Hold your hats, rats.”

I grabbed the bunk stanchion to brace myself, but it wasn’t that kind of a jar, the sort that you can brace yourself against. It felt as if I had been swatted by a huge club, and yet instead of a club it was made of sharp knives set close together. The knives were ‘so sharp that my body offered no resistance and so the big club passed right through me, leaving me... sort of misty and vague. Apart at the seams.

I noticed the greyness then. All colors gone. Everything was a shade of grey and everything had a slight, almost noticeable flicker about it, like the old movies in the museum.

All feeling of movement was gone.

While I was trying to get used to it, the PA, with blurred tone, somehow far away, said, “Cook’s helper. Report to the galley.”

Walking was a misty sort of dream and when I staggered against the corridor wall there was a funny unsubstantialness about the wall and about the hand that touched it.

The cook, a big sweating vision in black and grey, waved a cleaver in my face. “I tell you again,” he said, his voice coming from far off like voices in a dream, “the underlying philosophical concept is unsound.”

“I’m Bill Torrance,” I said.

“Sure, sure. Hello. I’m Doc. As I was saying, boy, they haven’t agreed on the concept. This is my thirty-fifth rip and I wish they’d make up their minds. Start dicing those onions.

“Dakin’s formula gives the speed. Very simple, boy. The square root of the distance in light years equals the cube of the trip time in weeks. This trip is three weeks, so simple mathematics gives you a distance to Negus IX of seven hundred twenty-nine light years. Not accurate, you understand. Just rule of thumb. What do you know about the Rip, boy?”

I was weeping over the onions. They had authority. I sniffed and said, “From what I heard, the Rip changes the ship into something that isn’t physical and then it reassembles it on the other end.”

He snorted. “If it isn’t physical, what is it? They say it’s a concept. You and I are concepts, just ideas in the head of some damn machine. You know how fast we’re going this minute?”

“No,” I said humbly.

“You aren’t moving. You’re gone. Just as though you never existed. That’s what they say. You have ceased to live, boy. But just when you stopped living a damn mechanical brain got a concept of you and it’s shoving that concept through space at a slow lope of eight trillion, seven hundred and seventy billion, six hundred and forty-four million miles an hour.”

I put the knife down and stared at him. “Asteroids,” I said weakly.

“Ha!” he said. “Nothing to fear, boy. Can an asteroid make a hole in a concept? A man’s thought is quicker. He looks at a star fifty light years away. By looking at it, boy, he has pushed his mental concept right to that star in nothing flat. But he can’t think so good. Not so clear. This mechanical mind has a slow brain but an accurate one. When it changes us back to physical matter at the end of the Rip, we’re just like we were when it got the concept.”

“Is... is that why everything looks misty and funny?”

“Right, boy. The machine can’t think except in terms of shades of grey. You follow me so far?”

“I... I think so.”

“Now here’s where I fall off at the first curve. The machine, boy, dematerializes itself and turns itself into a concept and comes right along with us because it’s part of the ship. That’s where I find the philosophical flaw. If we exist only in the mechanical brain of a machine as a concept, how in Gehenna can that mechanical brain be a part of the concept. It’s like the snake eating his own tail!”

It made me sick.

He reached over my shoulder and picked up an onion. “You think this is an onion? Well, it isn’t, boy. It’s a mechanical thought of an onion being whisked across space at just the same speed that you are. You know what? You can open a port and throw that onion out!”

I was getting dizzy. “But the air... space...”

“No, boy. The concept is of a ship with the air in it. And of ports with hinges. So you can open the port of the concept but you can’t let the air out of the concept. What’s the matter, boy,” he said, peering into my face. “You look sickish.”

“Look, Doc,” I asked, “so the onion is a concept. And so am I. So why do I want to eat the onion? Why do I have to?”

“Because the thought picture of you is so accurate that you’re built with every urge and hunger intact. You’d be damn uncomfortable if you stopped eating!”

Inside of three days I got a little used to the dreamy look of everything, the faraway sounds, the soft feeling of the steel plates. But I knew that I could never be matter-of-fact about it. In my sleep I dreamed about what would happen if the machine didn’t materialise us at the end of the trip. I had nightmares about going on and on forever, a thought that had missed its target.

Looking around, I could see that it got on the nerves of the others too. Nobody seemed to have enough to do. There were interminable bull sessions, many of them turning into bitter quarrels over our exact status — whether or not we existed, and if so, where we were.

I took a lot of riding from the others because of it being my first Rip. They kept asking me how I liked it until the question got as boring as that hot weather question about whether it’s warm enough for you.

One stocky, goodnatured engineer told fine stories about the adventures of Silas McCurdy, the first space pilot, and what happened when McCurdy, trying to achieve the speed of light with a physical drive, ran afoul of Fitzgerald’s Contraction and, for a time, disappeared entirely. Another one that was good was about how McCurdy helped the scientists find the right frame of space.

Jameson was morose and gloomy, ignoring everybody. He kept looking at me in a funny way that made me uncomfortable.

Four of us were in the same cabin. I had as little to say to Jameson as he had to me. The days turned into weeks and soon there was that air of expectancy aboard that always signals a port ahead.

We were due to come out of the Rip at noon the next day when the stocky engineer caught me just outside my cabin and said, “Kid, I don’t want to upset you or anything, but that Jameson is a bad actor. He’s got a reputation that isn’t so hot. You must have been snotty to him the first day out because he’s had it in for you ever since. I figure the least I can do is warn you. I think the guy is going off his wagon.”

He meant what he said. “But what can I—”

He forced a small automatic into my hand. “Here, Kid. You borrow Betsy. She’s loaded and ready. If Jameson goes off his rocker completely, he’ll surer than hell come after you with that sheath knife of his. Just keep an eye on him.”

He went off down the corridor. I put the automatic inside my blouse and went into the cabin. Jameson was on his bunk, staring at me. His deep-set eyes seemed to glow and his mouth was a tight, brutal line.

I knew then that the engineer was right.

If I reported Jameson to the captain, I might be laughed off the ship. I asked Doc for his advice. He told me to keep my mouth shut and keep the gun handy.

All that evening Jameson stared at me and his eyes seemed to glow brighter every hour. I went to sleep at last, after several hours of tossing and turning.

In the morning it was even worse. When I went to the mess hall, Jameson was right behind me. I could almost feel the point of that knife in my back.

At eleven-thirty Doc sent me back to my bunk. Jameson was there. The other men in the cabin were watching him as though they were afraid of him.

The silence and tension mounted.

Jameson sat on the edge of his bunk, took out the knife and began to clean his fingernails. After each nail he glanced over at me.

The PA startled me when it said, “Five minutes’ warning.”

By instinct I looked up at the speaker mesh. When I looked back Jameson was nearly on me, the knife upraised. The other men yelled. There was no chance of avoiding the thrust. With his face twisted, he sunk the knife deep into my belly with all his strength. He moved back and his lips writhed like grey worms. My hand closed on the butt of the gun. I pulled it out and emptied it into his chest. The slugs drove him back and he fell and lay still, a trickle of grey blood coming from the corner of his sagging mouth.

I knew that I could not live through it. I stared down at the knife handle in horror. The life was draining out of me.

“Hold your hat, guys,” the PA said abruptly.

Coming out of the Rip was unimportant compared with death.

There was a spinning madness and the vast club which had smashed through me at the beginning of the Rip smashed up in the other direction, filling in the vagueness, solidifying that which had been misty for so long.

I blinked in the brighter light, my mind reeling under the sudden impact of color.

Then there was loud laughter and Jameson, a wide smile on his face, was coming toward me with his hand out. My first thought was that the gun had been loaded with blanks. He wanted me to shake hands with him, and me with a knife that he had driven into me! But the knife was in its sheath at his belt and there wasn’t any hole in me.

Doc came in yelling, “How’d he take it? How’d the Kid take it? Any guts?” He turned to me and said, “Boy, they take it easier these days. Why, on my first Rip they told me that the ship was lost and then they opened a port and every damn man jack jumped out into space and left me alone. Thought I’d go nuts. Of course, since this is only a concept when you’re in Rip, everything goes back to exactly the way it was when we started the Rip.”

Jameson found my hand. His grip was solid and good.

“Come on, space rat,” he said. “I know where there’s a good bar!”

The Great Stone Death

Originally published in Weird Tales, January 1949.

It was a mountain, it was a stone... it was a monster!

* * * *

Once the horse turned its head around and John Logan got a glimpse of black rubbery lips lifted away from strong yellow-white teeth. The teeth clopped together close to his leg and, in panic, he yanked hard on the reins, dug in with the spurs.

The arched back was like an enormous steel spring. He whirled dizzily, fell heavily on his shoulder and hip. He was looking up at the deep blue of the sky through a wild plum hedge loaded with fruit. He got to his feet, heard Steve Fowler’s distant yell, saw the recapture of his horse.

John Logan had hoped that the horse wouldn’t be recaptured. It was Steve’s idea that they take the trail up into the massive wilderness of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains so that Logan could “learn the country.”

He had no desire to learn the country. The air-conditioned bar down in the hotel in the valley suited him perfectly. He wanted nothing to do with horses, campfires or the out-of-doors.

But Steve had been insistent. The insides of his thighs were sore after only a few hours slow riding.

Steve came back down the trail leading the renegade horse. He was grinning broadly.

“Didn’t hurt you none, Johnny?” he asked.

“The damn thing tried to bite me,” John said petulantly.

“Hell, he was just a-playing. But you shouldn’t ought to dug them spurs into him. They’re just there so you can threaten him a little. He ain’t a bad pony, you treat him right. But don’t let him know that maybe he can get to be boss. Now get up on him and teach him some manners.”

“All horses are stupid.”

“They just like children, Johnny. Come on.”

He swung up into the saddle. The horse was very docile. John Logan grinned crookedly. He thought: Just waiting for another chance. The same as this damn country. Unfriendly. Evil. Deadly.

He sighed. Steve had started again. Fat chance of making anyone like Steve understand the cruelty and menace of the mountains. No imagination. Man was a soft animal. Man belonged down in the cities where he could protect himself. Anybody who trusted his flesh and bones to the mountains was kidding himself.

Burro and rabbit brush rubbed against the stirrups. As they climbed even higher toward the misted blue of the mountains, the air became aromatic with the thin, clear touch of sage.

Steve reined in and, when John Logan urged his horse up beside Steve’s, the leather-tough man said, “Them over there are Rocky Mountain Red Cedar. That stuff is juniper. The dark trees is pinon. Pine to you, Johnny. Smell how the air gets thinner. Pretty, ain’t it?”

Steve went on ahead after John had agreed grumpily. He thought: Might as well humor the man. He’s been reading too many Western stories. Thinks he likes this stuff. Makes me uneasy to look at a landscape and see no sign of man. Ought to be signs. Roads. Buildings. Ice-cold soft drinks.

A deep arroyo was marked by a line of huge cottonwoods, and in the foreground a stand of September squaw corn, the stalks stunted, the ears bulging. And ahead rose a towering wall of pines.

The dim trail wound into the cool blue shadows of the forest, out of the warm golden sunshine. A wild turkey disappeared into the red-bronze of the scrub oak underfoot. The shaggy pines stood tall and silent, squirrels chattering on the high limbs.

The horses began to heave as the trail narrowed and steepened. Steve stopped frequently to rest them and John Logan was glad of the chance to rest himself. The air in the pine forest was cool, and he seemed to sense an air of waiting, as though some grim spirit crouched back in the blue shadows and silently watched their progress with enigmatic smile. John Logan shivered and wondered why Steve Fowler seemed so untouched by the atmosphere of the place.

John Logan thought of Druid rites, of gnarled and evil wood spirits. His palms began to sweat in spite of the cool of the forest. He felt the spell of the ancient and the unknown.

They came to a cañon and, looking over the steep edge, saw the roaring stream dashing itself to snowlike whiteness against the rounded boulders. Steve dismounted and they led the horses cautiously down to an open glade where the stream made a perfect curve.

The sunlight shone in the glade, but it was a watered yellow, devoid of warmth. John shivered and when Steve built the fire he moved gratefully close to it.

“Tired, are you?” Steve asked. John nodded. “This ought to be far enough for today. I’ll get the saddles off the beasts and you fix spots for the bedrolls. Find hollows and fill them with pine boughs. Spread ‘em upside-down and get the fluffiest-lookin’ ones. No call to hopple the horses in this spot. They won’t climb out.”

John Logan’s body was filled with an aching weariness. Steve whistled as he worked. As dusk came, the tall pines at the top of the ledge seemed to grow even taller, and the blue shadows under them turned to velvet black.

Steve cooked and John was almost too weary to eat. They sat by the fire and it was night. The stream roared around them and something far back in the pine forest seemed to be laughing at them, slyly.

“You’ll get to like this country,” Steve said.

John smiled grimly in the darkness. “I hardly think so.”

“What brought you out here, anyhow?”

“Lungs. Had to come out here.”

“Bad?”

“Bad enough so I’ll have to stay out here the rest of my life.”

Steve clucked sympathetically. “Well, I couldn’t nohow stand seeing anybody sit around down there and look up at the mountains with that kind of sneering look you got. I feel like I own these mountains and like I got to show people what they’re like.”

“I appreciate your interest,” John said politely.

“Maybe I ought to do guiding.”

They were quiet for a little time. Steve tossed a chunk on the fire and the sparks fled upward.

“There’s something cruel about these mountains,” John said softly.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, they’re so big. Mankind hasn’t made a scratch on them. There are thousands of square miles that have never been seen by man. Actually they are the same as they were back in the dawn of history. Who knows what you might run across up in these hills.”

Steve chuckled. “The great stone lizard, maybe?”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, foolish Indian talk. Their old men talk about some great stone lizard that lives up above the timberline. Been up here for centuries, the way they tell it.”

“It could be,” John said softly.

“Hell, man! You beginning to sound like the Indians. This here is rugged country, but it ain’t spooky.”

“It seems that way to me.”

“That’s like I was telling you. It seems that way to you because you don’t understand it.”

“I feel as though I understand things about it that you can’t see, Steve. You’ve been here all your life. Maybe you’ve been too close to it. It seems primeval to me. As though there was something in it that is full of implacable, stolid evil. Something that waits and watches and waits some more.”

“Man, you could almost give me the horrors with that talk. What did you used to do? Write ghost stories?”

“I worked in a stock and bond house in New York.”

“Maybe you should have writ ghost stories, Johnny. You let your mind run away with you. There’s bear up here, but they’re timid. Big cats sometimes, but they stay out of the way. Snakes in the rocks, but not up above timberline. ‘Course, the floods can get you if you get careless about the arroyos, and sometimes they’s a big rock slide, but nothing evil like you say.”

“It’s something in the atmosphere.”

“I was in New York once, Johnny. I stood on Times Square and got shoved around by a couple million people all hurrying off someplace. I didn’t know where they were going or what they were going so fast for. Raised hell with me, you know? Give me the shudders. They all had that tight look on their faces. Had to go back to the hotel and I felt like hiding under the bed. Same thing as you up here, Johnny. You ain’t used to it, that’s all.”

John Logan saw the native wisdom of his words. “Guess you’re right, Steve.” He yawned.

But a half hour later he looked up at the unwinking stars and the roar of the stream seemed to be whispering something to him in hoarse, damp words. Words he couldn’t quite understand. He huddled down deeper in the bedroll and licked dry lips. Far off in the pine forest something screamed in distant, futile horror. The sounds sent feathers of ice crawling up his spine. Deadly is the long night.

In his dreams he was pursued by the great stone lizard. He awoke bathed in icy sweat and it took a long time to go back to sleep.

In the morning his fears were nearly gone. They were tucked back in some cold chamber of his mind. The coffee had a wonderful smell and the water of the stream was an icy shock that awakened him completely. He was still stiff and sore, but not as much as he had expected. The horse didn’t seem as unfriendly and, when he mounted after leading it up the narrow cut in the face of the ledge, he even slapped it on the shoulder in a friendly fashion and said, “Good morning, you miserable beast.”

Steve rode on ahead, and it was a good two hours before John Logan noticed that the huge pines were beginning to thin out. Slowly the mood of the day before crept over him. Even a line of aspens, flaming with the touch of the first high frost, did nothing to cheer him.

The trees thinned, became gnarled dwarfs, spurring his imagination. They huddled against the rocks, clinging with rheumatic limbs to the cruel stone, huddled as though convulsed with secret laughter. Their reaching limbs were twisted arms, bearing gnarled fingers. It seemed as though they pointed at the two riders and carried on a hushed and furtive conversation about the foolish visitors from the world below.

Lichens and mosses scabbed the rocks. The frost-cracked boulders shaded patches of fresh snow, and also the veined fatty gray of last year’s ice. The horses panting in the high, thin air labored over a rocky rise and John Logan gasped.

Ahead, stretching up and up was an unbroken expanse of jumbled harsh rock and, almost overhead, was the snow-capped peak of the mountain.

“Pretty?” Steve asked.

“It’s... breathtaking, Steve.”

“This is timberline, Johnny. Now we ride parallel to timberline along this here shoulder of the mountain and maybe we find a better place to go a little higher so we can look back down across the country. Ought to see a hundred miles on a day like this here.”

A moving speck disappeared high among the rocks.

“What’s that?” John asked.

“Mountain goat, I guess. Maybe we can get a shot at one. You know how to handle that carbon you got there?”

“Yes. I looked it over before we started.” He grinned. “I look the part even if I don’t act it.”

The going was very difficult and, in spite of the frigidity of the air John Logan found that he was sweating. The horses were cautious, afraid of the loose rocks. The timberline was on their left.

They came to a deep gash down the face of the mountain. It was about forty feet deep, but only five feet wide. Steve looked it over. Johnny pulled up beside him.

“How do we cross that?”

“Guess we jump it. I was just looking at that far side there. Might be slippery. Hate to have this critter stop sudden and pop me down that there cut.”

John saw what he meant. The near side of the cut was rough, but reasonably level. The far side was smooth, and gray-green with moss. The smooth area, gently rounded, was an oval about sixty feet long and thirty feet wide. Two humps of rock, twenty feet apart, parallel to the cut, jutted up out of the smooth, greenish oval about forty feet beyond the far edge.

“I can make it okay,” Steve said, “but I don’t want you trying it. I get over there and I can see some place where you can circle around to me. Okay?”

“Fine,” John said.

He edged his horse over to one side. Steve rode back the way they had come, spun the horse around. It was then that John Logan noticed the utter stillness. It was too quiet. In the forest there had been small, murmuring noises, frequent rustlings. Up here on the rocks there was the stillness of the tomb. He could hear each pebble displaced by the nervous hooves of Steve’s horse.

His increasing fear of the landscape rapidly turned to a crescendo. He realized that he was trembling. Cold sweat ran down his ribs.

He wanted to call out, to tell Steve not to try the jump, but he was afraid Steve would think him foolish. The whole high, cruel world of rock and pale sunlight seemed to gather obscene force, to pause, tight and malevolent.

Steve clucked to the horse, lifted it into a gallop toward the edge of the deep cut. His brown face was intent, his eyes narrowed as he clattered by John Logan.

As he neared the cut, John Logan felt the screen bubbling up in his throat, felt his nails biting into his palms.

The red-brown horse arced up.

The far side of the cut, the mossed oval, smooth surfaced, tilted up with reptile speed, tilted up away from the gap while horse and rider were in midair. John heard the scream, but it came from Steve’s throat.

Horse and rider fell sprawling down into a red, wet cavity that was lined with sharp, yellow-brown fringes of rock. The great upper jaw shut with a thick, wet chomp that shook the solid rock.

In the second before his horse reared and screamed, John Logan saw that the two knobs of rock he had noticed were in truth eyes. Great, blooded pupils stared at him with massive indifference, and, as his horse wheeled away, he saw the crusted lids slide slowly up, turning the bulging eyes back to two knobs of stone.

The horse fled at suicide pace across the shattered rock. The flight lasted for ten seconds before a foreleg was jammed down into a crack, the bone splitting cleanly as John Logan was catapulted into blackness.

He swam slowly back to consciousness. His cheek was against the rock and blood was crusted across his lips. He vomited from shock, then painfully got up onto his knees. There seemed to be no broken bones.

His wristwatch was shattered. The sun had changed, and he judged that it was midafternoon. He stood up, reeled and fell, stood up again. The horse was fifteen feet away. Dead. The head of the animal was at an odd angle.

He stood very still and listened. No sound broke the silence. The clear air daggered his throat and lungs. The horse lay on its left side. He pulled the carbine clear of the boot, slammed a shell into the chamber and walked drunkenly back toward the cut where Steve Fowler had jumped into the red mouth of death.

John heard a hoarse voice in his ears, found that with blood-caked lips he was saying, “The stone lizard. The stone lizard.”

His mind had retreated so that it seemed he was watching himself go through motions that should have been impossible because of his fear.

He stood, swaying, ten feet from where Steve had jumped into nothingness. He wondered why they hadn’t seen the telltale shape of it. The rounded oval of the head, caked with green moss. The eyes that bulged. The long back, ridged with rock, the obese bulging sides, the stumps of legs buried in the loose rock.

It was like a mirage. At one moment he could see, clear and evident, the shape of horror — and the next moment it would be indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape. Mosses grew on it. Last year’s ice was runneled down a fold in the rock of its flank.

He remembered Steve’s clear eyes and his smile and he stood in the desolate stillness and cursed the monster, cursing with a fury that made saliva run down his chin.

Kneeling then, he took aim at one of the rock knobs. He took aim at the film of thin rock he had seen slide slowly up to cover the blood-red left eye.

He tightened slowly on the trigger. The slug smacked dead center and he heard the thin, high whine of the ricochet. He squinted at the place where the slug had hit. It seemed to have scabbed off some of the rock, left a cleaner place where the rock was raw.

All fear had left him and his hands were slow and steady. Aiming at the paler spot on the incredible eyelid, he fired again. Once again the ricochet, but the movable film was pocked a bit deeper.

His teeth sank painfully into the inside of his underlip as he fired again. A splinter of rock buzzed close to him.

The fourth shot did not ricochet. He knelt, his fingers white on the stock, saw the black hole in the rock, saw the viscous fluid jet from the hole, running down the eyelid film like melted tar, mixed with blood.

Motionless he crouched, saw the quiver that shook the mound of rock, heard the clatter as fragments of rock scabbed off, rolled down the sides of the bulging belly. The far edge lifted, but not so far as when Steve had jumped. A gout of rank, nauseating air billowed around him, air with a taint of sulphur and a hint of rot.

The great rock lizard heaved slowly up, and for a moment the huge head swung from side to side as the remaining eye opened. He was waiting for that. Quickly he lifted the gun, pumping the slug deep into the center of the blood-red pupil.

The rock five feet from him was torn away with a great rasp as the gigantic clawed foot struck at him. He rolled violently to one side, scrambled to his feet and backed wearily away.

The rock cracked and groaned as the great bulk heaved itself up over the edge, and he turned and ran. But it ignored him. The great jaws clomping, the rock-horned tail writhing, it moved with ponderous haste diagonally across the slope, passing so near him that he saw the rock-ripple of its flanks. It became more visible to him for what it was as it lumbered away.

Blindly it rammed head on into a towering overhang of rock a quarter-mile away, scrabbling with the claws that could rend solid rock. The overhang was a good three hundred feet high. As John Logan watched, the rock wall wavered, then fell in slow, graceful majesty, millions of tons of solid rock, smashing down on the creature, the great rock slide rolling it over, hammering it down. He got a glimpse of it being flipped like a child’s toy, then it disappeared in the thundering river of rock, buried for all time.

A few remaining rocks crashed directly down among the timbers and the dust of the crushed stone lingered in the air. All was stillness.

The carbine clattered at his feet and he sank down, his head cradled in his arms, the sobs shaking him.

Just as the sun touched the bitter edge of the next mountain, he stood up, picked up the carbine and walked down toward the dark forest of pine.

As he walked, he carried his head high.

Once a man has met, and conquered, the final, unbelievable obscenity, the last lurking god of horror, throwback to ancient days when the world was young, there can be no more fear — ever again.

The darkness of the forest was a friendly Great.

Minion of Chaos

Originally published in Super Science Stories, September 1949.

Wisdom was his destiny — learn and conquer his creed... until in an atom-scarred universe there was but one being left to overcome — Man!

Chapter One

The Global Rat Trap

It was, he thought, very much like being a rat in a maze, with a very aseptic death around the next corner. The rat, being a rat, suspects the imminence of death, but can make no counter-offensive

It had been building for a long time. He felt it in the studied casualness of his fellow-workers, and in the new alertness of the hated monitor, Miss Ellen Morrit.

A nice clean life, they had said, You’ll be well-protected. The police won’t let the nasty people tear you to death. We hope.

He sighed, turned on the stool and looked back over his shoulder, seeing his name printed in reverse, showing through the translucent glass of the laboratory door. Peter Lucas.

He wondered where he had slipped. And he wondered whether the danger of slipping, the fatal effects of a slip, were coloring his judgment. Maybe Ellen Morrit wasn’t being quite so beady-eyed after all.

No, they were onto him the same way they would be onto any other defective bit of material.

Ellen Morrit sat on a high stool beside the laboratory table. She said dryly, “Through working for the day, Mr. Lucas?”

He looked at her, wondering for the thousandth time why they didn’t dress female employees of the Bureau of Improvement in a more becoming uniform. She was a white starched tube with a severe face at one end and slim ankles at the other. Nice hair, though, under a little gold cap.

“Why are you staring at me, Mr. Lucas?”

“For a reason that would horrify your factual little mind, sugar bun. How many years have we been sharing this cubicle?”

“Three years, four months and — and nine days,” she said firmly.

“Too long. What do you say we get married?”

She lifted her chin. She quoted from the manual, “ ‘All technical employees of the Bureau of Improvement are forbidden to marry because of the possibility of their aptitudes being to some degree hereditary characteristics.’ ”

“But they’ll let a colorless reactionary like you marry?”

She gave him one of her rare smiles; but her gray eyes didn’t smile at all. “As soon as my five years are up, Mr. Lucas.”

“May you be blessed with numerous ice-cream cones.”

He stood up, filled with the familiar dull anger, and walked over to the wide window. His lab was on the tenth floor of the Bureau of Improvement Building. He looked out across the expanse of grass, to the distant flight towers, the wide pastel expanse of the New City. It had a fairy-land look; the architects had been infatuated with tower and minaret.

Yet Peter felt himself drawn to some of the less decayed buildings in the dead city off to the left. A mound of rubble separated the two. In the New City there were cars, pedestrians, glittering shops, gay clothes and the best of music.

In the dead city were the hiding places of the unfit.

He felt her beside him and he defiantly pointed to the mouldering lines of a gray building in the old city, the dead city.

“They had the right idea, Morrit. Look at that. Functional and sweet and clean. They were headed in the right direction.”

She said thoughtfully, “That’s a curious statement, Mr. Lucas. You used the phrase ‘headed in the right direction.’ That is indicative of the basic flaw in your thinking. We do not ‘head’ in any direction. We’ve achieved a static, unified community, and we are satisfied.”

He laughed. “You mean you’re dead, Morrit. We’re on a big highway leading toward extinction. A nice flat, broad, smooth highway. We’ve forgotten an old rule — progress or perish.”

“That has been proven false, Mr. Lucas. You must know that. You must know that it is only through the very extreme liberalism of Chairman Ladu, that you are...”

“Permitted to exist at all? How nice of Emery!”

“Thirty years ago, Mr. Lucas, as soon as your aptitudes had been discovered through the use of the integrated tests you would have been painlessly... removed, probably at the age of twelve.”

“And you’re sorry we aren’t still on that basis.”

Her gray eyes widened in anger and she turned away. “I see no necessity for improvements,” she said. “Repair and control is all that is necessary.”

“If they’d turn me loose, baby, you’d really see some improvements.” Lucas gestured toward the tiny motor strewn on his bench. Assembled, it was no larger than a peach pit. “That turns out a quarter horse. But it’ll never be much better because the Code restricts us to minor variation within the approved method. On my own I’d try new methods, new procedures. I might get five horse out of it — or five hundred and then...”

“Be quiet!” she said, her lips thin and tight.

He smiled lazily as he went back to his chair. “I forgot, Morrit. Science is a nasty word. There is an approved list of beneficial devices. Radio, television, the internal combustion engine, electricity, subsonic aircraft, telephone, structural plastics, hydroponics. None of those things give you a fear reaction. But we leave the knowledge barrier of electronics right where it is. And we never, never, never mess with atomics any more. Or planetology, or rockets, or weather control. Never, never.”

He saw that she was composing herself with an effort. She climbed back on her stool with a lithe motion. “I am not here to discuss this matter with you, Mr. Lucas. I was given a technical background only so that I can determine when you try to step outside the approved limitations. You and men like you are as dangerous to this civilization as uncontrolled fire. That is why you are watched so carefully. If you persist in continuing this discussion, I will report you to the Chief of the Bureau of Improvement.”

Lucas sighed. “Okay, lady. Okay.” He picked up a pair of tweezers, used them to pick up the tiny brushes. He held them up. “Just so you can follow me. This little pin here which supports the brushes is okay. The self-lubricating bearings are okay. But the airseal is bad and dust has leaked in and turned the lubricating agent to an abrasive, thus wearing down the pin until the brushes get an eccentric wobble. My next step will be to look up the table of rubber substitutes and find something we can use for the airseal, something that will have a longer life. Okay with you?”

Once again she quoted from the manual. “ ‘It is the responsibility of the monitor to determine that all research is along approved lines and to report any suspected variance to the Floor Monitor for investigation. In no case will the monitor express an opinion about research which falls within the approved fields.’ ”

Once again her face was calm and composed. Lucas snorted, crossed over to the book shelf, brought back the rubber substitutes manual, looked up the proper table and made notations on a pad.

He took the bill of materials for the tiny motor, drew a neat line through the specification for the airseal, lettered in the symbol for the new material, put the bill of materials and the faulty seal in a manila envelope, shoved the rest of the motor parts into the scrap bin. One tiny screw somehow became caught in the fold of flesh at the base of his thumb. He turned back toward the window and idly picked at his tooth with his thumbnail. As he did so he rolled the little screw up until he could grasp it with his thumb and finger. He inserted it into the painful cavity in a back molar from which he had extracted the filling the night before.

In search, the little screw would give the same metallic index as the filling.

The nerve was raw and pain screamed at him. But he smiled, yawned and said, “Morrit, we’d better call it a day.”

She glanced at the clock. “Ten more minutes.”

“Too late to start a new one.” Once again he looked toward the dead city, toward that decaying functional building. “Morrit, did you ever think about the dead city? About the reason for it?”

This time her quote was taken from the Approved World History. “ ‘With the continual shrinkage of population, many cities were completely abandoned because of unsatisfactory climate or other factors, while, in the more desirable cities, the oldest parts were abandoned, the remaining inhabitants taking over the most desirable portions.’ ”

“Quoting and thinking are two different things, sugar bun. Once there were five million people in this city. Now what are there? Eight hundred thousand? Maybe we’re just genetically weary, Morrit. Dame Nature is dwindling us down to fit in the barren world we’ve made for ourselves.”

Morrit did not quote. Her eyes narrowed. “And who was to blame, Mr. Lucas? The black-hearted men of progress. They blasted the earth and killed so much of the soil that millions starved. That’s why they’ll be forever hated by the race. And they called themselves ‘creators’ and ‘scientists.’ You should feel shame when you think those thoughts, Mr. Lucas. Because you are one of them. Oh, we have you under rigid control now. You can’t do us any harm. You are the servant of the race, like fire. We direct your efforts.”

Lucas ran his hand through his cropped dark hair, his strong lean face oddly twisted. “Morrit, why is it that we can’t think the same way at all? Why is this wall between us all the time?”

She quoted from the manual. “ ‘Scientific aptitude is a dangerous mutational characteristic which blinds the individual to anything except his creative desires, making it impossible for him to understand the strict channeling of his efforts into those fields which will benefit mankind without opening the doorways to unknown terrors.’ ”

Lucas controlled his anger by biting down on the tiny screw, forcing it into the naked nerve, letting pain drain the fury from him.

Suddenly very tired, he said, “The ten minutes are up, my love.”

The high fence bordered a narrow area half a mile long, leading to the small white houses provided for the workers at the Bureau of Improvement.

Peter Lucas, dressed in his street clothes, waited until several others had gone through search. When there were ten, a Bureau guard walked with them over to the housing area.

The precaution dated from the time when a mob had broken through the fence and torn three workers apart. Sometimes, even now, the heritage of sullen hate exploded into mob fury.

Lucas noticed that the other nine greeted him with less than their usual friendliness. Word must be getting around that he was marked as uncontrollable.

In the old days that would have meant a quick, painless death. But they had devised a new sort of death: a death of the mind. The electric knife would make a neat incision, cutting away memory and ability. Then the walking and talking school for the period of incontinence; and a nice manual labor assignment.

They arrived at the small white house. There were sixty of them. It was a pitifully small number of workers, sixty men to carry on every bit of scientific effort in the world. And even that was a joke. They were not research workers; they were mechanics.

From the doorway of his quarters he could see, ten miles from the city, the myriad shining towers of World Administration. When all governments had disintegrated, after the brutal impact of the Three Wars, the men who had seized power had a knowledge of propaganda. Emery Ladu was called the Chairman, not the Dictator or King.

Ladu’s palace was the World Administration Building. There he met with his five Princes, one from each world mass. Only they were called Unit Advisors. Lin of Eurasia Unit. Morol of Africa Unit. Frisee of Australia Unit. Ryan of North America Unit. Perez of South America.

The World Administration Building was the symbol of their reign. In some secret place a young man was being trained for each of them; a man to take each position. It was defense in depth. Nothing was left to chance.

There was no population pressure any more. And with the passing of this pressure, the prime motivating force for war vanished. The standard of living was built on an economy of abundance. And the abundance was a legacy from the billions who had inhabited the earth. In all the vacant houses of the dead cities of the world there were the pots and pans and chairs and tables free for the taking.

With design made static, except for minor and unimportant improvements, there was no obsolescence of mechanical things. With adequate care, a car of popular make would last several generations.

This was the only world Peter Lucas knew. It had been, at one time, a good world. There had been a home and comforting warmth and the old books which told of cowboys and soldiers. He had taken the examinations when he was twelve.

And then there had been tears in that home, tears and strangeness: a restraint that showed his parents’ grief... as though they had discovered he was something monstrous and obscene, and their love for him fought against this new knowledge.

That year there had been three hundred thousand children. Each year there were less. Before Ladu’s edict, in the old days, there would have been an efficient use of anaesthesia. The race had been cutting out the cancerous growth that insisted on returning with each generation.

Later, there would have been the electric knife and three hundred thousand mindless children to be sent to the protected schools, not sent back to their homes because, with the hate and fear in the hearts of men, there was no guarantee that these mindless ones would be permitted to live, once having evidenced the forbidden abilities — mathematical and mechanical ability, a creative turn of mind, an overweening curiosity.

They would form the labor pool after training.

But in the year that Peter Lucas had been one of the three hundred children, they had been gathered in the pens in the salt flats and there had been more examinations, more intricate tests.

Peter Lucas and four others had been selected and sent to a special school which used the forbidden books and taught forbidden knowledge. At twenty he had been assigned to the Bureau of Improvement. Ladu had set it up with a fixed quota of sixty. Each year five children would be withdrawn from those who were to be made nearly mindless. Each year five young men were graduated from the special school. And each year the five most unstable of the workers at the Bureau of Improvement were subjected to the electric knife.

In two more weeks the new ones would arrive. And Peter Lucas knew that he had won himself extinction through his attitude.

He went into his two-room house. It had the barren simplicity of a cell. Directly above the television screen was the microphone which recorded every sound from the house, every fragment of conversation.

The house was clean and shining. His evening meal was under the glass dome on the tiny steam table. The food would keep warm. During the next hour he was permitted to exercise in the small area allotted to him. From then on he would be restricted to his house. Any request to visit another worker had to be submitted in writing and approved two weeks in advance of the date. Such visits were limited to one hour and a guard was detailed to escort the visitor to the door of the worker he wished to visit, and wait there to escort him back.

It had been a long time since Peter Lucas had had a visitor, or had visited anyone.

He took a long shower, turned on the television screen and watched the insipid entertainment while he ate. It was a melodrama. The villain was a man who had somehow escaped the screening tests and was working on a secret weapon to destroy the world. The hero killed the villain just as he was about to loose his weapon. It ended with a little sermon.

He felt the tension mounting in him as he ate, and he forced himself to smoke a leisurely cigarette. He knew that while he was at work the house had been carefully inspected for any evidence of forbidden experimentation.

He went to his bed, stretched out and let his left hand fall, almost as though by accident, against the cool, smooth plastic of the wall. The wax was still firm in the grooves he had cut with the tiny saw. He slowly exhaled, the tension going out of him.

With a thumbnail he pared the wax away, slid the tiny panel down, removed therefrom the device which had occupied his mind for six years, which had kept him from going quietly mad under the restraint, as had so many others.

Each bit of it had been smuggled past the search.

The lead for the little half-pound cup had been brought out, a gram at a time. He had melted it and moulded it with the heat obtained by making a minor adjustment in the heat coils on the steam table.

The infinitesimal tube, socketed in the lead cup, had been the most difficult. He had waited for fourteen months to smuggle that out. First it had been necessary to mold soft rubber around the tube, make a crude slingshot, wait until Morrit left the room for a few minutes, stretch the spring wire across the window and project the little ball of sticky rubber out so that it fell in the fenced passage.

Heartbreakingly, he had missed the passage with the first two tries. The third tube had landed properly. On his way back to his house that night he had located it, and, not daring to bend over, had stopped, pressed his heels together so that the rubber clung to the inside of one shoe.

Four lengths of silver wire, forced into the edge of the lead cup, focused the energy of the tube. Each silver wire was forty millimeters long. Halfway along their length, suspended by spiderweb strands of copper wire, was a crude open-ended tube of lead, the opening pointing toward the tiny, powerful tube socketed in the lead cup.

Midway in the little cylinder of lead was a milligram of an unstable isotope which he had found five years before, secreted in one of the forbidden books, probably hidden there by a desperate man during the science purge.

The device was pathetically small, and his theories of its operation were necessarily vague due to his directed training. With an adequate power source, which he hoped to obtain in the form of one of the tiny powerful batteries used in wrist radios, hearing aids and similar devices, the activated tube would subject the isotope to a stimulus which would, he hoped, cause it to throw off, like bullets from a gun, a stream of focused matter which would stimulate the molecular activity of any inert substance. Arbitrarily assuming that the difference between a liquid, a solid and a gas lay only in the index of molecular activity, he hoped to be able to turn any solid into a liquid and then a gaseous state.

Behind the lead cup was a metallic frame for the battery. He took the screw from the tooth cavity, used it to make rigid another portion of the battery frame.

To complete it he would need the battery and a thin strip of hard copper. The completed device would be held in one hand, the battery against the heel of his hand, the wires pointing away from him. Firing would be accomplished by pressing the copper strip, not yet obtained, against the battery terminal, thus activating the tube.

Condemned never to commit any questionable research to writing, Lucas had been forced to carry all the complicated formulae in his mind, achieving at last a receptivity that enabled him to see the equations as though they were written in white fire against a velvet backdrop.

He had two weeks to snatch from under Ellen Morrit’s watchful eye a larger item than any yet taken, to get it past the search.

It was impossible.

Probably the best he could do was to commit his formulae to paper, to hide the paper with the incomplete device, to hope that the next person to inhabit the small white house would be able to carry it further.

He replaced the device, slid the panel shut, melted the wax with a match flame, rubbing it smooth with his thumbnail.

Chapter Two

Mad Scientist

Arden Forester, Director of Search, was a smallish lean man with a spare body, a corded neck and an expression of intent curiosity.

He walked, snapping his heels firmly against the corridor floor, conscious of the fit of his gray uniform, conscious of the weight of responsibility. He and the Chief of the Bureau of Improvement and the Resident Psychiatrist formed the committee to determine which five workers should be removed to make way for the new ones.

He thought of himself as a hard and vigorous man, full of snap. When he used the word in his mind it had two syllables: Suh-NAP! The last syllable came out with a whipcrack. No nonsense from these workers!

He bunched his thin hard knuckles and straightened his shoulders, taking a salute from one of the young guards.

He turned sharply into the office of the Bureau Chief, clicked his heels and saluted. As always, he detested having to salute paunchy Dale Evan. Why, the man didn’t even keep himself physically fit! How could you be mentally alert if you were smothered?

Sargo, the resident psychiatrist, sat near Evan. Evan acknowledged the salute with a slight motion of his pudgy hand, said, “Sit down, Arden. Sit down. We have to go over the list again. It’s down to eight. I’ve had the monitors wait. You probably, saw them in the hall.”

Arden Forrester sat down, careful of the crease in his uniform pants. Evan handed him the list. He pursed his lips and read it. He took a pencil from his blouse pocket, made four neat checks beside four of the eight names.

He handed the list back. “Those are the ones who have attempted to smuggle forbidden items out of their labs. Those four must go. You men can pick any one you please out of the remaining four.”

Dale Evan sighed. “I wish you had five on your list, Arden. Whom do you nominate, George?”

Sargo inspected the glowing end of his cigarette. “Lewisson or Bendas.”

Evan said, “I had picked Bendas or Lucas.”

“Then that settles it,” Forrester said, getting to his feet. “My four and Bendas.”

Irritation showed on Dale Evan’s face. “Sit down, Forrester. We’ll talk to the monitors. Go out and tell the other four to go. Then send in Lucas’ monitor. I believe her name is Morrit.”

Forrester looked approvingly at Ellen Morrit. It was the first time he had noticed her in street clothes. Her severe working hairdo had been released and the golden hair fell to shoulder length. It softened her face. Her dress, pale aqua, brought out very interesting and very adequate lines. Arden Forrester decided that he would soon exercise his right of substituting personal for automatic search of any employee in the Bureau of Improvement. It would be very interesting.

“Peter Lucas, number four three, is being considered for electro-surgery, Miss Morrit. This is a confidential meeting. Your comments will not be made a matter of record. What is your opinion of this?”

Her voice was crisp. “Lucas has the typical instability of all technical employees.”

“Have you noted any change lately?”

“No sir.”

“Does he attempt to... convert you to his way of thinking?”

“No sir.”

“Does he sneer at the established order?”

“No sir.”

“Would you prefer another assignment?”

She paused. “I had not thought of it.” She shrugged. “A new one might be more difficult, sir.”

“That is all. On your way out send Miss Peckingham in, please.”

Ellen Morrit walked slowly down the hall toward the monitor exit. She showed her stamped search card to the guard at the door and he released the door catch for her.

She was confused. Peter Lucas had so irritated her during the past month that a dozen times she had been on the verge of reporting him to Dale Evan. In fact, she had told some of the other monitors that she was about to turn him in.

And yet when she had been called in to testify, even though the irritation was fresh in her mind, she had — why, she had deliberately lied!

It was unthinkable. All of the monitors had been carefully conditioned so that there was not the slightest chance of an emotional attachment between a worker and his monitor.

And yet she had lied!

She was walking slowly toward the bus stand. She stopped. She knew why she had lied: because she wanted to spend the rest of her time in the Bureau of Improvement in the same room with Peter Lucas.

The obvious thing to do was to report for new conditioning. No! To do that would be to create the suspicion that she had lied to Evan.

Ellen knew that it was atavistic to think of a technical worker with anything except loathing. Mr. Evan and Captain Forrester and Mr. Sargo were sensible men doing a sensible job. It was evident that the burden of administration could be made easier by eliminating the most volatile workers each year. It was equally evident that Peter Lucas should be eliminated.

Yet when she thought of the soulless faces she had seen, the faces of the laborers, and thought of Lucas looking like that — something twisted her heart.

Peter Lucas paused in the cool morning light and looked up at the building which housed Automatic Search. The guard pushed him roughly and said, “Stop dreaming, you.”

In the first locker room he stripped, put his clothes in his locker, glanced at the narrow doorway. The laconic guard, as he stepped up, turned the dial to Lucas’ number. Peter Lucas stepped into the shallow area.

His weight, size, allowable metal in the form of tooth fillings, ring and wristwatch, matched the settings on the machine. A low musical note sounded and he was free to enter the further locker room where he put on Bureau uniform. As he strapped on his sandals he wondered how on earth he would get the necessary battery, through that doorway.

Tonight he would leave the removable filling in the lab, come through Search with a tiny strip of hard copper in his mouth, come back through the next morning with a useless bit of metal he would throw away as soon as he was in his lab. That was simple enough. It was the battery that had been baffling him for eleven months.

It was too large to project it into the fenced passage, as he had done with the tiny tube. No one could be trusted to risk throwing it to him through the narrow doorway in Search, even if he could have caught it without the guard’s noticing.

Captain Forrester gave him a sardonic look as he passed into the main building. He wondered idly how many times he had considered the incredible satisfaction to be gained by striking the Director of Search with a clenched fist.

He knew the schedule of work ahead. Today he would get his hands on a good battery: compact and powerful, an inch and a quarter by an inch by three quarters of an inch. He could conceal it in his hand, get it down to the locker room, snap it onto the spring clip he had fashioned on the underside of the thin metal shelf.

But what then?

The lab door was open. Morrit, as usual, was waiting for him. He noticed absently that she looked as though she’d had a rough night. That didn’t seem in character.

“Have a spirited evening, Morrit?”

“I was unable to sleep,” she said primly. Her eyes were shadowed. She indicated a package on his desk. “Police broadcasting unit. Portable. The statistical section reports that fifteen percent of them get a blurred tone after three months’ use.”

He forced himself to yawn. Here was the battery, and it would be a good one.

Ellen Morrit watched him carefully throughout the day. She had come to a difficult decision just before dawn. She would watch Lucas with great care, and she would report him immediately if he stepped out of line; but not until then.

He had finished the analysis of the small broadcasting unit, finding that the ultra-short waves had magnetized the little screws that held the edge of the speaker diaphram. The recommendation was that the screws in future models be made of non-ferrous alloy.

He swept the dismantled parts into the waste bin, put the two magnetized screws and the revised bill of materials into the familiar envelope, and stood up.

She saw him start toward the door, heard him say, “See you tomorrow, jinx.” Something was wrong but she didn’t know quite what it was.

“Just a minute!” she snapped.

He stopped, turned slowly. There was something strained about his smile.

She walked to him and said, “Something is wrong, Mr. Lucas. You are holding your hand in an odd way.”

She reached out quickly and took his wrist. He let her open his hand. The small battery, emblem of guilt, lay on his broad palm.

The door was still closed. She saw how wrong she had been to lie, to defend him by misdirection. “I am going to—” She could not finish the sentence. His face was frighteningly close to hers, and his hand had closed on her throat.

He forced her roughly back against the wall. His eyes were quite mad. There was a muted drumming in her ears and the room swam with mist while she strained her lungs to drag air past her closed throat.

Even as consciousness faded, she knew that he would be caught in whatever evil plan he was carrying out.

His face loomed impossibly large, impossibly close. Other monitors had been killed in the past. They were essentially unstable, these technical workers. But a diagnosis was of small comfort now.

Then surprisingly his fingers left her throat. She gagged and coughed and the tears ran down her cheeks. He stood looking at her in a queer way. His voice was husky as he said, “Morrit, I think I could have gotten away with it. What happens when you hate somebody and can’t kill them? When you don’t want to kill them. When you even want to—” He forced her back against the wall once more and kissed her roughly.

She gasped and her cheeks flamed. She struck him across the mouth and slid away from him. “Mr. Lucas, I am taking this evidence immediately to the office of—”

She stopped and they both turned at the click of the door latch. Miss Glaydeen, Director of Monitors, walked in, her cheeks jiggling, her heavy steps rattling apparatus across the room on the zinc work table.

Her eyes had a look of mockery. She stopped three paces from Ellen Morrit and said, “I was going to send you the message, Morrit, but then I thought I’d come and take another look at you and see if I’d missed any hidden talent.”

“What do you mean?” Ellen Morrit asked.

“You are honored, my dear. The Director of Search, Captain Forrester, has just indicated to me his desire to conduct a personal rather than a mechanical search of you tonight. Very flattering. And don’t object. He has the right, you know.”

“But I—”

“Report to Room C, my dear. I believe the good Captain is already there, impatiently waiting.”

Miss Glaydeen smiled, turned on her heel and walked heavily out. The door slammed behind her.

Ellen Morrit had a feeling of nightmare. She took two steps closer to Peter Lucas and said, “Is — isn’t there any way to—”

“Not in the manual there isn’t,” he said. She was surprised to see that he had a troubled look.

The world had gone upside down. A man who should have killed her had kissed her instead. She had lied to her superiors. And now Captain Forrester planned some unknown and unthinkable thing. Her loyalties were torn and confused.

“You must want this badly,” she said, holding out the battery.

“Very badly,” he admitted. He coughed. “If you took the battery right to Uncle Evan maybe you could throw a smoke-screen over the whole thing.”

She realized that he was offering her the only out, an impossibly quixotic sacrifice of himself to save her humiliation.

She left the office with the battery in her hand. She went directly to Room C, opened the door quietly, shut it behind her.

Lucas waited for them to come for him. But they didn’t.

He found the strip of copper he wanted, walked slowly down to the locker room. He was late; most of the others had gone. The guard told him to hurry it up. He went through Search, dressed again with a slowness that infuriated the guard and walked slowly down the fenced corridor.

Only one other worker was with him. The guard was surly. Lucas turned and saw the girl coming across the grass to the corridor fence. He saw her hair, gold in the twilight.

“Get away from the fence, you!” the guard roared.

“I am a monitor,” the girl said firmly. Lucas recognized her voice, stared almost with disbelief at Morrit. It was the first time he had ever seen her in street clothes, seen her with the hair that fell to shoulders that were straight and perfect.

“Come here, guard!” she ordered.

The guard turned to them. “You two stand where you are.” He went to the fence.

Lucas looked at her and saw the new hardness of her face, a bitter curve of mouth, an angry look in her eyes.

“Guard,” she said, “you are to search the clothes of that tall one there. Lucas. An item was smuggled through Search.”

As the guard turned toward him, Lucas caught the pleading look in her eyes. He was thoroughly confused. She was trying to tell him something.

The other worker looked on without much interest. Lucas held his arms up and the guard went through every pocket with care. Lucas stopped breathing as he saw Morrit back away from the fence, saw the small object in her hand.

She swung her arm as though practicing. With narrowed eyes she watched the guard. The search over, the guard turned back toward Morrit. In the instant of his turning, she threw the battery over the high fence.

By the time the guard had turned completely, her arms were back at her sides.

Lucas saw it against the darkening sky. He took two quick steps to one side and it splatted into the palm of his hand. He dropped it into his pocket.

“Nothing on him, Miss,” the guard mumbled.

The other worker had seen the exchange. Lucas faced him tensely. He saw the fleeting grin, saw the other worker form the unspoken words, “Nice going!”

“Sorry to have troubled you,” Morrit said. She called to Lucas, “I will not be reporting tomorrow, Mr. Lucas.”

The words meant nothing to him; not until he had shut the door of the small white house behind him.

Morrit was not reporting. Under the stringent rules, no monitor could give up her position until the full five years had been served. To refuse to report would create the suspicion that the monitor had somehow become infected with the creative psychosis of the technical workers. And it was a free ticket to the little gray amphitheater where they wielded the electric scalpel.

Something had cracked Ellen Morrit. Something had made her betray the regime. And she would have to become a fugitive. He could not see her waiting for them to come and get her.

Thus her words became a message. She had said, “You are right, Peter, and I have been wrong. Maybe this battery will help you become free. If so, I will be in the dead city.”

And suddenly he knew there had been only one way for her to get the battery past Captain Arden Forrester. Acquiescence. A very high price to pay; and a very impetuous decision to make.

His smile was a grimace that pressed his lips back against his teeth. Lucas had made a convert to heresy, had added another prisoner to the world.

He ate slowly, stretched out on the bed. His hand touched the wall, and he sat up in sudden panic. The wax was cracked. At last they had found the hiding place.

He pulled the sliding panel down, reached inside. His hand touched the device. He took it out and inspected it. They had not removed it, had seen that it was an odd thing, too small to be dangerous — possibly a physical indication that the mind of Peter Lucas was failing. And it had been left behind as evidence.

He forced steadiness into his hands, unscrewed the battery frame, put the little battery in place, connected one wire to a terminal, the other to the copper strip.

They arrived at that moment: Arden Forrester and two of the guards. Forrester swaggered in, his thumbs tucked under his uniform belt.

“Mr. Lucas, I believe. And what toy do you have there, Mr. Lucas? An automatic toothbrush, no doubt. And where did you get the metal, Mr. Lucas?”

Peter Lucas grinned foolishly at Forrester. He made his mouth slack, shifted the device into his right hand, the battery case against the heel of his hand.

“We’d better go see Mr. Evan,” Forrester said. He winked broadly at Lucas. “A shame to take you out of that lab of yours where the decorations are so nice. So very, very nice.”

Lucas depressed the copper strip so that it made contact with the bare terminal. The tube glowed for a moment in the lead socket.

Forrester stood spare, firm and erect.

Lucas knew that the device had failed. And then he saw Forrester’s right hand. Slowly it lost form. It sagged, sluggishly, a pink wax hand held above a flame, the fingers merging.

Forrester’s eyes bulged and he shouted. He snatched his hand away from the waistband of his trousers. The hand pulled free at the wrist, spun across the room and slapped viscidly against the wall, clinging for a moment, all shape lost, bleeding in a thin line on the plaster, sliding slowly down the pattern of blood.

A gout of blood came from the wrist and where it struck the focal point of the device, it turned into a pinkish fog. The blouse where the hand had been turned shiny and ran into liquid.

The beam hit into the spare body underneath, softening it to a thin liquid, exploding it into a pink mist. Forrester screamed once as he fell.

A guard leveled his automatic and Lucas managed to center the beam on it. The barrel sagged as the man tried to fire it. The unliquified portion exploded violently, and the man, his face torn open, fell and writhed on the floor. The other guard tried to make the door, but Lucas swept the beam across his legs at knee level. The man dropped and at first Lucas thought that he had dropped onto his knees. Then he saw that the man’s legs were out in front of him, toes up. The guard made a mewling sound, fell back, swiveling the gun to fire at Lucas. Lucas swept the beam across his face, saw the face become a pinkish pool in which the eyes were but widening stains.

He touched the guard whose gun had exploded on the back of the neck and the man was suddenly still.

Breathing hard, Lucas stood erect. He knew that if he looked at them any more he’d be violently ill.

He listened. The subdued workers who had heard the shot stayed close to their houses.

He heard the distant pound of running feet. There was no time to liberate the others. He cut the back wall of the house, finding that at fifteen feet, the area of liquification was about six inches in diameter. He made a sweeping cut, seeing the running plastic explode into gas with a puffing sound.

The section fell out and he went through. As he went he brushed the moist edge by accident with the back of his hand. For a moment he was in panic for fear the liquid contagion could be transmitted by contact.

But the back of his hand was uninjured. As fear faded, he noted that the process did not generate heat.

Floodlights clicked on over the area, and the massive throat of the siren on the roof of the Bureau Building began to pulsate.

Lucas felt naked, crouching in the glow, fifty feet from the rear of his house. Someone shouted behind him and he ran for the fence.

There was a soft whisper near his ear and the slug continued on to smash against the wire mesh. With a slow up and down sweep he cut the fence, seeing the dance of blue sparks as the electric current tried to bridge the gap.

He flattened, turned around and swept the beam across the legs of those who pounded toward him. The hoarse shouts turned to screams as they toppled over. Another slug whispered too close to him, and he sprayed the convulsing bodies until at last they were still. Another splash, and a section of the fence fell away.

He ran through the gap, turned and aimed the beam at the nearest floodlight. It spat and went dark.

There was a quarter mile of open ground to cross. He had covered half of it at full run when the headlights bounced toward him. Silhouetted against the distant floodlights he could see the men who clung to the outside of the car.

He dropped and rolled into a shallow place, propped himself on his elbows.

“Spread out and nail him!” somebody ordered.

Lucas yelled, “Go back! Go back or you’ll die!”

“He’s right over there. Try a few shots with the rifle, Joe.”

He couldn’t risk rifle fire. He pushed the copper strip against the terminal, sprayed the beam hack and forth across the vehicle like a man watering a lawn. One headlight popped out and a bubbling scream was cut off.

There were cries of alarm. The other headlight went out and he heard the car creak and sag oddly.

A man came frighteningly close, leaping toward him. Lucas aimed up at him, threw himself to one side. The man fell across his legs, writhed once and was still. Something warm ran across Lucas’ ankle. There was no more movement. He pulled himself clear, staggered to his feet and began to run again.

By the time he reached the wide avenue, he heard the rising bleat of sirens all over the city.

He crossed to parallel streets, crouched behind a hedge and waited there until his breathing was under control. A hundred feet away a man hurried toward his car.

Lucas ran after him. The man heard the faint sound and turned.

“Give me your keys,” Lucas demanded.

The man grunted as he swung. The snap of the beam caught the fist in midair. It hit Lucas along the jaw, a soft and boneless thing. He wiped his face on his sleeve, bent over the man and found the car keys.

He knew of an automobile only through the drawings he had seen and the descriptions he had read.

He carefully placed the device on the seat beside him, started the car and drove it jerkily down the street, cutting the first corner too closely so that the rear wheel hit the curbing and he bounced high.

Five blocks, ten, twenty.

He abandoned the car, ran down toward the fire lane, the scattered rubble that marked the border of the dead city.

There were no lights there. He could not risk falling.

Behind him the sirens moaned and he knew that all of the resources of the New City, even of the country and the world would be directed at finding him and killing him. He was the villain of the melodrama now; he was mad, evil science raising its foul head again, greedy for destruction.

Chapter Three

City of Pariahs

In the dead city ten thousands lived where once there had been four millions. They lived outside the frame of reference of the New City, lived as their remote forebears had lived, in lust and violence and sudden death.

Some of them were there because to venture outside was to die for some past crime. Others were there because their emotional quotients were dangerous to the orderliness of the New City. And many had been born there, amid the clutter of gray stone, of broken brick, of dust and decay and matted, tangled growth that obscured first-floor windows, split the battered asphalt.

At night, in an area ten blocks deep bordering on the dead city, doors were double-barred and windows were shuttered. In time that area would become part of the dead city, providing new loot, new hiding places.

Within the dead city there was a loose society, with the strongest man at the top. Most vagrants who wandered in had a short life. If they managed to survive attack, they would still have no hiding place and would be picked up by the well-armed groups of special police who made periodic patrols through the man-made wilderness.

The police had learned by listening to the whisper of a thrown knife, that it was wise to make the patrols at regular and predictable intervals during daylight, to stay together, to conduct only the most cursory searches of buildings.

Ellen Morrit crept into the dead city at night.

She knew the unforgettable extent of her humiliation, the pathetic inadequacy of her revenge against a society which had abused and disillusioned her.

It would have been simpler to wait for them to come. But to sit and wait meant to think and to remember. It was easier to run away.

She carried a hand torch and a .22 target pistol. She wore rough tweeds and stout shoes and carried food in a hiking pack.

She turned and looked back at the New City, at the blare of lights which stopped abruptly at the high mound of rubble which she had crossed.

Ellen Morrit did not know that the first rule of secret travel by night is never to silhouette oneself against distant lights.

But her body was young, her reactions quick, and she carried the automatic ready to fire.

She whirled as one stone clicked against another and she made out the figure running toward her, crouched, knuckles almost touching the littered ground. In alarm rather than through any desire to kill she tugged on the trigger. The weapon made a brittle crackling sound and the figure fell, rolled almost to her feet.

She stood still for a long time, then risked shining the small flash on it. It was a man with a tangle of dark beard. His open eyes looked up at the distant stars and his mouth was open. She saw, in the hollow of his throat, the pool of blood where the tiny slug had gone in.

She clicked out the light, backed away, sank to her knees and began to weep.

In the end she decided to leave the dead city, to try to find a hiding place among less alien people.

She stood up with resolution, and turned directly into the arms of a man who towered over her.

He tore the gun out of her hand and when she screamed he clapped a harsh hand over her mouth. Her teeth met in his flesh and he cursed softly. The world exploded around her in darting fire and she was dimly conscious of being lifted off her feet.

She fought her way up out of untold depths to a consciousness of hard stone against her hips and shoulders. Damp stone. When she opened her eyes the flicker of oil lamps threw needles deep into her throbbing brain.

It was a long room, damp and windowless, and she knew it was far underground.

Her eyes slowly adjusted and she saw that there were four men at a crude table, another one on a bench against the far wall. A ragged girl with a white broken face leaned against the wall near the man who sat on the bench. She sang in a low, harsh voice, accompanying herself on a small stringed instrument. She stared at Ellen Morrit and her eyes were vacant and dead.

A much older woman squatted ten feet away, spooning a dark substance out of a rusty tin, smacking withered lips with each mouthful.

The men were rough, ragged, bearded and noisy. There was a lamp on the table, and several bottles and a greasy deck of cards.

One of them looked toward her, threw his cards down, got up and swaggered over. “Awake, eh? Come and meet the people.”

He grabbed her wrist, pulled her to her feet, steadied her when she would have fallen.

He held her in his big arm, turned to the others and said loudly, “Now who calls James unlucky? A gun and a girl, all in the same night.”

The old woman cackled. “When Thomas finds out maybe he’ll let you keep the gun.”

The man spat on the floor. “Now there’s reason for standing up to Thomas, woman.” He took Ellen roughly by the shoulders and spun her completely around. “Look at her! Meat on her bones. Soft hands. None of your leather-faced women, aye Janey?”

The dark girl cursed him, without bitterness.

James chuckled and pinched Ellen’s cheek. “Ah, you’re a great rarity here in the dead city, girl. We get the murderous ones, and the ones that have lived hard. None like you. Not for a long time.”

“Take me to Thomas,” Ellen said, trying to make her voice strong.

He scowled. “What would you know of Thomas?”

She lifted her chin. In this case she would try to forsake the devil she knew for the devil she didn’t. “He expects me.”

James shook his head dolefully from side to side. “Now just think of that! Thomas just upped and told you to come on in here and find him, did he?”

He pushed her back toward the corner, walked to the table and pulled a slight man up off his chair. “Bobby, you run along over and see Thomas and tell him that he has a lady friend waiting here for him. Be quick, boy!”

Bobby gave Ellen a quick, frightened look and left. The old woman threw the tin aside. It rolled across the floor, spewing out the remainder of its contents. She scuttled out into the night.

Ellen stayed where she was. The rest of them moved, by unspoken consent, down to the far end of the big room. James took from his belt a gun she recognized as her own. He slid out the clip and checked the shells, snapped it back in.

He then flattened himself against the wall beside the arched doorway. Through the doorway Ellen could see damp stairs leading up.

Peter Lucas went deeper into the dead city. He knew that before the night was over the patrols would be out. The car would be found. They would be coming in after him. There might not be much time. It was important to locate someone who knew the terrain.

Coarse growth grew so high as to brush his face. He tried to force his way into it, and had to retrace his steps. His eyes were getting used to the starlight. He could make out the dim outlines of the buildings.

A stone rattled and someone ran off into the distance. He shouted after the sound, his voice startlingly loud in the silence. There was no answer.

He started violently as the shot sounded. It was near at hand. Very near. And yet it had an odd, hollow, booming quality.

He moved in what he thought was the right direction. Ten feet, twenty feet. Another shot came and another. He turned to the right and his outstretched hand touched a rough wall. He moved along the wall and saw a glow of light, a low arched doorway, half filled with rubble. He scrambled in. The light was stronger.

He went cautiously down the wide flight of stone stairs to a landing. The stairs cut back. He went down the second flight.

The stairs went through an arched doorway and into a room with a stone floor. He could see the huge stones of the floor, the mortar between them. The light was dim and it flickered. Oil lamps, he thought. Primitive.

A rough voice spoke words that he didn’t understand. He stood in indecision, the device aimed and ready.

There was the sound of a heavy blow, a low moan of pain. Lucas decided that whoever was in the room was too busy to notice him. He moved quickly down the rest of the stairs, passed through the arch and moved to one side, his shoulders against the stone wall.

A dark girl sang and looked at him with dull interest. Bearded men in a far end of the long room turned and stared, wary and taut in their attitudes.

But a vast, pale, clean-shaven man with hands like hams and a massive belly merely looked up at him and said, “Be with you in a moment, friend.”

A husky man lay on the floor. His eyes were agonized. A few feet away lay a .22 pistol with a long barrel. As the huge man bent over the figure on the floor, Lucas saw the raw, bloody streak straight across the back of his bull neck.

The big man pulled the prostrate man to his feet, steadied him and smashed him full in the face with a huge right fist. The man fell heavily and the big man kicked him in the side with all his strength, sliding him several feet along the stone floor.

Grunting, the big man picked up the automatic, grinned again at Lucas and said, “The fool tried to kill me. Something about a woman.” He giggled, a curiously womanish sound. “He was going to drill me through the head as I came in, but I came in too fast. Always come into a room fast, boy, or don’t come in at all. Who are you?”

Lucas noted that though the man held the automatic negligently, the thin barrel was pointed at Lucas’ middle.

With a small warm sound, Ellen Morrit came from the far corner, ran hard against Lucas’ chest, her body shaking, her eyes panic-stricken.

“Yours, eh?” the big man said. “I’m boss man around here. I may make you prove you can hang onto her. Who are you?”

“Lucas. I escaped tonight from the Bureau of Improvement.”

There was an angry muttering from the men at the end of the room. The girl stopped her drab and monotonous song and merely stared.

The big man said, “We don’t want your sort here.”

Not even here, Peter thought. Not even in the dead city. When they can feel superior to no one else on earth, they still have contempt for us.

“Move away from him, girl,” the big man said. “No need to hurt you too.”

But Ellen clung more tightly to Peter Lucas.

He depressed the copper strip against the terminal.

The big man was very close to him, reaching for Ellen.

The beam touched the joint of the massive elbow and the forearm dangled limply. The big man did not cry out. Peter swept the beam across the middle of him. The heavy shirt parted and thick drops hung from the parted edge. The white flesh quivered and slid and puffs of gas made a rancid stench. When the beam touched the other elbow, the gun clattered to the stone floor.

Where the puffs of pinkish gas had erupted, Peter could see into the man, see a gleam of rib, the veined substance of a lung, see an edge of the strong heart, throbbing steadily.

The big man’s mouth twisted into a smile. He said, “It looks like you might be the new—”

His eyes glazed and he went down as suddenly as though his feet had been kicked out from under him.

Peter turned in time to see the flickering silver of a thrown knife. He moved violently away from it, swept it with the beam and it continued to splash against the inside of the stone arch, to run in silver drops to the damp floor.

The girl who sang began to laugh. She stood with her throat taut, her face uplifted, her mouth a down-curved slit. The sound stopped. They went out into the night.

Peter aimed the device at the others. They lifted their hands. He made a small gesture and they followed the first two. The unconscious man on the floor was the only one left, the only one left who was alive.

Peter dragged him to the stairs, pulled him up a dozen stairs to the landing. He left him there.

“Get back,” he said. They went down again, across from the staircase. He used the beam to cut a half circle over the arch. He cut it again and again until he heard the shift of stone. The stone crashed down, choking the staircase, blocking the exit, blowing out the wicks of the oil lamps.

They found the lamps and lighted them and put them on the wooden table. The rock had covered the body of Thomas.

They sat at the table and they looked into each other’s eyes and there was no need for words, for explanations, for empty sounds. Everything that could be said was said, and when he covered her hand with his it was a pledge and a dedication stronger than anything that had happened in their lives.

They sat alone in a stone room under the dead city and it was very clear to both of them that what little remained of life would have meaning and purpose and beauty.

Chapter Four

No Exit

Lucas awoke. The air was stale and the room had a darkness so intense that he felt as though he were in an ancient tomb.

He wondered what had awakened him. He listened. He heard it again, a distant thud which sent vibrations through the stone of the floor.

He found Ellen’s flash, squinted at the intense beam. Her face, a fragile oval faintly lighted by the reflection, was like the face of a sleeping child.

He touched her shoulder and she made a warm sound, a soft murmur deep in her throat. Out of the depths of sleep she had awakened with his name on her lips.

Then the fear came. He lit the lamp that was near them. Her mouth was tight and she pushed a strand of the golden hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Blasting, I think. They know we’re down here. I shouldn’t have let those others go. They were caught and made to talk.”

The thud was louder and more rock fell from above the place where the doorway had been, dust sifting down to drift in winking motes in the flashlight beam.

“What will we do?” she said, and he could hear the quaver in her voice.

“We’re two flights below ground level, Ellen. We can cut our way out with this gimmick, if the ground is solid enough so that the tunnel won’t collapse.”

They stood up and she clung to him, touched his throat with her lips.

He said, “You should have had a nice meek worker to supervise, darling. And then after your five years you could have—”

She stopped his lips with her fingertips. “Shh, Lucas. This way is better, no matter what happens.”

With the next resounding crash, they could clearly hear the outside debris falling back to earth. He turned, focused the small device on the wall opposite where the doorway had been, the flashlight in his left hand.

The stone ran fluidly and puffed into gas. He made the cut large, and, as he had expected, a large section of the wall collapsed. When the dust of fracture cleared away, he saw that it was possible to climb over the rubble to the face of the dark earth beyond.

He held her arm as they clambered up, ducking low to get through the wide low space. He focused the device on the earth from short range. The earth melted into a liquid and ran back toward the rocks and the gases choked them.

He found that he could eliminate much of the gas by using the device in intermittent bursts, giving the liquified earth time to run down.

He angled the tunnel up at a forty-five degree slant. Once, as they were about to move into a new portion of the tunnel, the roof collapsed, a large clod striking him heavily in the shoulder, forcing him to his knees. But instinctively he had shielded the tiny device in his hand.

He estimated that in cutting up through twenty feet at a forty-five degree angle the tunnel would have to be nearly thirty feet in length and he counted his paces as he followed the cut of the beam.

When he heard a distant shout from behind, he turned and undercut the ceiling of the shaft so that it fell, blocking the tunnel.

Ellen was subdued and, he thought, remarkably well under control.

When he estimated that the distance was right, he focused the beam almost straight up, pulling the device out of the way of the liquid, then holding the flashlight in its place and looking up.

He saw a circular area no bigger than his fist where dim light seemed to filter in. He cut the tunnel rapidly ahead, recklessly allowing the liquid to run over his feet and ankles.

He made a hole up into the daylight, cut a notch for his feet, stepped up and cautiously looked out. It was dawn in the dead city, the air sharp with ozone, the sun disc edging over the far hill that was sawtoothed with the minaretted buildings of the New City.

In the distance, beyond the corner of the building they had left he could see two men standing, not looking in his direction. Fifty feet away was a jumble of small buildings falling into decay, a tangled confusion which might mean safety.

Leaning down, he said to Ellen, “This has got to be fast. I’ll jump up, pull you up and then run as fast as you can with me toward the right.”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

He wiggled up out of the hole and, as she came up onto the step, he reached down, got her wrist and pulled her up.

He heard the shouts, and his throat tightened with fear. As she got her feet under her, he saw that another group had come from the other direction and they were cut off from the tangle of buildings.

They came toward him at a dead run. No shots were fired. With deadly certainty he cut them down. More appeared. They wore the police uniform. He could see that they were hesitant and frightened, but they came on.

As they reached the place where the others had fallen, he cut them clown, feeling a sting of nausea in his throat.

From the other direction came a running group, at least fifteen men from the guard details of the Bureau and the World Administration Building.

They ran silently, but in a matter of moments they lay on the ground, calling out with fear and pain and surprise.

One of them had come within ten feet of them. He lay on his side, his clenched fists held to his mouth, and he cried like a child.

Whoever was in charge had thrown a cordon around the area and from every direction more of them approached.

Peter Lucas was sick of death and pain. They were not shooting. They wanted him alive. His hand shook as the weapon bit a piece out of the advancing circle. He wished that they would shoot. Anything but this stupid and futile advance into dissolution.

His hand was shaking and he realized that he could not kill many more. He knew that he could take but a few more lives before the pity in him stopped his hand.

And as he lifted the weapon Ellen clung to his arm and said, “No. No more, Peter. Not any more!”

And he knew that she felt as he did. In the moment before they rushed, gaining courage from his lowering of the silent, deadly weapon, he smiled down at her and whispered, “Good-by, Ellen.”

They hit him in a concerted rush, and he spun, fell, tried to roll with the device under him so that he could grind it into a nothingness which no man could decipher.

His wrist was caught and his face was ground into the rocks. His hand was pulled up into the small of his back until he could no longer hold it shut.

His wrists were handcuffed behind him and he was dragged roughly to his feet. They held him and one of them, a young guard, was crying. He looked at the men who moaned and moved useless limbs, and he hit Lucas in the face with all his strength.

Lucas could not fall. Another group surrounded Ellen. A purplish bruise was forming on her cheek, but she held her head high.

The man in charge wore guard’s gray, insignia of captain’s rank on one shoulder, the interlocked WA of World Administration on the other. He had a cold, competent look, entirely unlike the red, surly anger of the police official who walked beside him.

The captain said, “These two will be taken immediately to the trucks. And they will not be beaten or injured in any way whatever. Is that clear?”

The men nodded. The young guard said, “Let me get one more smack at him. My brother is over there with—”

“Silence!” the captain snapped. “Take them to the trucks.”

Ellen and Peter were forced to lie down on the bed of the truck. The guards kept the mob back. There was hate in the shrill jeers and boos of the citizens.

Lucas shuddered as he heard the animal sound of those massed voices. If they should get their hands on Ellen...

Someone yelled above the crowd noise, “Roll it. Full speed.”

The trucks roared and jounced. A heavy stone arched into the truck, bounced off the bed and rebounded to cut a gash across the back of a guard’s hand. He cursed and sucked the wound, clinging tightly with his other hand.

The truck made a wild turn and Lucas was skidded over against Ellen. His fingertips touched her arm and he exerted a gentle pressure. The angry noises faded behind them.

Above them the gray of the morning sky had changed to a clear, deep blue. Lucas looked up at it, at two drifting puffs of white cloud. Though he saw everything with the abnormal clarity of a man who is already dead, he felt peace within him. He felt a stolid disregard for what might happen, and he thought that there would be further rebellion, further defiance by the technical workers. And one day one of them would succeed in taking over enormous power. Then the earth could forsake this barren plateau of static mediocrity, could once again reach toward the stars.

The truck ground to a halt, and he heard the procedure of identification. It started again, winding up a graveled road. The truck went through an arched entrance that cut off the sky with the suddenness of a blow.

When it stopped, Lucas’ ankles were seized and he was pulled back out of the bed of the truck. To the left was an open door. He was herded through the door so rapidly that he had no chance to look back at Ellen.

Two men were with him, one of them the captain. Ahead were three elevators. He was pushed roughly into the middle one. The door was silently shut and it went up with an acceleration that pressed his feet hard against the soft floor.

This was not what he had expected. Dale Evan should have been the responsible official, the one to decree electro-surgery; but he knew within seconds that they were not in the Bureau of Improvement Building. The insignia of the captain, plus the duration of the elevator trip, told him that they were in the World Administration Building.

He was pushed into a plain, windowless room about ten feet square. The glowing baseboard was the light source. He was carefully searched by the lower-ranking guard. The captain unlocked the handcuffs and the two of them left, closing the door, locking it.

In this soundproofed room, time had no meaning. He realized how close he was to the extreme limit of emotional exhaustion.

So his little escapade was a matter of a higher level than Bureau affairs. He smiled wryly as he thought of Dale Evan’s discomfiture. The technical workers would have hard sledding for many months — provided the angry public didn’t tear the place apart.

At last he stretched out on the hard floor, felt sleep rush over him like a dark tide.

Ellen Morrit was awakened by the unlocking of the door of her small, featureless room. The matron who had brought her to the room came in, put fresh clothes on the floor, stood aside while a second woman brought in a basin of water, various toilet articles.

“Fix yourself up,” she said. “He doesn’t like filth.”

Alone, Ellen Morrit washed and dressed, and as she held the mirror she thought that she could shatter it against the floor, slash her wrists with the shards of glass. Yet the mystery, why it was necessary to be made beautiful in order to die, was a nagging question.

The dress provided was of a dark, rich fabric, a weave unfamiliar to her. It combined extreme thinness with warmth.

She was ready when they came for her. The matron carried a thin chain with a wooden handle on the end. She made two loops around Ellen’s wrist and Ellen knew that a half turn of the handle would bring excruciating pain.

She was taken back to the elevator, and once again taken upward.

She gasped as the elevator door opened. One whole wall of the room was of glass, craftily curved so as to eliminate reflections. Far below stretched the entire expanse of the New City.

“Hello, Ellen,” Peter Lucas said. She turned quickly, saw him seated in a deep chair of blonde wood. He wore clothes of the same dark fabric as hers. His arms were held flat to the arms of the chair by two wide, shining bands of metal that clamped them firmly.

The matron led her to the chair near his. Both chairs looked toward a raised dais, and beyond it were pale yellow draperies. When her arms were fastened, the matron left. The elevator door shut and they heard the tiny hum of power as it dropped.

She and Peter were alone in the room. It had an air of luxury and power, of quiet surroundings subordinated to a powerful personality.

She looked toward the bookshelves, noticed that the titles were of approved hooks. There was no clue to the owner of the room.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked.

His voice was harsh. “For the unforgettable pleasure of talking to Ryan, I believe. The Unit Advisor. This is high-level stuff.”

“Why do they want to talk to us?”

“That should be obvious, Ellen. They have you taped as helping me. They will want to know our methods. If we don’t talk freely, they’ll have some pretty ways of making us talk.”

A small table stood on the raised dais. On it was the device that had been taken from him. She wondered that they had not destroyed it.

Lucas said, “I wish you hadn’t been brought into this, Ellen.”

“After... after Forrester I couldn’t feel any loyalty to them.” She laughed. “He was so ridiculous. I let him think that he was flattering me. He was breathing so hard. When he had his arms around me I kicked him and I hit him in the mouth with my fist. I had the little battery in that hand. He fell and hit his head on the bench. I ran out to the locker room, through the other door, put on my street clothes and left. I didn’t know what to do with the battery. Then I saw you with the guard. It... it just seemed like a way of getting even.”

“And you aren’t sorry?” Lucas asked softly.

“Not for anything, Peter.” And she knew as she said it that it was the truth.

There was a rustle.

Peter Lucas frowned at the man who stepped briskly through the yellow draperies. They fell into place behind him. This wasn’t Ryan.

This man had a clown’s face. It looked as though someone had taken hold of the upper lip and given a sharp tug downward, and the face had frozen. The upper lip was pendulous, and all the lines of the face seemed drawn down toward it. The man was slight, obviously in his fifties. His small blue eyes were shrewd and quick.

He stepped down off the dais and walked over to them. He rubbed his palms together with a dry, whispering sound, smiled at them and said, “How do you do, Ellen. And you, Peter. I happen to be Emery Ladu, the Chairman.”

Peter’s mind spun dizzily and focused on a book of his childhood. Alice in Wonderland.

This was the man. This was the calloused dictator who, with the help of his advisors, kept the world on a dead level of mediocrity. Dictatorship from afar has a touch of the grandiose about it. Close up, Ladu was a brisk little man with sharp blue eyes, a clown’s face and an air of trying hard to be charming.

In some odd way it made him more fearful.

Ladu wrinkled up his face. “This is why I never permit pictures,” he said gaily. “Wouldn’t want to frighten the public. It wouldn’t inspire the requisite awe, if they should know what I look like. My, you are a silent couple, aren’t you?”

“Whatever you want, get it over with and stop this cat-and-mousing around,” Lucas growled.

Ladu shrugged. “You see? Preconceived ideas. I can’t be anything but horrible, can I? My, how you people must hate me!”

“Certainly I hate you,” Lucas said. “You’re the one who thinks more of your comfort and power than the future of the race. You’re the one that can’t see the slow death of the world around you.”

Ladu pursed his lips, cocked his head on one side and stared at Lucas. Then he turned to Ellen and said, “Your friend illustrates the typical aberrations of the second-class mind.”

“What do you mean, second-class!” Lucas said loudly. Ladu had touched the focal point of pride, the pride in intellect that had kept him integrated throughout the lonely years.

“Just what I said, my dear boy. Just what I said. The best examinations that could be devised proved you to have a second-class mind that would adjust to close confinement and regimentation without losing a certain analytical and creative knack which is useful.”

Ladu turned his back on them, went over and stepped up on the dais and took the device from the table. “This,” he said, “I find to be very interesting. And for more than one reason. The achievement indicates that under close confinement you, probably through emotional stress, became a superior sort of second-class mind.”

“I resent your continual use of that word,” Lucas said. He managed to sneer. “You, I suppose, have a first-class mind?”

Ladu raised one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I have. But my talents are in a political and sociological direction.”

“Why are we here?” Ellen asked, her gray eyes narrowed.

“You are here because you constitute a new type of problem. Oh, we’ve had trouble over in the Bureau before. I get the reports. I seldom read them. Poor fat old Evan worries so much about his tremendous responsibilities.”

“New in what way?” Lucas asked, impatiently.

“Other devices have been manufactured in there, you know. Escape devices. Or merely little tools to express a vast resentment toward the established order. But nothing of any originality. Such as this.” He waved the device, replaced it on the table and came back to stand in front of them. He was frowning.

“Originality is supposed to be the ultimate sin in your neat little world, isn’t it?” Lucas asked.

Emery Ladu waved a hand toward the curved glass through which could be seen all of the New City. “To all the people out there it is the ultimate sin. But not to me.”

“You have the power. Why don’t you propagandize them? Why don’t you root out all this fantastic fear of progress?”

“There, my boy, is where a first-class mind can give you an answer. Because the administration of a static society is far easier than the administration of one where progress in one part of the world or another will give specific areas a temporary advantage. Temporary advantages lead to conflict, first on the economic and then on the military level. It is too difficult to cope with those potential focal points of disorder — and disaster.”

“Then, as I said before, you think only of your comfort and your position, and not of mankind.”

Ladu smiled sadly at Ellen. “You see how emotional the second-class mind can get?”

Before she could answer he walked away a few feet. When he turned he had a large gold coin in his hand. He showed it to them, enclosed it in his palm, waved his hand around a few times, then opened it. The coin was gone.

Lucas snorted. “A first-class childish trick.”

“Be still!” Ladu said. The good humor was gone from his voice. Suddenly he was a very impressive person, ruthlessness surprisingly visible in his face and attitude. The clown’s face was no longer funny.

“With a child you must use the explanations a child can follow,” he said. “Neither of you knows what happened to that coin. Why? Be-cause you were following the motion of my hand. It drew your eye because it was in motion.”

He held up the same hand, fist clenched. “This hand, you fool, represents the Bureau of Improvement. It is in motion. It is visible. It attracts the mind of the people. Forbidden talent under careful control. ‘Aha,’ they say. ‘Old Ladu will keep them under his thumb. Ladu feels as we do. Together we will protect ourselves.’ But Ladu knows, and they don’t, that the poor ineffectual Bureau of Improvement is staffed with second-class minds inside people with a high stability quotient.”

He began to pace back and forth. “You, Lucas, try to tell me — me — that time is short, that the earth grows barren, that nature weeds us out through the diminishing vigor of reproduction.”

He stopped in front of Lucas, leaned over and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Lucas, how much time would we have if we spent most of it trying to destroy the superstitious fear that was imbedded in the race by a hundred mushroom clouds of smoke? How much time would be left?”

Under the naked force of the man’s mind, Lucas shook his head stupidly. “What are you getting at?” he asked.

Ladu laughed. “I throw them a bone. I give them a gesture to watch. Here, my people, is the Bureau of Improvement. Yes, we are very progressive. We will let them do a little work for us — but carefully controlled, you understand.”

Ellen, her voice shaking, said, “Your hand was the Bureau. The coin was the first-class minds.”

“Of course!” he said. “Of course! Poor Peter never stopped to think what happened to them. He was too shocked to find out that he was not an apex, a pinnacle.”

The emotion faded out of his voice. He said soberly, “You have made a contribution, Lucas. You have earned yourself a promotion. I have been in contact with the personnel chief at the base.”

Lucas shook his head, as though by doing so he could clear it. “Base?”

Ladu’s smile was grim. “The place where we send the first-class minds where we have been sending them, my predecessor and I, for the past sixty years. A thousand million tons of steel and concrete laboratories in the Chin Hills of North Burma, a self-contained city of thousands where miles of jungle are seared by the blasts of the ships that have taken off in search of a new system which will support mankind.” He laughed shortly. “The tribes of the jungles call it the place where the stars shoot upward.”

“But—”

“Lucas, you try my patience. In fifty or a hundred years, the men who come after me will set up the machinery of colonization. The strongest and the healthiest of all the races will be sent first. In a new green world we can start again, without the mistakes of the past. The men now in charge inform me that some application of your device can be made to avoid deep space collisions with meteors, asteroids and so on.”

Lucas was unable to speak. He felt no shame at the tears that streaked his face.

Ladu said, “My people will come here and release you. After nightfall you will be picked up and taken to the airfield. The girl can go with you.” Once again he laughed. “Only because, knowing the emotional weaknesses of the second-class mind, I am certain you would be of no value to the project without her.”

Emery Ladu went back through the yellow draperies. They fell into place behind him, swayed slightly and were still.

Peter Lucas and Ellen Morrit sat side by side and listened for the sounds of those who would come to release them, to free them forever.

Common Denominator

Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, July 1951.

Advanced races generally are eager to share their knowledge with primitive ones. In this case... with Earthmen!

* * * *

When Scout Group Forty flickered back across half the Galaxy with a complete culture study of a Class Seven civilization on three planets of Argus Ten, the Bureau of Stellar Defense had, of course, a priority claim on all data. Class Sevens were rare and of high potential danger, so all personnel of Group Forty were placed in tight quarantine during the thirty days required for a detailed analysis of the thousands of film spools.

News of the contact leaked out and professional alarmists predicted dire things on the news screens of the three home planets of Sol. A retired admiral of the Space Navy published an article in which he stated bitterly that the fleet had been weakened by twenty years of softness in high places.

On the thirty-first day, B.S.D. reported to System President Mize that the inhabitants of the three planets of Argus 10 constituted no threat, that there was no military necessity for alarm, that approval of a commerce treaty was recommended, that all data was being turned over to the Bureau of Stellar Trade and Economy for analysis, that personnel of Scout Group Forty was being given sixty days’ leave before reassignment.

B.S.T.E. released film to all commercial networks at once, and visions of slavering oily monsters disappeared from the imagination of mankind. The Argonauts, as they came to be called, were pleasantly similar to mankind. It was additional proof that only in the rarest instance was the life-apex on any planet in the home Galaxy an abrupt divergence from the “human” form. The homogeneousness of planet elements throughout the Galaxy made homogeneousness of life-apex almost a truism. The bipedal, oxygen-breathing vertebrate with opposing thumb seems best suited for survival.

It was evident that, with training, the average Argonaut could pass almost unnoticed in the Solar System. The flesh tones were brightly pink, like that of a sunburned human. Cranial hair was uniformly taffy-yellow. They were heavier and more fleshy than humans. Their women had a pronounced Rubens look, a warm, moist, rosy, comfortable look.

Everyone remarked on the placidity and contentment of facial expressions, by human standards. The inevitable comparison was made. The Argonauts looked like a race of inn and beer-garden proprietors in the Bavarian Alps. With leather pants to slap, stein lids to click, feathers in Tyrolean hats and peasant skirts on their women, they would represent a culture and a way of life that had been missing from Earth for far too many generations.

Eight months after matters had been turned over to B.S.T.E., the First Trade Group returned to Earth with a bewildering variety of artifacts and devices, plus a round dozen Argonauts. The Argonauts had learned to speak Solian with an amusing guttural accent. They beamed on everything and everybody. They were great pets until the novelty wore off. Profitable trade was inaugurated, because the Argonaut devices all seemed designed to make life more pleasant. The scent-thesizer became very popular once it was adjusted to meet human tastes. Worn as a lapel button, it could create the odor of pine, broiled steak, spring flowers, Scotch whisky, musk — even skunk for the practical jokers who exist in all ages and eras.

Any home equipped with an Argonaut static-clean never became dusty. It used no power and had to be emptied only once a year.

Technicians altered the Argonaut mechanical game animal so that it looked like an Earth rabbit. The weapons which shot a harmless beam were altered to look like rifles. After one experience with the new game, hunters were almost breathless with excitement. The incredible agility of the mechanical animal, its ability to take cover, the fact that, once the beam felled it, you could use it over and over again — all this made for the promulgation of new non-lethal hunting.

Lambert, chief of the Bureau of Racial Maturity, waited patiently for his chance at the Argonaut data. The cramped offices in the temporary wing of the old System Security Building, the meager appropriation, the obsolete office equipment, the inadequate staff all testified not only to the Bureau’s lack of priority, but also to a lack of knowledge of its existence on the part of many System officials. Lambert, crag-faced, sandy, slow-moving, was a historian, anthropologist and sociologist. He was realist enough to understand that if the Bureau of Racial Maturity happened to be more important in System Government, it would probably be headed by a man with fewer academic and more political qualifications.

And Lambert knew, beyond any doubt at all, that the B.R.M. was more important to the race and the future of the race than any other branch of System Government.

Set up by President Tolles, an adult and enlightened administrator, the Bureau was now slowly being strangled by a constantly decreasing appropriation.

Lambert knew that mankind had come too far, too fast. Mankind had dropped out of a tree with all the primordial instincts to rend and tear and claw. Twenty thousand years later, and with only a few thousand years of dubiously recorded history, he had reached the stars. It was too quick.

Lambert knew that mankind must become mature in order to survive. The domination of instinct had to be watered down, and rapidly. Selective breeding might do it, but it was an answer impossible to enforce. He hoped that one day the records of an alien civilization would give him the answer. After a year of bureaucratic wriggling, feints and counter-feints, he had acquired the right of access to Scout Group Data.

As his patience dwindled he wrote increasingly firm letters to Central Files and Routing. In the end, when he finally located the data improperly stored in the closed files of the B.S.T.E., he took no more chances. He went in person with an assistant named Cooper and a commandeered electric hand-truck, and bullied a B.S.T.E. storage clerk into accepting a receipt for the Argonaut data. The clerk’s cooperation was lessened by never having heard of the Bureau of Racial Maturity.

The file contained the dictionary and grammar compiled by the Scout Group, plus all the films taken on the three planets of Argus 10, plus micro-films of twelve thousand books written in the language of the Argonauts. Their written language was ideographic, and thus presented more than usual difficulties. Lambert knew that translations had been made, but somewhere along the line they had disappeared.

Lambert set his whole staff to work on the language. He hired additional linguists out of his own thin enough pocket. He gave up all outside activities in order to hasten the progress of his own knowledge. His wife, respecting Lambert’s high order of devotion to his work, kept their two half-grown children from interfering during those long evenings when he studied and translated at home.

Two evenings a week Lambert called on Vonk Poogla, the Argonaut assigned to Trade Coordination, and improved his conversational Argonian to the point where he could obtain additional historical information from the pink wide “man.”

Of the twelve thousand books, the number of special interest to Lambert were only one hundred and ten. On those he based his master chart. An animated film of the chart was prepared at Lambert’s own expense, and, when it was done, he requested an appointment with Simpkin, Secretary for Stellar Affairs, going through all the normal channels to obtain the interview. He asked an hour of Simpkin’s time. It took two weeks.

Simpkin was a big florid man with iron-gray hair, skeptical eyes and that indefinable look of political opportunism.

He came around his big desk to shake Lambert’s hand. “Ah... Lambert! Glad to see you, fella. I ought to get around to my Bureau Chiefs more often, but you know how hectic things are up here.”

“I know, Mr. Secretary. I have something here of the utmost importance and—”

“Bureau of Racial Maturity, isn’t it? I never did know exactly what you people do. Sort of progress records or something?”

“Of the utmost importance,” Lambert repeated doggedly.

Simpkin smiled. “I hear that all day, but go ahead.”

“I want to show you a chart. A historical chart of the Argonaut civilization.” Lambert put the projector in position and plugged it in. He focused it on the wall screen.

“It was decided,” Simpkin said firmly, “that the Argonauts are not a menace to us in any—”

“I know that, sir. Please look at the chart first and then, when you’ve seen it, I think you’ll know what I mean.”

“Go ahead,” Simpkin agreed resignedly.

“I can be accused of adding apples and lemons in this presentation, sir. Note the blank chart. The base line is in years, adjusted to our calendar so as to give a comparison. Their recorded history covers twelve thousand of our years. That’s better than four times ours. Now note the red line. That shows the percentage of their total population involved in wars. It peaked eight thousand years ago. Note how suddenly it drops after that. In five hundred years it sinks to the base line and does not appear again.

“Here comes the second line. Crimes of violence. It also peaks eight thousand years ago. It drops less quickly than the war line, and never does actually cut the base line. Some crime still exists there. But a very, very tiny percentage compared to ours on a population basis, or to their own past. The third line, the yellow line climbing abruptly, is the index of insanity. Again a peak during the same approximate period in their history. Again a drop almost to the base line.”

Simpkin pursed his heavy lips. “Odd, isn’t it?”

“Now this fourth line needs some explaining. I winnowed out death rates by age groups. Their life span is 1.3 times ours, so it had to be adjusted. I found a strange thing. I took the age group conforming to our 18 to 24 year group. That green line. Note that by the time we start getting decent figures, nine thousand years ago, it remains almost constant, and at a level conforming to our own experience. Now note what happens when the green line reaches a point eight thousand years ago. See how it begins to climb? Now steeper, almost vertical. It remains at a high level for almost a thousand years, way beyond the end of their history of war, and then descends slowly toward the base line, leveling out about two thousand years ago.”

Lambert clicked off the projector.

“Is that all?” Simpkin asked.

“Isn’t it enough? I’m concerned with the future of our own race. Somehow the Argonauts have found an answer to war, insanity, violence. We need that answer if we are to survive.”

“Come now, Lambert,” Simpkin said wearily.

“Don’t you see it? Their history parallels ours. They had our same problems. They saw disaster ahead and did something about it. What did they do? I have to know that.”

“How do you expect to?

“I want travel orders to go there.”

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. There are no funds for that sort of jaunt, Lambert. And I think you are worrying over nothing.”

“Shall I show you some of our own trends? Shall I show you murder turning from the most horrid crime into a relative commonplace? Shall I show you the slow inevitable increase in asylum space?”

“I know all that, man. But look at the Argonauts! Do you want that sort of stagnation? Do you want a race of fat, pink, sleepy—”

“Maybe they had a choice. A species of stagnation, or the end of their race. Faced with that choice, which would you pick, Mr. Secretary?”

“There are no funds.”

“All I want is authority. I’ll pay my own way.”

And he did.

Rean was the home planet of the Argonauts, the third from their sun. When the trade ship flickered into three-dimensional existence, ten thousand miles above Rean, Lambert stretched the space-ache out of his long bones and muscles and smiled at Vonk Poogla.

“You could have saved me the trip, you know,”’ Lambert said.

A grin creased the round pink Visage. “Nuddink ventured, nuddink gained. Bezides, only my cousin can speak aboud this thing you vunder aboud. My cousin is werry important person. He is one picks me to go to your planet.”

Vonk Poogla was transported with delight at being able to show the wonders of the ancient capital city to Lambert. It had been sacked and burned over eight thousand Earth years before, and now it was mellowed by eighty-three centuries of unbroken peace. It rested in the pastel twilight, and there were laughter and soft singing in the broad streets. Never had Lambert felt such a warm aura of security and... love. No other word but that ultimate one seemed right.

In the morning they went to the squat blue building where Vonk Soobuknoora, the important person, had his administrative headquarters. Lambert, knowing enough of Argonaut governmental structure to understand that Soobuknoora was titular head of the three-planet government, could not help but compare the lack of protocol with what he could expect were he to try to take Vonk Poogla for an interview with President Mize.

Soobuknoora was a smaller, older edition of Poogla, his pink face wrinkled, his greening hair retaining only a trace of the original yellow. Soobuknoora spoke no Solian and he was very pleased to find that Lambert spoke Argonian.

Soobuknoora watched the animated chart with considerable interest. After it was over, he seemed lost in thought.

“It is something so private with us, Man Lambert, that we seldom speak of it to each other,” Soobuknoora said in Argonian. “It is not written. Maybe we have shame — a guilt sense. That is hard to say. I have decided to tell you what took place among us eight thousand years ago.”

“I would be grateful.”

“We live in contentment. Maybe it is good, maybe it is not so good. But we continue to live. Where did our trouble come from in the old days, when we were like your race? Back when we were brash and young and wickedly cruel? From the individuals, those driven ones who were motivated to succeed despite all obstacles. They made our paintings, wrote our music, killed each other, fomented our unrest, our wars. We live off the bewildering richness of our past.”

He sighed. “It was a problem. To understand our solution, you must think of an analogy, Man Lambert. Think of a factory where machines are made. We will call the acceptable machines stable, the unacceptable ones unstable. They are built with a flywheel which must turn at a certain speed. If it exceeds that speed, it is no good. But a machine that is stable can, at any time, become unstable. What is the solution?” He smiled at Lambert.

“I’m a bit confused,” Lambert confessed. “You would have to go around inspecting the machines constantly for stability.”

“And use a gauge? No. Too much trouble. An unstable machine can do damage. So we do this — we put a little governor on the machine. When the speed passes the safety mark, the machine breaks.”

“But this is an analogy, Vonk Soobuknoora!” Lambert protested. “You can’t put a governor on a man!”

“Man is born with a governor, Man Lambert. Look back in both our histories, when we were not much above the animal level. An unbalanced man would die. He could not compete for food. He could not organize the simple things of his life for survival. Man Lambert, did you ever have a fleeting impulse to kill yourself?”

Lambert smiled. “Of course. You could almost call that impulse a norm for intelligent species.”

“Did it ever go far enough so that you considered a method, a weapon?”

Lambert nodded slowly. “It’s hard to remember, but I think I did. Yes, once I did.”

“And what would have happened,” the Argonaut asked softly, “if there had been available to you in that moment a weapon completely painless, completely final?”

Lambert’s mouth went dry. “I would probably have used it. I was very young. Wait! I’m beginning to see what you mean, but—”

“The governor had to be built into the body,” Soobuknoora interrupted, “and yet so designed that there would be no possibility of accidental activation. Suppose that on this day I start to think of how great and powerful I am in this position I have. I get an enormous desire to become even more powerful. I begin to reason emotionally. Soon I have a setback. I am depressed. I am out of balance, you could say. I have become dangerous to myself and to our culture.

“In a moment of depression, I take these two smallest fingers of each hand. I reach behind me and I press the two fingers, held firmly together, to a space in the middle of my back. A tiny capsule buried at the base of my brain is activated and I am dead within a thousandth part of a second. Vonk Poogla is the same. All of us are the same. The passing urge for self-destruction happens to be the common denominator of imbalance. We purged our race of the influence of the neurotic, the egocentric, the hypersensitive, merely by making self-destruction very, very easy.”

“Then that death rate—?”

“At eighteen the operation is performed. It is very quick and very simple. We saw destruction ahead. We had to force it through. In the beginning the deaths were frightening, there were so many of them. The stable ones survived, bred, reproduced. A lesser but still great percentage of the next generation went — and so on, until now it is almost static.”

In Argonian Lambert said hotly, “Oh, it sounds fine! But what about children? What sort of heartless race can plant the seed of death in its own children?”

Never before had he seen the faintest trace of anger on any Argonaut face. The single nostril widened and Soobuknoora might have raged if he had been from Earth. “There are other choices, Man Lambert. Our children have no expectation of being burned to cinder, blown to fragments. They are free of that fear. Which is the better love, Man Lambert?”

“I have two children. I couldn’t bear to—”

“Wait!” Soobuknoora said. “Think one moment. Suppose you were to know that when they reached the age of eighteen, both your children were to be operated on by our methods. How would that affect your present relationship to them?”

Lambert was, above all, a realist. He remembered the days of being “too busy” for the children, of passing off their serious questions with a joking or curt evasion, of playing with them as though they were young, pleasing, furry animals.

“I would do a better job as a parent,” Lambert admitted. “I would try to give them enough emotional stability so that they would never — have that urge to kill themselves. But Ann is delicate, moody, unpredictable, artistic.”

Poogla and Soobuknoora nodded in unison. “You would probably lose that one; maybe you would lose both,” Soobuknoora agreed. “But it is better to lose more than half the children of a few generations to save the race.”

Lambert thought some more. He said, “I shall go back and I shall speak of this plan and what it did for you. But I do not think my race will like it. I do not want to insult you or your people, but you have stagnated. You stand still in time.”

Vonk Poogla laughed largely. “Not by a damn sight,” he said gleefully. “Next year we stop giving the operation. We stop for good. It was just eight thousand years to permit us to catch our breath before going on more safely. And what is eight thousand years of marking time in the history of a race? Nothing, my friend. Nothing!”

When Lambert went back to Earth, he naturally quit his job.

The Miniature

Originally published in Super Science Stories, September 1949; as Peter Reed.

In the vault, he knew nothing of his long journey between birth and death... But what dreams disturbed the sleep of this man, whose body was more precious than diamonds?

* * * *

As Jedediah Amberson stepped through the bronze, marble and black-glass doorway of the City National Bank on Wall Street, he felt the strange jar. It was, he thought, almost a tremor. Once he had been in Tepoztlan, Mexico, on a Guggenheim grant, doing research on primitive barter systems, and during the night a small earthquake had awakened him.

This was much the same feeling. Rut he stood inside the bank and heard the unruffled hum of activity, heard no shouts of surprise. And, even through the heavy door he could hear the conversation of passers-by on the sidewalk.

He shrugged, beginning to wonder if it was something within himself, some tiny constriction of blood in the brain. It had been a trifle like that feeling which comes just before fainting. Jedediah Amberson had fainted once.

Fumbling in his pocket for the checkbook, he walked, with his long loose stride, over to a chest-high marble counter. He hadn’t been in the main office of the bank since he had taken out his account. Usually he patronized the branch near the University, but today, finding himself in the neighborhood and remembering that he was low on cash, he had decided to brave the gaudy dignity of the massive institution of finance.

For, though Jed Amberson dealt mentally in billions, and used such figures familiarly in dealing with his classes in economics, he was basically a rather timid and uncertain man and he had a cold fear of the scornful eyes of tellers who might look askance at the small check he would present at the window.

He made it out for twenty dollars, five more than he would have requested had he gone to the familiar little branch office.

Jedediah Amberson was not a man to take much note of his surroundings. He was, at the time, occupied in writing a text, and the problems it presented were so intricate that he had recently found himself walking directly into other pedestrians and being snatched back onto the curb by helpful souls who didn’t want to see him truck-mashed before their eyes. Just the day before he had gone into his bedroom in midafternoon to change his shoes and had only awakened from his profound thoughts when he found himself, clad in pajamas, brushing his teeth before the bathroom mirror.

He took his place in the line before a window. He was mentally extrapolating the trend line of one of J. M. Keynes’ debt charts when a chill voice said, “Well!”

He found that he had moved up to the window itself and the teller was waiting for his check. He flushed and said, “Oh! Sorry.” He tried to posh the check under the grill, but it fluttered out of his hand. As he stooped to get it, his hat rolled off.

At last recovering both hat and check, he stood up, smiled painfully and pushed the check under the grill.

The young man took it, and Jed Amberson finally grew aware that he was spending a long time looking at the check. Jed strained his neck around and looked to see if he had remembered to sign it. He had.

Only then did he notice the way the young man behind the window was dressed. He wore a deep wine-colored sports shirt, collarless and open at the throat. At the point where the counter bisected him, Jedediah could see that the young man wore green-gray slacks with at least a six-inch waistband of ocher yellow.

Jed had a childlike love of parties, sufficient to overcome his chronic self-consciousness. He said, in a pleased tone, “Ah, some sort of festival?”

The teller had a silken wisp of beard on his chin. He leaned almost frighteningly close to the grill, aiming the wisp of beard at Amberson as he gave him a careful scrutiny.

“We are busy here,” the teller said. “Take your childish little game across street and attempt it on them.”

Though shy, Jedediah was able to call on hidden stores of indignation when he felt himself wronged. He straightened slowly and said, with dignity, “I have an account here and I suggest you cash my check as quickly and quietly as possible.”

The teller glanced beyond Jedediah and waved the silky beard in a taut half circle, a “come here” gesture.

Jedediah turned and gasped as he faced the bank guard. The man wore a salmon-pink uniform with enormously padded shoulders. He had a thumb hooked in his belt, his hand close to the plastic bowl of what seemed to be a child’s bubble pipe.

The guard jerked his other thumb toward the door and said, “Ride off, honorable sir.”

Jedediah said, “I don’t care much for the comic-opera atmosphere of this bank. Please advise me of my balance and I will withdraw it all and put it somewhere where I’ll be treated properly.”

The guard reached out, clamped Jed’s thin arm in a meaty hand and yanked him in the general direction of the door. Jed intensely disliked being touched or pushed or pulled. He bunched his left hand into a large knobbly fist and thrust it with vigor into the exact middle of the guard’s face.

The guard grunted as he sat down on the tile floor. The ridiculous bubble pipe came out, and was aimed at Jed. He heard no sound of explosion, but suddenly there was a large cold area in his middle that felt the size of a basketball. And when he tried to move, the area of cold turned into an area of pain so intense that it nauseated him. It took but two tiny attempts to prove to him that he could achieve relative comfort only by standing absolutely still. The ability to breathe and to turn his eyes in their sockets seemed the only freedom of motion left to him.

The guard said, tenderly touching his puffed upper lip, “Don’t drop signal, Harry. We can handle this without flicks.” He got slowly to his feet, keeping the toy weapon centered on Jedediah.

Other customers stood at a respectful distance, curious and interested. A fussy little bald-headed man came trotting up, carrying himself with an air of authority. He wore pastel-blue pajamas with a gold medallion over the heart.

The guard stiffened. “Nothing we can’t handle, Mr. Greenbush.”

“Indeed!” Mr. Greenbush said, his voice like a terrier’s bark. “Indeed! You seem to be creating enough disturbance at this moment. Couldn’t you have exported him more quietly?”

“Bank was busy,” the teller said. “I didn’t notice him till he got right up to window.”

Mr. Greenbush stared at Jedediah. He said, “He looks reasonable enough, Palmer. Turn it off.”

Jed took a deep, grateful breath as the chill area suddenly departed. He said weakly, “I demand an explanation.”

Mr. Greenbush took the check the teller handed him and, accompanied by the guard, led Jed over to one side. He smiled in what was intended to be a fatherly fashion. He said, glancing at the signature on the check, “Mr. Amberson, surely you must realize, or your patrons must realize, that City National Bank is not sort of organization to lend its facilities to inane promotional gestures.”

Jedediah had long since begun to have a feeling of nightmare. He stared at the little man in blue pajamas. “Promotional gestures?”

“Of course, my dear fellow. For what other reason would you come here dressed as you are and present this... this document.”

“Dressed?” Jed looked down at his slightly baggy gray suit, his white shirt, his blue necktie and cordovan shoes. Then he stared around at the customers of the bank who had long since ceased to notice the little tableau. He saw that the men wore the sort of clothes considered rather extreme at the most exclusive of private beaches. He was particularly intrigued by one fellow who wore a cerise silk shirt, open to the waist, emerald green shorts to his knees, and calf-length pink nylons.

The women, he noticed, all wore dim shades of deep gray or brown, and a standard costume consisting of a halter, a short flared skirt that ended just above the knees and a knit cap pulled well down over the hair.

Amberson said, “Uh. Something special going on.”

“Evidently. Suppose you explain.”

“Me explain! Look, I can show you identification. I’m an Associate Professor of Economics at Columbia and I—” He reached for his hip pocket. Once again the ball of pain entered his vitals. The guard stepped over to him, reached into each of his pockets in turn, handed the contents to Mr. Greenbush.

Then the pressure was released. “I am certainly going to give your highhanded procedures here as much publicity as I can,” Jed said angrily.

But Greenbush ignored him. Greenbush had opened his change purse and had taken out a fifty-cent piece. Greenbush held the coin much as a superstitious savage would have held a mirror. He made tiny bleating sounds. At last he said, his voice thin and strained, “Nineteen forty-nine mint condition! What do you want for it?”

“Just cash my check and let me go,” Jed said wearily. “You’re all crazy here. Why shouldn’t this year’s coins be in mint condition?”

“Bring him into my office,” Greenbush said in a frenzy.

“But I—” Jed protested. He stopped as the guard raised the weapon once more. Jed meekly followed Greenbush back through the bank. He decided that it was a case of mistaken identity. He could call his department from the office. It would all be straightened out, with apologies.

With the door closed behind the two of them, Jed looked around the office. The walls were a particularly liverish and luminescent yellow-green. The desk was a block of plastic balanced precariously on one slim pedestal no bigger around then a lead pencil. The chairs gave him a dizzy feeling. They looked comfortable, but as far as he could see, they were equipped only with front legs. He could not see why they remained upright.

“Please sit there,” Greenbush said.

Jed lowered himself into the chair with great caution. It yielded slightly, then seemed to clasp him with an almost embarrassing warmth, as though he sat on the pneumatic lap of an exceptionally large woman.

Greenbush came over to him, pointed to Zed’s wristwatch and said, “Give me that, too.”

“I didn’t come for a loan,” Jed said.

“Don’t be ass. You’ll get all back.”

Greenbush sat behind his desk, with the little pile of Jed’s possessions in front of him. He made little mumbling sounds as he prodded and poked and pried. He seemed very interested in the money. He listened to the watch tick and said, “Mmm. Spring mechanical.”

“No. It runs on atomic power,” Jed said bitterly. Greenbush didn’t answer.

From the back of Jed’s wallet, Greenbush took the picture of Helen. He touched the glossy surface, said, “Two-dimensional.”

After what seemed an interminable period, Mr. Greenbush leaned back, put the tips of his fingers together and said, “Amberson, you are fortunate that you contacted me.”

“I can visualize two schools of thought on that,” Jed said stiffly.

Greenbush smiled. “You see, Amberson, I am coin collector and also antiquarian. It is possible National Museum might have material to equip you, but their stuff would be obviously old. I am reasonable man, and I know there must be explanation for all things.” He fixed Jed with his sharp bright eyes, leaned slowly forward and said, “How did you get here?”

“Why, I walked through your front door.” Jed suddenly frowned. “There was a strange jar when I did so. A dislocation, a feeling of being violently twisted in here.” He tapped his temple with a thin finger.

“That’s why I say you are fortunate. Some other bank might have had you in deviate ward by now where they’d be needling out slices of your frontal lobes.”

“Is it too much to ask down here to get a small check cashed?”

“Not too much to ask in nineteen forty-nine, I’m sure. And I am ready to believe you are product of nineteen forty-nine. But, my dear Amberson, this is year eighty-three under Gradzinger calendar.”

“For a practical joke, Greenbush, this is pretty ponderous.”

Greenbush shrugged, touched a button on the desk. The wide draperies slithered slowly back from the huge window. “Walk over and take look, Amberson. Is that your world?”

Jed stood at the window. His stomach clamped into a small tight knot which slowly rose up into his throat. His eyes widened until the lids hurt. He steadied himself with his fingertips against the glass and took several deep, aching breaths. Then he turned somehow and walked, with knees that threatened to bend both ways, back to the chair. The draperies rustled back into position.

“No,” Jed said weakly, “this isn’t my world.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, finding there a cold and faintly oily perspiration. “I had two classes this morning. I came down to look up certain documents. Everything was fine. And then I came in... how...”

Greenbush pursed his lips. “How? Who can say? I’m banker, not temporal tech. Doubtless you’d like to return to your own environment. I will signal Department of Temporal Technics at Columbia where you were employed so many years ago...”

“That particular phraseology, Mr. Greenbush, I find rather disturbing.”

“Sorry.” Greenbush stood up. “Wait here. My communicator is deranged. I’ll have to use other office.”

“Can’t we go there? To the University?”

“I wouldn’t advise it. In popular shows I’ve seen on subject, point of entry is always important. I rather postulate they’ll assist you back through front door.”

Greenbush was at the office door. Jed said, “Have... have you people sent humans back and forth in time?”

“No. They send neutrons and gravitons or something like those. Ten minutes in future or ten minutes in past. Very intricate. Enormous energy problem. Way over my head.”

While Greenbush was gone, Jed methodically collected his belongings from the desk and stowed them away in his pockets. Greenbush bustled in and said, “They’ll be over in half hour with necessary equipment. They think they can help you.”

Half an hour. Jed said, “As long as I’m here, I wonder if I could impose? You see, I have attempted to predict certain long-range trends in monetary procedures. Your currency would be—”

“Of course, my dear fellow! Of course! Kindred interest, etcet. What would you like to know?”

“Can I see some of your currency?”

Greenbush shoved some small pellets of plastic across the desk. They were made from intricate molds. The inscription was in a sort of shorthand English. “Those are universal, of course,” Greenbush said.

Two of them were for twenty-five cents and the other for fifty cents. Jed was surprised to see so little change from the money of his own day.

“One hundred cents equals dollar, just as in your times,” Greenbush said.

“Backed by gold, of course,” Jed said.

Greenbush gasped and then laughed. “What ludicrous idea! Any fool with public-school education has learned enough about transmutation of elements to make five tons of gold in afternoon, or of platinum or zinc or any other metal or alloy of metal you desire.”

“Backed by a unit of power? An erg or something?” Jed asked with false confidence.

“With power unlimited? With all power anyone wants without charge? You’re not doing any better, Amberson.”

“By a unit share of national resources maybe?” Jed asked hollowly.

“National is obsolete word. There are no more nations. And world resources are limitless. We create enough for our use. There is no depletion.”

“But currency, to have value must be backed by something,” Jed protested.

“Obviously!”

“Precious stones?”

“Children play with diamonds as big as baseballs,” Greenbush said. “Speaking as economist, Amberson, why was gold used in your day?”

“It was rare, and, where obtainable, could not he obtained without a certain average fixed expenditure of man hours. Thus it wasn’t really the metal itself, it was the man hours involved that was the real basis. Look, now you’ve got me talking in the past tense.”

“And quite rightly. Now use your head, Mr. Amberson. In world where power is free, resources are unlimited and no metal or jewel is rare, what is one constant, one user of time, one eternal fixity on which monetary system could be based?”

Jed almost forgot his situation as he labored with the problem. Finally he had an answer, and yet it seemed so incredible that he hardly dared express it. He said in a thin voice, “The creation of a human being is something that probably cannot be shortened or made easy. Is... is human life itself your basis?”

“Bravo!” Greenbush said. “One hundred cents in dollar, and five thousand dollars in HUC. That’s brief for Human Unit of Currency.”

“But that’s slavery! That’s — why, that’s the height of inhumanity!”

“Don’t sputter, my boy, until you know facts.”

Jed laughed wildly. “If I’d made my check out for five thousand they’d have given me a — a person!”

“They’d have given you certificate entitling you to HUC. Then you could spend that certificate, you see.”

“But suppose I wanted the actual person?”

“Then I suppose we could have obtained one for you from World Reserve Bank. As matter of fact, we have one in our vault now.”

“In your vault!”

“Where else would we keep it? Come along. We have time.”

The vault was refrigerated. The two armed attendants stood by while Greenbush spun the knob of the inner chamber, slid out the small box. It was of dull silver, and roughly the size of a pound box of candy. Greenbush slid back the grooved lid and Jed, shuddering, looked down through clear ice to the tiny, naked, perfect figure of an adult male, complete even to the almost invisible wisp of hair on his chest.

“Alive?” Jed asked.

“Naturally. Pretty well suspended, of course.” Greenbush slid the lid back, replaced the box in the vault and led the way back to the office.

Once again in the warm clasp of the chair, Jed asked, with a shaking voice, “Could you give me the background on — this amazing currency?”

“Nothing amazing about it. Technic advances made all too easily obtainable through lab methods except living humans. There, due to growth problems and due to — certain amount of non-technic co-operation necessary, things could not be made easily. Full-sized ones were too unwieldy, so lab garcons worked on size till they got them down to what you see. Of course, they are never brought up to level of consciousness. They go from birth bottle to suspension chambers and are held there until adult and then refrigerated and boxed.”

Greenbush broke off suddenly and said, “Are you ill?”

“No. No, I guess not.”

“Well, when I first went to work for this bank, HUC was unit worth twenty thousand dollars. Then lab techs did some growth acceleration work — age acceleration, more accurate — and that brought price down and put us into rather severe inflationary period. Cup of java went up to dollar and it’s stayed there ever since. So World Union stepped in and made it against law to make any more refinements in HUC production. That froze it at five thousand. Things have been stable ever since.”

“But they’re living, human beings!”

“Now you sound like silly Anti-HUC League. My boy, they wouldn’t exist were it not for our need for currency base. They never achieve consciousness. We, in banking business, think of them just as about only manufactured item left in world which cannot be produced in afternoon. Time lag is what gives them their value. Besides, they are no longer in production, of course. Being economist, you must realize overproduction of HUC’s would put us back into inflationary period.”

At that moment the girl announced that the temporal techs had arrived with their equipment. Jed was led from the office out into the bank proper. The last few customers were let out as the closing hour arrived.

The men from Columbia seemed to have no interest in Jed as a human being. He said hesitantly to one, smiling shyly, “I would think you people would want to keep me here so your historians could do research on me.”

The tech gave him a look of undisguised contempt. He said, “We know all to be known about your era. Very dull period in world history.”

Jed retired, abashed, and watched them set up the massive silvery coil on the inside of the bank door.

The youngest tech said quietly, “This is third time we’ve had to do this. You people seem to wander into sort of rhythm pattern. Very careless. We had one failure from your era. Garcon named Crater. He wandered too far from point of entry. But you ought to be all opt.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just walk through coil and out door. Adjustment is complicated. If we don’t use care you might go back into your own era embedded up to your eyes in pavement. Or again, you might come out forty feet in air. Don’t get unbalanced.”

“I won’t,” Jed said fervently.

Greenbush came up and said, “Could you give me that coin you have?”

The young technician turned wearily and said, “Older, he has to leave with everything he brought and he can’t take anything other with him. We’ve got to fit him into same vibratory rhythm. You should know that.”

“It is such nice coin,” Greenbush sighed.

“If I tried to take something with me?” Jed asked.

“It just wouldn’t go, gesell. You would go and it would stay.”

Jed thought of another question. He turned to Greenbush. “Before I go, tell me. Where are the HUC’s kept?”

“In refrigerated underground vault at place called Fort Knox.”

“Come on, come on, you. Just walk straight ahead through coil. Don’t hurry. Push door open and go out onto street.”

Jed stood, faintly dizzy, on the afternoon sidewalk of Wall Street in Manhattan. A woman bounced off him, snarled, “Fa godsake, ahya goin’ uh comin!”. Late papers were tossed off a truck onto the corner. Jed tiptoed over, looked cautiously and saw that the date was Tuesday, June 14th, 1949.

The further the subway took him uptown, the more the keen reality of the three quarters of an hour in the bank faded. By the time he reached his own office, sat down behind his familiar desk, it had become like a fevered dream.

Overwork. That was it. Brain fever. Probably wandered around in a daze. Better take it easy. Might fade off into a world of the imagination and never come back. Skip the book for a month. Start dating Helen again. Relax.

He grinned slowly, content with his decision. “HUC’s, indeed!” he said.

Date Helen tonight. Better call her now. Suddenly he remembered that he hadn’t cashed a check, and he couldn’t take Helen far on a dollar.

He found the check in his pocket, glanced at it, and then found himself sitting rigid in the chair. Without taking his eyes from the check, he pulled open the desk drawer, took out the manuscript entitled, “Probable Bases of Future Monetary Systems,” tore it in half and dropped it in the wastebasket.

His breath whistled in pinched nostrils. He heard, in his memory, a voice saying, “You would go and it would stay.”

The check was properly made out for twenty dollars. But he had used the ink supplied by the bank. The check looked as though it had been written with a dull knife. The brown desk top showed up through the fragile lace of his signature.

Content

John D. Macdonald
Death Quotient and Other Stories

Death Quotient

Chapter One Foray

Chapter Two The Wall

Chapter Three The Beast

Chapter Four The Final War

All Our Yesterdays

Delusion Drive

The Great Stone Death

Minion of Chaos

Chapter One The Global Rat Trap

Chapter Two Mad Scientist

Chapter Three City of Pariahs

Chapter Four No Exit

Common Denominator

The Miniature