Worlds of IF (January 1954)

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MONORAIL TRAINS may be a popular form af overland trans- portation in the future. Incorporating many scientific advances, they'll have most of the advantages ond none of the disadvan- tages of air travel. Rocket-pcwer will make extremely high speeds possible, and the "coaches" will be built in several stories to accommodate more passengers. Gyroscopic stabilization will insure safety.

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WORLDS of SCIENCE FICTION JANUARY 1954 All Stories New and Complete Editor: JAMES L. QUINN Associate Editor: LARRY T. SHAW Assistant Editor: THOR L. KROGH Cover by Ken Fagg, illustrating An Undersea Civilization I1111111111111"11 I SHORT NOVEL j 1 MALICE IN WONDERLAND by Evan Hunter 4 j SHORT STORIES LETTER OF THE LAW by Alan E. Ncurse I NAVY DAY by Harry Harrison 1 A WORD FOR FREEDOM by James E. Gunn | DOUBLE TAKE by Richard Wilson 1 ANACHRON by Damon Knight | OFF COURSE by Mack Reynolds ! FEATURES A CHAT WITH THE EDITOR 2 I PERSONALITIES IN SCIENCE 91 | IF YOU KNOW ... 109 j ^ SCIENCE BRIEFS 110 ) WORTH CITING 113 f COVER PICTORIAL: AAonorail Trains and Robot Mining by Ed Valigursky = = IF is published bi-monthly by Quinn Publedi n& Company, Inc. Volume 2, No. 6. Copyright 1953 by Quinn Publishing Co., Inc. Office of publication, 8 Lord Street, Buffalo. New York. Entered as Second Class Matter at Post Office, Buffalo, New York. Subscription 53.50 for 12 issues in U.S. and Possessions; Canada $4 for 12 iswes; elsewhere $4.50. Allow four weeks for change of address. All stories appear- ing in this magazine are fiction; any similarity to actual persons is coincidental. Not responsible for unsolicited artwork or manuscript*. 35c a copy. Printed in U.S. A. EDITORIAL AND BUSINESS OFFICES, KINGSTON, NEW YORK Next issue cti sale January 8 50 63 68 82 94 114

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A CHAT WITH THE EDITOR THE ONLY good language is a dead language. That, of course, is a trick state- ment, designed to arrest attention. It does so, if successful, by a cal- culated use of the word “good” in strict compliance with dictionary definitions. It takes lots of words to define “good” completely, but these are prominent: sufficient for its purpose, ample, possessing de- sirable or attractive qualities, well- behaved, virtuous, sound and reli- able, socially in good repute. (That last one is interesting — Webster rarely finds himself backed into a comer where he has to use a word to define itself.) If your first reaction to the open- ing sentence was one of sharp disa- greement, you were using the word “good” carelessly. All right — care- lessness is one of the influences which keep any living language constantly changing. There are others as well. With all of them in operation, no living language can be completely sufficient for its pur- pose, entirely ample, possessing only desirable or attractive qualities, strictly well-behaved, virtuous, sound and reliable. At least part of the time, too, it will be socially in ill repute. Our language, because we use it, is a highly suspicious character. It is adaptable, resilient, and fast on its feet. It twists words like “good” to mean all sorts of unlikely things, it adds to “good” to construct other words, and it invents completely new words to cover parts of the territory formerly occupied by “good.” So it isn’t a good language — acording to Webster. THE ABOVE has been said before, and them’s nothing very surprising about it. But let’s carry it a step further by examining a couple of other facets of the changing process. Members of any given profession or specialized group have a lan- guage of their own. Some of this is pure slang which is never assimil- ated into the common language, al- though some of it could be quite usefully. One of the first things an editor learns is that the part of a magazine story that is continued in the back of the book is the “jump”, and thereafter he always refers to it as such. You never heard the term outside an editorial office, and it’s certainly simpler than “continu- ation” or the painfully frequently heard, “ You know — where it says ‘Continued on page so-and-so. . ” Science and technology, na- turally, are increasingly responsible for words that are new, com-

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pounded, or adapted to new mean- ings: amplidytie and analogue, cy- bernetics and cyclotron, icsnatron and rcsojrt, winterize and wobble- puriip Part of the credit for “win- terize” goes to advertising and pub- lic relations men, a s|>ccializcil group whose members vie hungrily with each other in tin* creation and spread of novel and cat* by words. In any ease, words describing in- ventions and discoveries that are headlines today hut will henceforth affect the average man profoundly arc hound to creep into his lan- guage. AT THE SAME TIME, scientists and technologists are turning their at- tention more directly to problems of communication and the exchange of information. Cyberneticists and others interested in this new science (yes, Information is now a science, the word having acquired a slightly new meaning of its own in the pro- cess) are intent on finding flaws and failures in effective communi- cation, and are progressing by leaps and jet-blasts. What we’ve been getting around to, and what we hope such investi- gators will consider, is that flawed or unsuccessful communication may sometimes he deliberate. People, in many cases, don’t want others to understand them. There arc spe- cialized groups that speak their own languages to bar understanding by outsiders through sheer selfishness or outright maliciousness. To his teacher, the third grade youngster speaks the best English she is capable of teaching him. With his own age group, as soon as he is outside the school building, he uses only their current slang and — what is worse — the deliberately ungram- matical language required by their unwritten code. If hr doesn’t, he isn’t one of the gang. Teen-agers, of course, commit even worse crimes against the lan- guage. hut llieir jargon has been discovered by magazine writers, gets into print occasionally, and some of it drills into the main stream. This is an accident that has nothing to do with this basic argument. Look around you! Fans of var- ious forms of sports mumble cryp- tically, hypnotizing themselves into dangerous dreams of the good old days. Women when alone speak a language incomprehensible to men. and undoubtedly use it as camou- flage for all sorts of evil schemes. Avid science fiction fanatics, the kind who have long since cut them- selves loose from the rest of hu- manity, invent new ways of blowing up the universe and make it appear that they arc only discussing the most recent convention. Cabots speak only to Lowells, and Lowells ain’t talkin’ to nobody. It takes a strong mind to resist the pressure. Many otherwise good minds yield to it and arc lost for- ever. It’s a vicious spiral down- wards, with warped speech leading to warped thinking which produces more warped speech. Clarity and lucidity are difficult ideals to attain. The communica- tion of ideas is not easy at best. Scientists, in their new' and admira- ble attempts to discover why this is so, should not confine their inves- tigations to man’s sub-conscious mind. The conscious mind is in there pitching. — Its

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The Vike tide is rising — and it's doom, brothers , doom! Get fixed with sensational stereos, /laming senso's, seductive skin tints, super-sending hypos! Loin your girds for battle with the Ree’s . . . malice in wonderland By Evan Hunrer Illustrated by Kelly Freas IT SHOULD HAVE recognized diet just what he was going to say the trouble signs when they First even before a paback hit the stands, started. Looking back, I can sec I pulled my chair closer to the desk millions of them, some big, and and punched Lizbeth’s buzzer, some very small and simple. But as “Yes, sir?” Her voice was soft, it was . . . well-modulated. I pulled Bclazi’s review out of “Honey,” I said, “see if you can the com, read it quickly, and then get Clark for me, will you?” sat back to enjoy a quiet chuckle. “Yes, sir.” She clicked off, and I He killed me. The guy absolutely thought of something and buzzed paralyzed me. I held the review out her again. “Sir?” ar arm’s length, and I read it over “And have Clipinc get me copies again, and I nearly choked laugh- of all the papes carrying reviews of ing. It was getting so I could pre- Stolen Desire, will you?” 5

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6 EVAN HUNTER “Yes, sir.” I sat back again, arid shook my head in wonder at Dino Brlazi a nd all the other Rcc’s. They’d never learn. They’d sit in their high por- celain bathtubs until the Vike tide reached up past their nostrils and drowned them. Clark Talbot’s book had been a masterpiece of Vike literature. So Bclazi had dipped his duck quill deep in Ree blood and torn it to pieces with archaic lan- guage. Typical. Typical, and doomed, because the Vikes were — The buzzer sounded and I click- ed on. “Yes?” “I have Mr. Talbot for you, sir. On five.” “Thanks, Liz.” I swung my chair around and snapped on five, foeusing the pic- ture. Clark was still in his pajamas, and there was the flabby look of 4 sleep on his rough-hewn features. “Oh, good morning, Van,” he said. I showed him my teeth in a wide grin, and he winced and licked his lips with his tongue. “You see what Bclazi brewed on Stolen ?” I asked. “No. Is it out yet?” Clark’s face became interested, and the sleep began to flee from his eyes. “Hit the stands this morning. Belazi’s on the com now, if you want to pull it.” “Did you pull it?” “Sure, got it right here.” “Let me sec it,” he said. Then he shook his head and put one hand over his eyes. “No, read it to me instead.” “Big night?” “Hcrrocoke. You ever try it?” “I never mix, Clark.” “I was blind, Van. It’s really des- truction. You should try — ” He stopped short, blinked his eyes and asked, “You mean you never mix? Never?” “My habit is short and straight, and needs no mate.” Clark shook his head “Mister, you’re just a Ree in disguise. VVhat’d Bclazi chop about?” “The usual. Full up a chair.” “Will I need one?” “Hell, no. Every sad review Bclazi gives is another million in the bank. You should pray he doesn’t honeymoon you.” “Fat chance. The day Bclazi gives one of my pabacks a favora- ble review, I’ll cat the book — glue and all.” “Corn in the morn, Clark. You’d better just loin your girds and listen.” “They’re loined. On, father.” “There’s the usual feese heading it: title. scribe, pub, and price. Then: ‘Clark Talbot, chief pur- veyor of Vicarious filth, is repre- sented on the pocket-size stands this morning with a lewd, lascivi- ous, obscene, and pornographic document titled . . .’ ” “How was that again?” “Lewd, lascivious, obscene, and pornographic.” “Father, that is pure feese for the falcons.” “He seems to feel the same way about your book. Shall I go on?” “Fire at Billy Boy.” “Still quoting: ‘pornographic document titled Stolen Desire. As with all Vicarious literature, and with the entire Vicarious Move- ment in general, this alleged novel seeks to arouse and to excitate. . .’ ”

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 7 “Excltate?” “So llie man said.” Clark shrugged. “Excltate,” he said dully. “More, Van.” “ ‘to cxcitate the body, to stimu- late the diseased mind, to fabricate an existence completely alien to that surrounding us. Realistically > 19 • • • “Oops, here comes the Rcc pitch again.” “ ‘Realistically, it serves no pur- pose. It is a symposium of smut, as narcotic as the more tangible drugs the Vicarious Movement has. . .’ ” “Stop! Enough. I gather he did- n’t care much for it. Wouldn’t you say so, Van?” “Well, I think he was mildly goofed by it, yes. So what? Sc room.” Clark looked mildlv serious. “I 4 suppose so. But sometimes. . . Oh well. You going to that Deborah thing tonight?” “Maybe. What’s on?” “Some new stuff, she said. But then, you don’t mix.” “Nope, I don’t mix.” “Well, she’s also got a new senso. Supposed to be the cat’s. Drop around. I want to talk to you about tri-dim rights to Even Dozen, any- way.” “Sorry, Clark. I close my office at seventeen.” “Well hell, father. . .” “You want business, come around at about fourteen today. Otherwise, I’ll sec you tonight. But no business chop, chum.” “The trouble with agents. . .” “Fcesc for the falcs, Clark. I’ll see you later.” “Yeah,” he mumbled. I snapped off and the picture faded. I thought about Bclazi’s review for a few moments, and then I buzzed Lizbeth again. When she came on, I said, “Did you round up those papes, honey?” “Yes, sir.” “Bring them in, will you?” “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” I waited for a few seconds until the door slid open and Lizbeth stepped through. She was a small blonde, and the dailies she carried fairly hid her head. She staggered over to the desk, dropped the pile onto its polished top and then back- ed away. SHE WAS WEARING one of the new sec-thru skirts, but in the light she stood in it was opaque. The skirt was belted around her waist with a narrow red sash. Above the skirt, her flesh was firm and taut, her breasts high. I stared at them for a moment and asked, “That’s new, isn’t it?” She looked down at her naked breasts. “Do you like it?” “I’m not sure.” “It’s a new shade. It changes with the light, too, the way the skirt does.” I walked to the window and pressed the button in the sill. The blinds slanted downward quickly, spilling sunlight into the room, bathing Lizbeth in a warm glow. It caught the skirt in its molten web, turning the material to a thin trans- lucent stuff through which I saw the outline of her legs, the tops of her stockings taut against her thighs. Her breasts had suddenly shifted shades, their undersides shimmering in dazzling silver, their

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8 EVAN HUNTER sloping tops a pale fuchsia. “Dc> you like it?” she asked. "Yes, 1 think so. It’s effective.” I turned away and began thumbing through the dailies. As I’d sus- pected, the Ree columnists had all blasted hell out of Clark’s book. That was good. That was fine. Still, there were a lot of them and they had a lot of sympathetic read- ers. But tables were made to be turned. “Honey, I want you to have bigs made out of Belazi’s com review, and a few stereos, also. We’ll use the bigs in our regular ad space; and try to get us some time for the stereoshows. The* sooner the better. Call Sterling Baker at Triple Press and tell him what we plan. Hint that I’d like him to split the cost. If he sounds goofed, forget it. But try to convince him, Liz. Hell, lie’ll bi sharing in the profits.” “Yes, sir.” “You might give him a full shot of yourself when you call. Stand in the light.” I looked at the skirt again. “That’s a very effective gizmo.” “Thank you, sir.” “Has Bruce called in yet?” “No, sir.” “Put him through as soon as he does, will you?” “Yes, sir.” “Had your morning fix?” “No, sir.” “Neither have I. What’s your pleasure?” “Opaine.” “Another mixer.” I shook my head. “You’re trading your womb for a tomb, Liz.” Lizbeth shrugged, and the sud- den shift of light turned her breasts a deep blue. Effective gizmo was rnilding it, I thought, and made a decision. “It’s no fix without the tricks, father.” “Well spoke, but a big joke. Want to join me?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “Bring your kit in.” “There’s someone waiting to see you, sir.” “Scroom. Bring your kit in. He can wait.” “It’s a she, sir.” “So, scroor. She can wait, too.” “I’m honored, father,” Liz said, smiling. “Come on, mother. It’s later than you think.” She turned and walked toward the door, and her skirt turned opaque again, hiding the long curve of her legs. The door slid open as she reached it, and I looked through to the reception room, saw a tall redhead sitting on the couch, her legs crossed, l’he door slid closed, hiding her from view, and I walked to the bar and took out my kit. I unsnapped the leather case, opened it, and selected one of the silver vials inside. The chron set in the case’s lid told me it was nine twenty-five, and nine thirty was happy time. I brought the vial to my desk, checked the gauge to be sure the fix was adequate, and waited for Liz- beth. The door slid open, and she came in carrying a small, red leath- er woman’s kit. She laid the kit on the desk, her breasts shading to a pale char- tredsc as she stepped into the shadow of the drapes. She snapped open the lid, selected a silver vial, and asked, “Sure you won’t try a mixed fix? Grand kicks, father.”

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 9 “I’m straight,” I told her. “On what?” “Morph.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s your snort, but why make life short?” The hands of the chron nudged nine-thirty. “Time to kick” I said. I placed the silver vial on the desk, swabbed my arm with alcohol, and then picked up the hypo again. I traced it along the vein, waiting until the indicator told me I’d score. I glanced at Lizbeth who had lifted her skirt and was running the vial along her thigh. Most women used their legs, preferring not to mark arms which were con- stantly exposed. “Well,” I said, “happy.” “Here’s to you.” We pressed the buttons on our vials simultaneously, and I felt the sharp slender needle puncture my vein, felt the drug ooze from the vial, felt the vial draw back the drug mixed with blood, pump it into my body again, out, in, out, in. “Destruction,” I murmured, my eyes dosed. “Doom,” Lizbeth answered, her eyes beginning to glaze, her mouth partly opened as the drug took hold. I released the button, twisted the cap of the vial so that it would clean the needle, and then put it back in the kit, alongside the other empties. Lizbeth snapped shut the lid on her case. “This is good stuff,” I told her. “Wherc’d you order it?” “Swift’s Drugs. We’ve always got it from them.” “Mm? Well, this is unusually good. You might order more at once. We may get some of the same lot. Incidentally, is everyone in the office supplied?” “We ordered a new shipment of benzejuana yesterday.” “Benzejuana? Who’s the square?” “One of the stock clerks. A Ree convert. He’s breaking in slow.” “Mother, how slow can you get? Give him a pop of herro tomorrow. That or two weeks’ notice. Groove?” “I understand,” she said. Her speech was slow, her lids half-cover- ing her blue eves. “What brews this eve, Liz?” “With me?” “Uhrn.” “Naught, father.” “Fine. I’ll be by at twenty. A party.” Her eyes twinkled. “Father, I’m dead,” she said gaily. “Fine. Send the girl in, Liz. Tell her I’ve an appointment at. . .” 1 glanced at my wrist chron. “. . . nine forty-five. Tell her we’ll have to make this short.” “Grooved,” she said, and then she was gone. I hitched up my breeches, look- ing at myself in the full-length mir- ror set next to the bar. The breeches were tight, and the new stuff I’d used on my chest had given me a wild crop of hair there. I nodded in satisfaction and sat down behind my desk. In a few moments, the door opened, and the girl entered. I DIDN’T NEED a second look to know she was a Ree. She was wearing a skirt that reached below her knees, and the blouse she wore had long sleeves and a neckline

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10 EVAN HUNTER that hugged her throat. She wore almost no makeup. The only vivid color about her was in her hair, and that was gathered at the nape of her neck in a tight bun. She even wore flats, dc-emphasizing the curve of her legs. There didn’t seem to be a bra beneath her blouse or girdle under her skirt — which was something. But otherwise she was strictly Ree, and an arty type at that. “Mr. Brant?” she asked. “Yes?” “My name is Lydia Silvcrstein.** “Have a seat, won’t you, Miss Silvcrstein?” I thought of what my own name had been before I’d joined the Vikes. John Branoski. Van Brant was a definite improve- ment. She sat in the chair I offered, crossed her legs, and demurely pulled her skirt down. “What can I do for you, Miss Silvcrstein?” “I’m a writer,” she said. “I gathered. Most people who come to literary agents are.” Her green eyes widened slightly, and her lips parted. “Yes. Yes, 1 suppose they are.” She sucked in a deep breath and said, “I’ve writ- ten some stereoshows.” “ Have you?” I said solicitously. “Yes. But I’ve been having trou- ble getting them aired.” “Oh?” “Yes. I’m a Rce.” I smiled and looked at the blouse. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” “I suppose you’re wondering why I came to you.” “Well. . .” The buzzer sounded on my desk, and I clicked down the toggle. “Excuse me,” I said. Then: “Yes?” “I’ve got Mr. Alloway on seven.” “Thanks, Liz.” I turned, snapped on seven, and focused. “Hello, Bruce.” “Hello, Van. What brews?” Bruce was a handsome lad who'd recently had a nose bob. He was wearing crimson breeches, his chest curling with blond hair that was striking against the bronze of his skin. He’d had the hair on his head tinted blond, too, leaving his eyebrows their original black for a really unusual effect. “I was wondering how you’re getting along on the new senso,” I said. “All right, I suppose.” “Ails? Ills?” “Small smells, that’s all. I need a chick with a frontage. These damn senso things demand too much.” “Would you rather be back writ- ing for the pabacks?” “Don’t make glip, father.” “I’m the original glib lip,” I told him. “Since when is the scribe cast- ing the show?” “You ever work with Lana Davis?” “Only to take her checks. Why?” “She’s got Rce tendencies, I swear.” I glanced quickly at Miss Sil- vcrstein, and then turned back to Bruce. “How so?” I asked. “You know how these sensoiy shows work. I swear, father, the step below is a better one. I’d rath- er do tri-dims any day of the week.” “Less slop and more chop, Bruce. I’ve got someone with me.” “All right, I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve got a busty bazoo in one

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND n scene. Davis doesn’t want falsies. She says the viewers can spot them and feel them. She wants the real thing. Is that Ree feese, or is it?” “She’s right,” I said. “Hell, Iiruce, she’s been producing senso’s for a long time now. She knows what the customers want.” “But the real thing? There ain’t no such chick. Christ, Van, not the way I’ve written it.” “So change the script.” “That’s the crux, Van. She likes it the way it is.” He shook his head. “She’s a crazy illidge, Van. I swear.” “Then do it her way. Pop over to Deborah Dean’s tonight. You’ll sec plenty of frontage You might be able to get something.” Bruce didn’t look convinced. “Did you read the script?” lie asked. “No.” “I thought so. If you had, you’d know there is no chick with a natch frontage like that. Oh, the hell with it.” “What do you mean?” “I mean, scroor. I can always get back into tri-dims— and if worse comes to worst, there’s the pabacks. At least the money is steady and I don’t have to take feese from a chick with an Oedip as long as my arm.” “She been psyched, or arc you just guessing?” “I’m guessing, but it’s a sure thing. In the last sequence I did for her, she insisted my baddy was destroying the father image. Father image! How’s that for the falcs?” “Stick with it, Bruce. It’s cool cash. So you put up with a nut, so what?’ “Yeah,” Bruce said disgustedly. “I’ll sec you tonight?” “Deborah’s?” “Yeah, at about twenty or twenty-one.” “I’m with you.” “Grooved.” I CLICKED OFF and turned to Miss Silvcrstein, who had jiolitely stared out the window dur- ing the conversation. “Now then,” 1 said, “what can I do for you?” “Was that Bruce Alloway?” she asked. “Himself.” “He. . .he makes a lot of money, doesn’t he? Writing, I mean.” “One of our best scribes.” She nodded, thinking of the money, and not the quality of Bruce’s writing. “I want to make a lot of money,” she said suddenly. “Everyone docs.” “I. . .I’ve never tried any Vikc stuff.” “What have you written?” She turned her head, and a flush suffused her neck, spread over her face. “Stuff,” she said. “You know.” “Stark realism? Slices of life? Turning the cruel, cold spotlight on suffering humanity? Exposing the 1» “You needn’t make fun,” she snapped. “I wasn’t. I used to handle that kind of stuff until I hopped aboard. If you want to make money, you’d best turn in your pen for a later model. You can sell that slice-of- life feese to some of the small Ree journals for five bucks a throw. I

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12 EVAN HUNTER won’t handle it.” “Why not?” “Because an agent’s commission on a five-dollar sale is fifty cents. I run a business, not a benevolent society.” “But. . .but do you really believe in this Vikc stuff you sell? I mean, do you honestly believe it’s litera- ture?” “What’s literature?” I asked. “I define it as the profession of a writ- er or author.” “That’s a rather narrow defini- tion.” “It’s also what people read. If people no longer read Beowulf , it’s no longer literature. Vike litera- ture serves a need in our society. If it needs any raison d’etre, that’s it.” “And. . .you’d recommend that 1 write that kind of. . .of stuff?” “If you want to. I’m not recom- mending anything.” “Where do I begin?” she asked earnestly. “First, shorten your skirt by about three feet. Throw your blouse away and show your breasts. Get some tints and real cosmetics, and find a habit. If you’re bedding with anyone, kick him the hell out. Live with Vikcs and cat with Vikes and learn what it’s all about. As they used to say, get with it. That’s the only way you can write it, and the only way you can sell it.” “I. . .1 see.” “Toss over all your realistic be- liefs, because they’ve no place in the Vike world. Then come back in a year or two and let me see what you’ve got.” “Such a long time? Couldn’t it be done faster?” I smiled. “I sec you’ve read Fygmalion. One of the prime ex- amples of early Vike literature. I thought that was on the Ree spit list.” “It is.” “And you read it anyway, huh? Well, that’s promising.” I thought it over. “Maybe you can do it faster, who knows? What’s your name?” “Lydia Silverstein.” “Change it, and fast. Come back in a week, and I’ll talk to you then.” She smiled ingratiatingly. “All light. Thanks a lot. I really — ” “No slop, mother. Come back in a week with a new name. We can use some good women scribes if you work out.” “Thank you. Thank you very — ” “So long, Miss Silverstein.” She rose abruptly, walking, swiftly to the door. It slid open as she approached it and then closed gently behind her. I left my desk and glanced at my wrist chron. It was already nine forty-six, and Hayden Thorpe didn’t like to be kept waiting. I walked to the closet, took a bottle of alcojel from the shelf on the door, and rubbed it over my chest, arms, and back. It dried al- most instantly, leaving a high sheen on my muscles. I looked into the mirror appreciatively, winked at myself, and then closed the closet door. I, walked back to my desk and buzzed Lizbeth. “Sir?” “I’m leaving, Liz. I may be back this afternoon. If not, I’ll see you at twenty tonight.” “Fine, Van.”

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 13 “You know where I’m going now, don’t you?” “Mr. Thorpe’s?” “Right. You can reach me there if it’s urgent. Otherwise, I’m in Outer Mongolia.” “Grooved, Van.” “Keep thee close, Liz.” I said. I heard her chuckle as I clicked off. I took one last look in the mirror, and then headed for the lift and the sixteenth level. II THE JECTOR snapped off, leaving the room black for an instant, somehow cold and empty after what had been. I sank back in the upholstered chair, feeling completed exhausted. Music flowed from the wall speaks, and the lights came on, soft and golden. “Well.” Hayden Thorpe asked, “how’d you like it?” “I’m dead,” 1 said. I wasn’t kidding. It had been terrific. Posi- tively sensational. Hayden beamed happily. “This is going to set the senso industry on its arse, Van. I’m telling you it’s the greatest goddamned tiling since video.” “You’ve sold me, Hayden,” I said. “How many scribes will you need ?” “Always business,” he said, chuckling. He nudged one of his assistants and asked, “What do you think of this illidge, Lawrence?” Lawrence chuckled back, not daring to offend me by agreeing with Hayden, yet not wanting to seem disagreeable. “What’d you think of the love scene?” he asked me. “Destruction,” I said. It had been. I’d never experienced any- thing like it before. “Felt as if the chick was really in your arms, didn’t it?” Hayden asked. “In my arms? Father, I could feel her flesh and smell her per- fume. Hayden, you’ve got some- thing here that. . .” “That’s only half of it, Van,” Hayden said proudly. “Remember, we call this Individual Sensory Pro- ductions. Just a sec.” He leaned back and pressed a button on the arm of his chair. Above the music coining from the speaks, came a well-modulated feminine voice. “Yes, sir?” “Rhonda, would you come in a moment, please?” “Certainly, Mr. Thorpe.” Hayden leaned forward again and said, “My secretary, Van. I think you’ll be a little surprised by what she has to say.” I nodded and waited for the door to slide open. When it did, a tall brunette entered, c arrying a small stenotab. Her hair was piled high on her head, accentuating her height, in the fashion most tall girls affected. She wore her breasts pitch black, matching her hair, with silver sequins scattered from the center in a haphazard smear. Her skirt was long, but slit up the center and revealing laced, trans- lucent underwear as she walked across the room in long-legged strides. She sat in a chair next to Hayden, crossed her legs and poised her slender fingers over the keys of the stenotab, ready for dictation. “No,” Hayden said, “I just want- ed you to tell Mr. Brant some-

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14 EVAN HUNTER thing.” “Yes, sir,” she said. She arched her brows, batted her lashes over the auburn contact lenses she wore. “What was it, sir?” “You saw the indi-senso we ran yesterday, didn’t you?” “Yes, sir.” “Do you remember the love scene?” A pulse in her throat quickened, and she lowered her eyes. “Yes, sir.” “Will you describe it to Mr. Brant?” “Well. . at was set on a bal- cony. . .” “Yes?” “And. . .and it was a starry night. . .” I remembered the balcony, and I remembered the stars. I also re- membered how crisp the air had smelled. The hero had taken the girl into his amis, and I had ac- tually felt the pressure of her breasts, the silkiness of her hair. I’d smelled the musky fragrance of her perfume, tasted the faint mint fla- vor of her lipstick. It had been an experience, one of the best senso’s I’d ever seen. But I was beginning to wonder just why the hell Thorpe was putting his secretary through an inquisition. “The. . .the girl went into the boy’s arms,” Rhonda said. “And then he kissed her.” “Yes, go on.” “I. . .his face was rough, as if he had shaved but not too closely. There was the smell of aftershave on his face, I remember, and an old leather smell about him, somehow. You know what I mean. A very . . .masculine smell.” I looked at the girl in astonish- ment, beginning to understand just exactly what Hayden had accom- plished. “His arms were very strong,” she said. “They’d been coated with al- cojel, you know the odor. He’d been smoking before that, and I could. . .could taste the tobacco on his mouth. It. . .it was very nice.” She paused, seeming to wander in- to a reverie. “Very nice.” “Thank you, Rhonda,” Hayden said. “You may go now.” Hayden could hardlv contain himself until 4 the door slid shut behind her. “Well, Van?” he asked, a smile mushrooming over his face. “I don’t believe it,” 1 said. “It was a put up job.” “God’s truth,” Hayden said. “The gal saw the show yesterday. I haven’t spoken to her since.” I digested this for about three seconds. “Father,” I said, “you’re a crazy, drug-loving, psyched-up illidge, but I love you! Jesus, this will set the industry. . .” “. . .on its arse. Just what I said. Individual senso’s, Van. The men live a completely different ex- perience than the women. I’ve brought viewpoint to the senso’s, Van. It overwhelms me when I think of it. I’m a goddamned genius!” “Genius! You’re going to be a millionaire, you crazy stud. You’re going to have more money than God!” Hayden turned to his assistant. “Take a pow, Lawrence,” he said. “Yes, sir,” Lawrence answered obediently. He walked to the door and left soundlessly. Hayden’s face turned suddenly serious.

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 15 “You think I’ve got something, Van?” “Got something? Hayden, this is the most terrific thing I’ve ever. . “I need money,” he said quickly. E SHOCKED ME for a mo- ment. Hayden had been pro- ducing senso’s lor a long time now. If there was anyone I thought was comfortably fixed, it was him. “You’re kidding,” 1 said. “No. No, I’m straight, Van.” “Moncv? You?” 4 “My habit is long and strong,” he said. “Corradou.” “Oh.” Corradon was a synthetic drug. Jt cost a hell of a lot, even now that narcotics were legal. A eorradonict needed a pile, and lie needed a pile measured in miles. “This thing is the biggest,” lie said. “There’s plenty in it for both of us. You back me, Van, and we’re wedded.” “Five-live?” I asked. “You know the idea itself rates a seven-three,” Hayden said. “At least a six-four, anyway.” He shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Without the moo, though, I’ve got nothing. You bac k me, and I’ll make it an even split. Grooved?” “How much do you need?” “Two stones.” “What!” “I thought I could get by on one, hut it’s impossible. Even cutting to the bone, it would come to at least a stone and a half." I shook my head. “I haven’t got that kind of money, Hayden.” “How much can you raise im- mediately?” “Nine hundred gee. Maybe.” Hayden nodded. “That’s not bad. That’s only a gee short of a stone. Can we raise the other million?” 1 le looked at me, saw the dubious look on my face, and said, “Did you sec the stars in that chick’s eves * • when she desi ribed the mush to von:* Did you ever srr anyone look • • # like that talking about an ordinary senso? Hell, Van, you saw the show yourself Was it. or wasn’t it?” “It was.” “Did it fix you?” “It fixed me. Jt was doom. But two stones. . .” “You said you could raise close to one. That leaves a million to go. If you can get the nine hundred gee by the end of the week, we can start production. We’ll need an- other half stone by the end of the month, and the remainder for the bally just before release. That won’t he for another six months, at least.” “How long did it lake you to make the pilot?” I asked. “Three months.” “And you figure on a full-length feature in six months? Father, what are you mixing?” “All right, the pilot you just saw was a fifteen minute show. But we were working out a lot of hugs, and the medium was new. There’ll be no guessing on the featch. Van. Wc’vc got it down pat. When I say six months, I mean six months. Not a dav over.” “What about scribes?” “That’s vour end. Y’ou’rc a liter- 4 ary agent, aren’t you?” “How many will we need?” “I used a team of six men and

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16 EVAN HUNTER six women for the pilot. We need both, you know. This takes a spe- cial kind of writing. Van, you don’t know the half of it.” “I know we won’t get six of each lor less than a stone. My scribes are high-priced, Havden.” “Can’t you—” “I’m their agent. I work for them , remember?” “Then get some low-priced scribes. Get one of each, a man and a woman. They don’t have to be terrific. The medium will carry the lousiest writing, as long as it’s suited to the process. Besides, it’s new. There arc no experienced scribes lor this sort of thing.” “How high can we go?” “You’re not thinking of your goddamned commish, are you?” “Hell, no! I want to know who I can get. For that, 1 want to know what I can pay.” “All right. We can go to twenty gee.” “Per.” “I was thinking of twenty gee for both. If we have to make it per, okay.” Hayden smiled. “It’s your money, Van.” “Yeah.” I stood up and took his hand. “Deal?” I asked. “Deal,” he said. “Real,” I acknowledged. “I’ll have the moo by the end of the week. Nine hundred gee. Another five hundred by the end of the month, and the rest in six months or so.” “Right.” “I see the light, father.” “Call me, Van,” he said. “This thing is big.” “Your language is small,” I said. “This thing is doom!” Ill I CALLED Bruce Alloway from a pay phone. When his picture and voice came on, I said, “I’m using our usual scrambler. Want to tunc in?” “Hush stuff?” he asked. “Much hush. Mush, Bruce.” “Sure,” he said. I pressed a combination of but- tons on the face of die instrument. That would scramble my voice so that only Bruce, after adjusting his own set to decode, would receive mv message. “Okay?” I asked. “Grooved.” “Fine. You still want to take a pow on Lana Davis?” “I’d love to. How?” “I’ve got something big for you. It’ll mean a cut, though.” “How much of a cut?” “Down to twenty gee.” “That’s a mean slash, father.” “I know. Do you want it?” Bruce shook his head. “I’d sure like to get from under that chick, Van. But twenty gee. Hell, after taxes, I’ll have marbles.” “This is the biggest goddamned thing you’ve ever fallen into,” I said harshly. “I can get sixty scribes who’ll do it for nothing, just for what it’ll bring them later on. If you don’t want it, I’ll look else- where. So long, Bruce.” “Hey, hold on, father!” “What is it?” “Well chop a little more about it. Be fair, Van.” “I can’t chop on the phone.” “You’re scrambled, Van. Hell JJ • • • “Even scrambled. Look, think it

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 17 over. I’m your agent, and I say this is hot. You can remember who pulled you out of the pa backs, or you can donut-leap.” “Van, give me a chance to — ” “I’ll see you at Deborah’s to- night. I’ll tell you more then. But onlv if you’re in. If you’re cool, fool, this is too hot to spread around. You follow?” “All the way. It’s big, hull, Van?” “Bigger than birth.” “But a cut in cash.” “It'll be the smartest move you ever made. '1 hink about it.” I clicked off, smiling to myself. I stepped out of the booth, walked through the store and out onto the curb. 1 grabbed the first pneumo- tube that came by, punching the tabs near my seat as soon as I’d dropped in my coin. In three min- utes, we’d traveled three miles, and I cursed the snail’s pace until I re- membered I was down on the fifth level. The signal light near my scat blared red, and I rose as the door slid open. J stepped onto the curb, looked for the numbers on the buildings, found the one I wanted, and walked inside. My heels echoed on the marble floors as 1 walked down the corri- dor. I passed two Rce’s in the hall- way, complete with shirts and tics, and wearing — of all goddamned things — hats. They studied the hair on my chest with obvious distaste, r wrinkled their noses, and hurried off down the hallway. I shrugged, and then walked into the reception room of Barton and Houston, my accountants. A redheaded switchboard opera- tor, her skin tinted an offcolor green, sat with her hands darting out for rubbery, snakelike connec- tions. ! ler shoulders were bare, as were her breasts, and she had left the skin between her collar bones and the lower side of her bosom its natural shade. The effect was a bit startling, and 1 glanced at it ap- ] a relatively. She plugged one of the connec- tions into a hole on the board. “Barton and Houston, good af- ternoon.” I looked at my wrist chron. Damn if it wasn’t thirteen-ten al- ready. I whistled tunelessly while she disposed of the lights dickering on her board. When she turned to me. I said, “Jo Houston, please.” “Who’s calling, sir?” “Van Brant.” “Just a moment, sir.” I WALKED OVER to the long window looking out over the criss-crossed, seemingly haphazard ribbons that wound through the sky above and below the fifth level. Stretching from the third level up to the ninth, I saw the full-length figure of the star of one of tin? stercoshows playing on the seventh level. As I watched, the gigantic figure sucked in a deep breath. Her breasts moved suggestively, and her navel filled with shadow. “Mr. Brant?” I turned awav from the window 4 and the poster art, and walked back to the redhead, who was real. “Yes?” “Mr. Houston will sec you now', sir.” She smiled, and I smiled back and walked through the gate and into Jo’s office. He was sitting be-

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18 EVAN HUNTER hind a cluttered desk, with an enor- mous ledger opened before him. When I came in, he rose and ex- tended his hand. “Van, you old illidge! How’ goes the body?” “Ticking and clicking, no kick- ing. And you?” “Sound and round, like money found. What brings you, Van?” “Business.” “Oh?” “Liquidation,” I said flatly. “Iluh?” “I need cash fast, Jo. I want you to get rid of all my holdings. I need close to a stone by Saturday.” Jo whistled softly. “In a jam?” “No. Business.” “Sounds good.” “It is. Can you do it for me?” He spread the fingers of one hand wide. “Sure.” Then he cock- ed his head to one side, his deep brown eyes set into the layers of flesh on his face. “Anything that might interest me?” “Sorry, Jo.” Jo smiled. “Okay, okay.” He held up his palm like a traffic robot. “So what’s new otherwise?” “Nothing much. You?” “A few new accounts. You know Steele and Dawes?” “Advertising?” “Yes. Enormous. The boys who finally broke through the prohibish lobby. Wc just got them.” “Oh yes, of course. The ones who started the new swing in liquor advertising.” Jo nodded. “You remember what the ads used to be like. ‘For mellow flavor’ or ‘for a taste treat.’ Any- thing but what they really wanted to say.” He chuckled amiably. “I’ll never forget the first one. Van. The liquor was Daley’s. Steele and Dawes plastered the town with tri- dim bottles. Everywhere you look- ed, a bottle was staring down at you. And all the copy said was: ‘Daly’s makes you drunker’ n hell!’ ” He laughed aloud, and I laughed with him, remembering what a fur- oi that first honest whiskey ad had caused. When we’d quieted down, I said, “By Saturday then, Jo. You won’t let me down?” “Have I ever?” “No.” “I won’t start now.” “Grooved. I’ll sec you.” IV THE PARTY was a sumptuous thing, but then all of Deborah Dean’s parties were. She’d had one complete wall of the living room knocked down for the occasion, replacing it with a clear pane of plexoid that ran the length of the room. Her apartment was swank, very, high up on the fifteenth level, looking down over the city and the river. When I came in with Lizbcth on my ami, the lights were low in the room, and the city twinkled and sparkled out- side the plexoid sheet like a galaxy of blazing, multi-colored suns. Deborah spotted us the moment wc came through the door and hur- ried over. She was the only woman I knew who could carry off green eyes and a blue skin tint well. Her breasts were spattered with spark- ling gold dust, the nipples luminous in the dim light of the room. Her skirt was long in the back, almost trailing the floor, gashing upward

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20 EVAN HUNTER in a wide V that terminated at her waist in the front. “Van,” she cried, “How good!” I took the hand site extended, and smiled cordially. “Deborah, this is Lizbcth.” Deborah grinned, and her eyes roamed Lizbcth’s body candidly. I had to admit that Liz had really outdone herself tonight. She had a thin blue, shimmering strip of plas- tic decorously clinging to her breasts. She had chosen a peach skin tint, and had contrasted it with a pitch-black skirt that ended on her thighs. Her lips matched the plastic strip, and she’d done her hair to go with the skirt. We’d had a fix at her place, and her eyes sparkled behind their blue con- tacts. Even Deborah was im- pressed. She smiled again. “What’s your pleasure?” “We’ve been fixed,” 1 told her. “Maybe later.” “You know where the bar is. Just help yourself. I’ve got a wonderful senso for later, and something new in a tri-dim. And. oh. I’ve got some destructive tapes. Van. The very latest sound.” She dosed hei eyes ecstatically. “Doom, pure doom.” “I’ll be listening.” 1 paused. “I’d like to talk to you later. Deb.” “Why not now?” “Alone,” I said. She patted my check, her hand cool and firm, a sensuous musky perfume rising from its palm. “As a matter of fac t, I want to talk to you, too. When the senso is show- ing, grooved? but 1 hate to have you miss it. It really is good.” “I’ll sec it some other time.” “All right, Van. I’ll look for you later.” She waved and was gone, ready to greet another pair of guests. “She’s nice,” Lizbcth said. “I like her stomach. Who does it for her?” “I don’t know. I didn’t see any- thing unusual about it.” “Didn't you notice? It was beau- tiful, Van. really. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.” “There's Rog Brooks,” I said. “Who?” “Brooks. You know him. The big psych. I wonder what the hell lie’s doing here.” “Whv not? Psvchs are human.” “Are they?” Lizbcth giggled and took my arm. “Come on,” she said, “let’s mingle.” WE WALKED across the room to where a small clique had got a song going. We listened to one chorus and joined in. on the refrain : "Pop it, moppet. Stick it in your rein. 0 Push it in and pull it out And stick it in again Mass it, gas it. Das! thou pass it? Never! Never! Naaaaaay, fa-ther, NAY!” We all enjoyed a good laugh, and then a tall, dark-haired boy in sil- ver breeches began improvising a chorus: "There once was a Rec man named Ditto!” "Oh, yes,” we chanted. "Who strolled on the old

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 21 bal-colino “Yes” “ lie tripped on his clothes. And ruptured his nose Inn most realistic f ash-in o! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh. He signaled for us to all join in, and we started once more with, “ Pop it, moppet, stick it in your vein . . ” WE ALL LAUGHED at tin- end of the refrain, and then a girl with pink shells on her nipples took up another chorus, a bit raw this time, but still funny. We were in the middle of another refrain when I saw Bruce Alloway come into the room. 1 excused myself and started for the door, the sound of the singing behind me. 1 grabbed Bruce by the arm be- fore he’d had a c hance to say hello and began steering him toward a dark corner. “Hey,” he complained, “what the hell’s the rush?” “You want to hear tids, or don’t you?” v “Sure, sui e. But 1 want to taste some of this new stuff I hear Deb- orah’s got. Hell, father, I haven’t had a fix since noon in prepara- tion.” “All right, go pop. But hurry back, Bruce.” “Sure,” he said, looking at me curiously. “Sure.” He started toward the bar, wav- ing his hand in greeting as In- passed Rog Brooks, the psych. 1 followed Bruce with inv eyes until he reac hed the- bar, and then lost him in the cluster of people there. When I swung inv eyes back. I realized that Brooks was heading in my direction. 1 turned my head away, pretending to look through the plexoid at the city. But he’d al- reatly spotted me, so I gave it up and loined my girds. “Hello, then-, Brant,” he called. 1 looked up feigning surprise. “Well, hello. Brooks. Long time no. Pull up.” “Thunks.” He hooked a small foam c ushion with his toe, pulled it toward him. and plopped down on it. Brooks was a tall, thin man with eager eyes set in an intense face, lie- spoiled a vandyke care- fully trimmed on his chin and he wore his hair in its natural shade-, a deep black that hugge d his scalp like a helmet. 1 Ir cocked one raven brow and said, “Nice party.” “Not bad,” I admitted. “I didn’t know you knew Deborah.” “Oh yes,” Brooks said. “Quite well." 1 le passed a clawlike hand ove-r his naturally hairy chest, scrate lied idly at one pee total. “One of my favorite patients, in fact.” “That right?” “Yes.” I felt somehow uncasv. I wasn’t # used to psychs, and I’d never held a lengthy conversation with one-. Brooks seemed to be experiencing the same discomfort. We sat and stared at each other while a few long minutes dragged the ir feet la- boriously through a fie-ld of mol- asse-s. Finally, I said, “So how’s the psych business the-se days?” He shrugged his broad shoulde-rs. “Not loo good. Not for a Vike man, anyway. The Ree boys seem to be getting all the work.” I wondered if he were kidding,

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22 EVAN HUNTER but I didn’t express skepticism. “What do you mean?” I asked. “It’s a question of finding a norm,” he said slowly. “I still don’t groove.’* Brooks spread his palms wide. “I was taught in a Ree school, Van. Got my Bah from a Ree college, my Mud from a Ree medical school and all my specialized training at Ree clinics. The emphasis was a little different.” “How so?” “Great god Freud. Chew a ci- gar? You were weaned too early. Wash your hands often? You’re a niastur. Glove anesthesia? You’ve got a guiltplex. You know the Ree pitch.” “So?” “So along come the Vikes. And everybody flees into a dream world. Your norm is kicked in the arse.” I didn’t say anything, because I still didn’t know what he was talk- ing about. “Look at it this way. You estab- lish a pattern. The majority of peo- ple don’t go around picking their noses on pneuinotubes. All right, this is the norm. You get a guy who does pick his nose, he’s a dcleg for a booby bin. But what happens when the norm is reversed? What happens when everyone seeks the world heretofore reserved for the schizoid? Who’s normal then? And how do you treat the person who isn’t?” “Arc you saying that Vikes are . . .mentally unbalanced?” Brooks smiled thinly. “I’m a Vike • myself. It’s been ten years since I’ve touched a woman or wanted to touch one. I’ve been a morphict for three years, a herrict for four, and I’ve been on corradon for the last three, ever since it hit the mar- ket. My biggest charge is the sen- so’s, but I’m not above reading the pabacks. A wild tape still gets a rise out of me. I know all the tricks and all the gimmicks. I’ve even come along with the language, which was probably the hardest part. Who am I to say Vikes are nuts?” “What are you saying then?” “I’m not saying anything. I came here tonight for the same tiling you did. Something like a cat house, isn’t it?” “Listen, Brooks. . “All right, you don’t like what I’m saying. I don’t much like it, either. I keep thinking about to- morrow, though. And the to- morrow after that. And tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. What’s the step beyond schizophre- nia? Or mania? I’m afraid it’s ca- tatonia— and that means doom.” He saw the look on my face. “I’m not using it in the Vike sense, Brant. I mean doom. Plain old doom. The end. Finis. Pffft !” “You through?” “Sure, sure, I’m through. I un- derstand Deb has some new stuff at the bar.” He stood wearily and his eyes met mine for an instant, and then fled into their own retreat. “Maybe I’ll try some. So long, Brant.” He turned abruptly. “There was a young Ree girl who knew it!” “Oh, yes” “But didn’t quite know how to do it.’ “Yes.’ “She sought an advisor Who quickly did size her . .

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 23 Amid the la ugh ter and the bub- bling sound "1 voiics lilted in song, in the dim lights glinting on sc- quined and painted bosoms, among mv fellows and friends, in niv * - < world, 1 watched Rog Brooks shoulder his way to the bar, a tail man walking with his head bent and his lists clenched. A strange man with strange ideas. But maybe, I thought, 1 shouldn’t have been so short with him. lie was different, at least. . . I CLOSED my eyes for an instant, and the song eelmed in my ears, and suddenly there was a cool hand on my bare flesh, and the aroma of Lizbeth’s perfume in my nostrils. 1 shrugged her hand away. “Don’t paw me,” I said. “Sorry, father. You look sad. Want to pop?” “No.” Liz giggled. “I got a confession. 1 already did. The new stuff. It’s doom, Dad. IVhoo!” “I want solo,” I said. “Take a pow.” “Sure, Van. They’re starting a round of Coverup, anyway, and I want to get in on it.” “Have fun,” I said. She turned and walked away from me, het hips swiveling, her high heels clicking against the mar- ble floor. I looked across the room to the har, saw Bruce elbow his way free, straighten his hair, and start over toward me. I stood up, walk- ed to meet him halfway, and said, “Let’s step outside, Bruce. I don’t want this overheard.” “You act like a Martian spy,” he said. “How the hell would you know what a Martian spy acts like?” "I read the sci-fix. Interesting.” “That Ree le. se?” “Listen,” he said earnestly, “it’s the closest tiling the Rn\s have to real Vikc Mull, it’s their one sal- vation.” We’d reached the balcony, and I yanked open the manual sliding door, stepping outside into the night. A mild breeze played over the balcony, and Deborah had cov- ered the* place with rose hushes that oozed I heir pel fume onto the mild air. “So what’s the big one?” Bruce asked. “A new senso. So big you can’t itnadge, Bruce. Individual sensory experiences. Individual, Bruce. A man secs, feels, smells one thing. A woman another. Bruce, it’s gigan- tic. It’s like nothing we’ve got. I’m sinking all I own into it. I need scribes.” Bruce screwed up his black brows. He was a moment before answering. “You like it?” “Yes.” “I’m in.” “Just like that?” “My lriend, before you came on the scene 1 was writing for the pa- hacks. 1 made an average of fifteen gcc a year, and you know how far that gets you. You came on then. Last year, I stacked close to half a stone. This sear, with six months 4 to go yet, I’ve made that much al- ready. I’ve never made a move you didn’t suggest, and you’ve never suggested a move that wasn’t right.” Bruce shrugged, a little overwhelmed by his own sincerity. “You say this is big, it’s big. You

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24 EVAN HUNTER say I should get into it now, I get into it now. That’s the way it is, Van. That’s the kind of stupid bas- tard I am.” I grinned in the darkness. “That’s Rec talk, Bruce.” “All right, change it to ‘stupid illidge.’ It’s still the way I am, so let’s go inside and get into the Covcrup. Christ, this is a dull party.” I clapped him on the shoulder, and we started to head back for the party, and that was when I no- ticed how unusually quiet it was inside. Bruce must have detected the lack of sound at about the same time, because he turned to me with a puzzled expression on his face. Covcrup is usually a pretty damned noisy game during the donning stage. The stripping half is so quiet you can hear a pin drop, but hardly enough time had progressed for the game to have been in that stage yet. As if by common consent, we ran for the doors and into the room. The first person I saw was Deb- orah, and her face showed pale even through the blue tint. I was starting toward her when a voice shouted, “Iley, here’s two more of the bastards.” I whirled rapidly, and then I un- derstood the silence in the room. THEY STOOD in the center of the room, four Rcc’s, smug grins on their faces. They were fully clothed, of course, wearing shirts, jackets, flapping trousers. The apparent leader of the group, the one who had spoken, looked younger than the others. His blond hair tumbled over his forehead, and his eyes insolently roamed the room, studying the naked bosoms of the women. I walked over to Deborah and asked, “Crashers, or did you invite them?” “My God, Van,” she said. “Please!” “What’s all the talk over there, Chesty?” the blond boy called. I turned and looked at him, and his friends formed behind him in a tight semi-circle. “You talking to me, son?” “Yeah, you with all the hair on your chest, and the shiny muscles. What’s with you and Big Bust there?” Deborah glanced self-consciously at her breasts, feeling the lust in the blond youth’s eyes. I felt em- barassed for her, and I started across the room. “Ho, look,” the blond shouted, “a hero in the crowd.” I walked right up to him, and I heard Bruce padding across the floor behind me. The boy was as tall as 1 was and had well-rounded muscles beneath the rough cloth of his jacket. His eyes were slate grey, and he carried his mouth like an open switch-knife. “Are you looking for trouble, son?” I asked. He grinned and nudged one of his pals in the ribs. “Listen to Shiny Skin,” he said. “Yeah, mis- ter, we’re looking for trouble.” “You came to the right place,” I said softly. Bruce pulled up along- side me, but I didn’t turn my head. “Hey, look at the blond hair and black eyebrows,” one of the Ree’s said, indicating Bruce. “That takes it, boy.” He began laughing, and

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 25 they all joined in. They’d obvious- ly been drinking heavilv. ' “Youd better go,” I said. “You’d better go damned last.-’ The blond boy thought that was hilarious. “Why?” he asked. “You gonna show me a movie or some- thing?” “Oh” I said, “I get it.” 1 le laughed again, sure of him- self now. “Listen to the tough Vike, lx>ys. He gels all his lights from the stereos and sense's. That’s the way lie enjoys his lights.” He turned a sneer on me. “You’re scarin' me to death, mister.” “Grooved.” 1 said. “You figure because we get our action vicarious- ly we don’t know how to get it any other wav. Is that right?” “Yeah” he said quickly. He turned to the boys then and said, “Hey. you know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna grab one of these nude babes and show her what a real. . .” That was when my fist collided with his mouth. I felt his lip split, and then the sharp edge of his teeth knifed into my skin. A blossom of blood sprout- ed on his mouth, and he brought up his hand to his lips in surprise and terroL 1 slammed my other fist into Lis open hand, and his spread lingers tore into his flesh, almost gouging out his own eye. He backed up a few paces, and I jumped after him. I heard his pals yell something and grab for me, and then Bruce stepped into the picture and started throwing his weight around a little. I gave Blondic a pop in the eye that sent him staggering back to land right on his arse. He was ready to stand up when I lashed out with my hoot and caught him on the point of the chin. After that, lie wasn’t read) to do anything. I turned quickly, about to take on another one, when 1 saw Rog Brooks i im across the room and tear one of the Roc’s from Bruce’s back. I threw myself headlong at the closest Roe and began throwing fists at his head. I wasn’t used to this because it had been a long time since I’d had any practice, but 1 punched and I kicked, and 1 felt my blows crashing against solid flesh that began to crumble after a while. I kept hitting until my fists were covered with blood, until my breeches were torn, until the breath was raging in my lungs. And then I stopped I tot a use the flesh had al- ready crumbled and was lying on the floor in a bloody, sodden heap. I stood back then and looked around me at Bruce and Rog. “Let’s get them out of here,” I said hoarsely. We dragged them to the front door and stuck them on the lift, setting the tabs for the first level. The lift dropped out of sight with its cargo, and we went back into the room. Deborah rushed over to me and said. “Van, you were wonderful.” “Those rotten bastards,” I said. 1 llid fie simply wasn’t strong enough, so I reverted to the Rec terminolo- gy. “Those filthy. . .” “If they come back,” Bruce said, “thcv’rc dead. Thev’rc dead. Van, dead.” His hands were trembling as he spoke, and there was a smear of blood stretching from his temple to his jaw. A murmur of conversa- tion sprang up around the room

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26 EVAN HUNTER now, and someone put on a tape in an effort to relieve the strained at- mosphere. “Can we wash up. Deb?” I asked. “Yes. Yes, of course. Come with WE FOLLOWED HER, and she dropped Rog and Bruce off at the hall bathroom, and then led me to the private bathroom in her own bedroom. She sat on the bed while I washed, arid talked to me through the open bathroom door. 1 let water into the sink and then plunged my hands into it, watching it turn muddy with blood. “This makes me wonder,” she said. “About what?” “About whether I’m doing the right thing or not.” “I’m lost, Deb.” I splashed water onto my face, feeling it sting the cuts there. "I want to have a baby, Van.” “What!” 1 jerked upright and looked at her, my face and hands dripping water onto the floor. “Yes, I want to very much.” “Why?” “Well. . .I’m just tired of. . .of senso’s and. . .you know, all of it. I want something new.” “Who’s the lucky man?” I asked sarcastically, dipping into the water again. “Van, don’t make me vomit. It won’t be that way at all.” “No?” “No.” She smiled playfully. “There arc only three men I’d even consider that with, anyway. Even if I were a Rcc.” “Who?” I asked. “Jamie Grew. Know him?” “No. Who else?” “Rog Brooks.” “Oh.” “What docs that mean?” “Nothing. But I’ll bet he’s the illidgc who talked vou into tliis.” “Well, in a way.” “Who’s the third man?” “You.” I snorted and rinsed off my face. “Well, honey, you’re barking up the wrong three.” “I’m only joking. I’ll go to the clinic, of course.” “Minm?” “Yes. In fact, I’ve already in- formed them. I’m enrolling in the next Inseminar.” I snapped on the ultra-vi and stepped into the field, rubbing my hands as the rays dried me. “That’s the next step above a Rcc,” I said. “Next thing you know, you’ll be mating in an alley.” “Van, for God’s sake! You say the goddanmdest things.” “Well it’s the truth.” I shrugged. “Is this what vou wanted to talk to • me about?” \ “Yes. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Rog. I wanted to hear what you thought of it.” “Well, now you know.” “And I’m going to do it anyway.” “Go right ahead. Your womb, your tomb.” I stepped out of the field and snapped off the ray. I looked at mv torn breeches. “I don’t suppose you’ve an extra pair in the house.” “No. Sorry.” “Didn’t expect you to.” I tried to pull the tear together, gave it up as a sorry job, and said, “I wanted

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 27 to talk to you, too, Deb.” “What about?” “Money.” / “What about money?” “I need a stone. Can you lend it 4 to me?” “Are you in trouble?” “No.” “Then why do you need that much moo?” “I need it.” Deborah hesitated. "I might be able to scrape it together.” “How soon?” “How soon do you need it?” “Immediately.” “That gives me a lot of time,” she said snidelv. 4 “All right, six months. No later.” “That’s a little better. In six months, I should he pregnant.” “Must we talk about that?” “No, of course not. I’ll have the money for vou. Van. Is that bet- ter?” ' I grinned. “That's much better.” Deborah rose, brushed a fleck of dirt from her breast and said, “Done. Shall we join the party?” My grin got bigger. 1 was think- ing of the stone slic’d promised me within six months, and I was think- ing of the way Hayden Thorpe and 1 would parlay that moo into a nice pile. Individual Sensory Produc- tions. And all Deborah could think about was having a baby! V Actually, the four Rcc crashers were one of the clear- est omens, but vou never sec things in their true light until they’re over and done with — and then it’s too late. Jo Houston called me the next day, shmtiy after my noon fix. His face was troubled, and his eves • 0 were wearv. For a moment, I thought lie’ll gone without a fix, but then 1 noticed the empty vial on his desk. “\\ hat is it. Jo?" 1 asked. “I’m having a lugged go, Van.” “Spell it.” “Your holdings. 1 can’t get rid of them.” 1 looked at his face hard to see if he was kidding. "What the hell are you talking about, Jo?” “The stuff. No buvers.” 4 “No buyers? Hop down, father, and jest me not! I’m in no mood for—” “Bible stufl, Van. s’hclp me. I’ve been shagging since yesterday. The market’s dim.” “Then you haven’t been shagging hard enough. W hat the hell’s the matter with vou, Jo? The stuff I’ve got is the hottest you can get to- day.” “Maybe.” “Listen, stop cryptic lipping. Shoot ii to me straight.” “All right. You Joined?” “Shoot, goddainnit!” Jo began ticking the points off on his lingers. Item A: three hundred shares Sappho Stereos. Dead ducks.” “How so?” “No buvers. Hold it. Van. don’t 0 blowtop. 1 tried everywhere, and I mean everywhere. I couldn’t even 0 sell them for a fifty percent loss.” “You mean you ofjrrtd that?” “As a last resort. Van, the mar- ket is tighter than a Ree’s neck- tic.”

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28 EVAN HUNTER “More, father.” “Item B: twenty-two shares Ar- bac Press. Dead ducks. I shopped all over town. No one’s interested.” “That’s impossible! Arbac is one of the best paback outfits in the field. You sure this isn’t a gag, Jo?” “I never kid where it concerns money,” Jo said seriously. “All right. Read it.” “Item C: fifty-seven shares Dale Cosmetics. I got rid of twenty. You know what you can do with the other thirty-seven.” “VVhat’d you raise?” “One.” “A thousand? For twenty shares of Dale? Holy Christ, Jo, arc you losing your marbles?” “I didn’t say a thousand. I said ‘one.’ One hundred, Van. One clam. Count it.” “One clam! Look, Jo — ” “I’m lucky I got that. You’ve got no idea what it’s like, Van. So help me, I don’t like it.” “You don’t like it? You don’t like it? It’s only my goddamned money you’re throwing around, that’s all. It’s only — ” “Cool, Van.” “Cool my big kccstcr! Listen, Jo, you’re paid to handle mv afTairs. If I ever made a deal like that for one of my clients, I’d be hanged on Times Square the next day. What the hell do you think this is: Par- thesi?” “Van, I tell you — ” “You tell me horsemanure! I’m telling you, goddam nit And you’d damn well better listen. I’ve got stock worth at least 700 gee. I want 900 gee, and a good man should be able to raise that. If you’re not a good man, you’re not the man for me. There are approximately eight thousand accountants in this city, Jo, and—” “Easy, Van, easy. I’m — ” “Easy, nothing. I’ll give you un- til tomorrow. That’s Wednesday. If you can’t produce by then, you can close out my account and go back to filing income tax returns at fifty cents a throw!” “That’s not fair, Van—” “It may not be fair, but it’s the way it is. I want at least 500 gee by tomorrow. If you get that much, I’ll give you ’till Saturday to get the rest. If you can’t, goodbye, Jo; it’s been, but it ain’t no mo.” “Van—” I clicked ofT before he could pro- test, and then I went over to the bar and shot up a booster. When the buzzer on my desk sounded, I nearly tore off the switch answer- ing. “Yes!” I shouted. “Ouch!” Lizbeth said. “What is it, Liz?” I answered harshly. Her voice was surprised. “I did something, Van?” “You did naught. You buzzing to be sociable or have you got some- thing on your mind?” “Van. . “Come on, Liz, I haven’t got all day!” “Yes, sir.” Her voice was shocked now, and a little hurt. “There’s someone to see vou, sir.” “I’m not in.”' “She said it w'as important.” “I’m still not in.” “Sir, she—” “Listen, Liz, do I have to send a diag with everything I say? I’m

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 29 not in! That goes for this chick, and the President, and even Dino Bcia- zi. I’m out. I’m not in. Does that make sense?” “Yes, sir.” “Fine, line. Pm glad I sj>cak English.” “Yes, sir.” “Is dial all?” “Ye—” “All right. Don’t disturb me for the next hour or so.” I clicked oil and began pat ing the rug. How the lu ll was a man supposed to get anything done when he was surrounded by idiots? Imagine Jo selling twenty shares of Dale for a clam! A ilam! And In- called himself an accountant. A shoe shine boy could have got at least five, and — The door behind me opened swiftly, and I turned with niy lists clenched as it slid shut again. “I thought I told you not to . . .” The girl standing there was not Lizbcth. SHE WAS TALL, with her red hair pulled to one side of her neck, trailing down over one naked breast. Me breasts were firm and high, concentrically ringed in var- ious hues. Her stomach was bare and flat, etched with a deep naval. Her skiit was shorter than a good many skirts I’d seen, and she wore six inch spikes with ankle straps. I stared at her for an instant. “Who the hell arc you?” I shouted. “Lois Sylvan.** “Who?” “Lois Sylvan.” “Do you know what doors are for, Miss Sylvan? They keep people out. I told my secretary I wasn’t to be disturbed. I wasn’t kid- ding. Now il vou'll swing your l.cestcr out of here. I’ll be much obliged.” "1 thought you’d be interested,” she said an lily. 4 1 looked her over again. "W hat- es er you’re selling, Pm not inter- ested.” “We’re even. I’m not selling.” I looked at her again. "Am I sup- posed to know you or something? Pm not good at guessing games." “Lydia Silverstein,” she said quickly. “Lvdia wh 1 closed my mouth 4 4 and looked her over again. Yes. tin- ted hair was certainly hers, and tin- long legs. and. . .but. . . “Well. You’ve changed." “My name, too. Not legally yet. I’ve assumed it by common law, and I’ve a I read v got a shyst to bring it to court.” “Good. So?” “I’ve bared my. . .I’ve taken ofT niy blouse, and I’ve shortened mv skirt. I tried morphine today. 1 did just wluit you said." “So?” “Well. . .1. . .I’m ready to be- gin.” “Begin what?” “You said—” “Miss Silverste in, or Sylvan, or whatcver-lhe-hell, this is not a Ret- convcrtorium. 1 run a business, and 1 don’t have to — ” “But you said — ” “I know what I said. I also told you to kick out your mate. Did vou do that?” Her eyes began to cloud, and her lower lip trembled a little. “I. . .

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30 EVAN HUNTER I didn’t have one.” “Fine! You had nothing to lose then, did you? The fact remains that I can’t play father-confessor to every Rcc who decides to chuck it all. Miss. I’m right now in the mid- dle of something — ” She started to cry. Just like that. It had been such a long time since I’d seen any woman cry that 1 almost didn’t believe it. “Hey!” I said. “Oh, shut up,” she blubbered. “Well, look. . .” “Don’t talk to me.” she said be- tween sobs. “Well, don’t cry,” I offered lame- ly. “Save that for the stcrcosoaps. Come on, now, Miss. Miss, you shouldn’t. . .” “I did what you said,” she blub- bered. “I did just what you said. Now I’m here, and I feel so cheap and so. . .so. . .naked, and vou * 4 don’t even. . .vou don’t even. . .” 4 I walked over to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “Look, Miss, please, don’t cry. There’s no need for that, really. Please, now, please.” “I feel awful,” she whimpered. “There, there, I’ll help you. Don’t worry. I said I’ll help you, and I will.” “You will?” “Of course I will. We can use good female scribes. I said I’d help, and I’ve never gone back on my word. I was just feeling sort of grumpy, that’s all.” “You’ll really help me write?” she asked. She looked for a pocket, found none, and wiped her tears with the back of one hand. “Yes, I will,” I said. “Yes, I—” A thought hit me. Full-blown. Right out of the air. “Yes, by God,” I said. “Yes, I will!” I thought of tiie twenty gee we were paying Bruce Alloway for his writing on the new show. And Hayden was looking to cut costs. I grinned amiably and asked, Miss Sylvan. . .Lois. . .how would you like to earn a cool live gee?” Her eyes opened wide, and her lashes batted frantically for a mo- ment. “Five. . .five. . .?” “Five gee. Five thousand skins. All yours. All for your hot little hands. How about it?” She gulped hard. “For writing?” “What else?” I asked. For a moment, I thought she would faint. Instead, she gulped again, and her eyes were incredibly green and incredibly wet behind their thick lashes. She opened her mouth to answer, but when no words came, she simply nodded her head weakly. “Fine!” I shouted. “Terrific.” 1 stabbed the button on my desk and Liz came on. “Sir?” “Liz, honey,” I said, “I want you to call Hayden Thorpe for me.” “Sir?” Her voice brightened. “I want you to call him, sweet- ness, and tell him I’ve got the two scribes he wanted. Tell him one of them is Bruce Alloway, and reel ofr Bruce’s credits to hint. Mention the After Dark thing, Liz. That was really big.” She sounded quite happv now. “Yes, Van.” “And then tell him I’ve discover- ed a fabulous new female scribe. Tell him she’s the greatest thing since transundics — ”

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 31 “Van!” tin* best cl. mined seril>e since Shakespeare, the best darned dis- covery since eorradon. Tell him she’s starting at oner, and that I've had to go to five gee, hut that she’s worth every penny. Tell him I’m clearing up the other details now. and that we’ll be ready to roll on Sunday.” “Yes, Van.” “And tell him. Liz; toll him her name is. . .” I snapped my lingers, and the redhead fluttered her eye- lashes. “Lydia,” she said. “No, Lois. Lois Svlvan.” “Lois Sylvan, Liz.” “Lois Sylvan,” Liz rcucated. “Remember that name, Liz. Re- member it well. This little ladv is 4 going to have that name in lights soon. Lois Sylvan. Magnificent. Make that call now, Liz, and double it.” She clicked ofT, and I turned to the redhead. “Well, Miss Svlvan,” I said. “This is the beginning. You’re on your wav.” Miss Sylvan didn’t answer. Miss Sylvan was too busy bolding her breath and giving herself a great big healthy mental pinch. VI JO CALLED ME at thirteen the next day. “Hello. Van.” He was beaming broadly, and good news was scrawl- all over his face. “What’s the snap, pap?” “I’ve got a buyer.” “Good. How much did you • *>11 raise: “You sitting. Van?” “Win?” 4 Jo grinned secretively. “How much did you want me to raise? 4 Foi the lot. 1 mean.” “You know how much. Stop cutciimousiiig.” “You wanted 900 gee, light?” “’I hat’s light, Jo. Come on.” “I got a stone and two.” “What?” “A stone and 200 gee, that’s right. And 1 managed to buy back that twenty shares of Dale and throw that into the package, too. Who’s tin hottest accountant in town, bov?” » # “A stone and two! fo, bow’d you doit?” Jo smiled obliquely. “Trade Se- crets, lad.” "Well, who’s the buyer?” w 4 “An outfit called Ball Asso- ciates.” I thought this over for a moment. “You mean Don Rail? That illidge will never make good, Jo. He hasn’t got a < cut to his “No. not Don Ball. This is a new outfit. I cheeked tin-in thoroughly. Van. They’ve got more moo than God.” “You sure?” “Positive. I saw their hooks. They’re loaded. Van.” “A corporation?” “Yes.” “Who’s behind it?” “I couldn’t find out. Listen, their money is good. What the hell arc you worried about ?” “I just don’t like doing business with shadows. Who do I sue if tin check hops?” “It won’t hop. I’ll have it certi- fied.”

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32 EVAN HUNTER “Minium.” “What do you say, Van? This is damned good money. You said yourself you only expected to re- alize—” “And 1 was shooting high,” I said, "just to get you to push.” “bo there. A stone and two is fabulous. Shall 1 close it?” “Ball Associates, huh?” “Ball Associates.” “Okay, Jo, close it. 1 want the cheek by seventeen tonight, and i citified. I’ll deposit it Inst thing in the morning. No delivery until 1 hear from the bank.” “Even with a certified check?” Jo protested. “I’m cautious, father.” “Cautious? Father, you’re par- alyzed!” "Close the deal, Jo. And good work.” “Thanks,” he said drily. "You’ll have the check by seventeen. One stone and two. Deal?” “Deal.” “Real. See you, Van.” VII HELLO, Hayden?” “Herr.” “Scrambler twelve.” “Grooved.” 1 heard the scrambler clicking as Hayden set it. 1 punched my own labs, waited for the picture to clear, and said, “Okav, father.” “What?” “I’m on my wav to the office. I just came from die bank.” “And?” “Everything’s fine. We’ve got a stone and two to play with. We can start rolling now, father!” VIII NO, NO, no, no, nonononono- no!” 1 shouted. 1 threw the pencil onto the floor and walked to the bar. “You still haven’t got it! You’re still turning out Rce garbage. Goddamnit, Lu, you’re back in the Middle Ages! You’re giving me Charles Dickens!” “Dickens wasn’t in the Middle Ages,” Lois said coldly. “All right, then you’re giv ing me Spenser.” “He wasn’t — ” “1 don’t give a damn! You’re not giving me what 1 want. Is that clear?" “1 don’t think you know what you want,” Lois said. She sat in a chair with her long legs crossed, the skin opened over her thighs. She wore no stockings, but a deep green garter set with a rhinestone circled the flesh of one leg. Her breasts were done in two golden sunbursts, and the echo of a small burst shad- ed her navel. “I know what I need," I said. I opened in) kit and selected a vial. “You’re enough to make a man mix. I’ll tell you that much.” 1 popped oil, closed my eyes for a moment, and asked, “You had yours?” "This morning,” she said. There was anger on her face. Her brows were pulled together tightly, and she ranied her lower lip in a pout. “Have another,” 1 said. “No, thank you.” “What’s the matter?” “Nothing.” 1 walked to the desk and slapped the back of my hand onto her

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 33 script. "You think this is good, is that it? You think this is deathless prose. You think She stood up suddenly, and her breasts bobbed with liei sudden furv. "Yes. it you must know, think it's good. I think it’s better than am of the crap “Kccsc,” 1 eon ee led. “ — any of the nap Bluer is turn- ing out. In fat t. I think it’s too good for “1 guess \ou don’t like the smell ol that five gee.” "I think it’s too good for. . .” Site paused. She let out an exas- perated breath. Then she began pacing the Hoot. "It is good,” she said. "It stinks,” I told her. “It’s just what you and Hayden said you wanted.” "It stinks." “it’s the Inst I can do.” “You’ll have to do better.” "I can’t!” she fairly screamed. "You ran.” "I can’t, can’t can’t. I've had enough. I can’t take any more. Do it this way, do it that way. Change this, change that. How can a per- son w rite that wav? I low can any- one— ” "Shut up, I.ois.” “• — can anyone con. . .ccn. . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper. She sucked in a deep hi rath. passed a hand over the side of her face, and asked, “All right, how do wc fix it?” “That’s my girl.” “Never mind the fccsc. How do we fix it?” “Listen to this: Darling, kiss me. Take me in your arms.” “What’s wrong with it? "It’s not loaded. We want some- thing like: Dotting. put your mouth on mine. ( <»;•// my lifn ;nlh yours. Crush me in y mn anils. Tress me again\t your hotly ami let me — ” "I get it.” she said dully. She took another deep breath. "Have you any morph. Van?” "I’m Mister Morph himself, honey.” Lois smiled, but her eyes were dull. IX ' DOESN’T FIT,” Bruce Allo- vvay said. “Then we’ll make it fit.” Bruce shook his head. We were alone in my oilier, and the city gleamed like a broad, jeweled tiara outside mv window. The light over my desk cast a golden circle on the scripts scattered over the polished top. “It’s no go. Van.* “Whv not?” "Lois.” “What's the matter with her?” "Nothing that talent wouldn’t fix.” "She’s not that bad.’ "Van, she’s terrible. She’s got Rec sentiments as long as my arm. And on top of that, she can’t write.” “You weren’t so damned hot when I stumbled across you, cither.” “No. but I at least had the inclin- ation. She’s got nothing. Sure, she tries, but that isn’t i nougli. We’ll never mate her words and mine, Van. Never.” “You’re w rong. Bruce. We damn well better mate them.”

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34 EVAN HUNTER “I tell you she’s no good. Zero.” “Lower your voice. She’ll be here any sec.” Bruce shook his head again. “Why arc you keeping her. Van? You’re not going Rec, arc you?” “Friend or no friend,” I told him, “I can still punch you in the mouth.” “All right, I’m sorry. Suppose tell me why?” “I’m paying her five gee. You’re getting twenty. Is that good enough?” Bruce spread his hands wide. “The root of all. Sure, good enough. That means I’ll have to work hard enough to earn fifty, while she ambles along earning about three clams worth. That sounds really fai — ” A tapping sounded on the outer door, and I touched the lock re- lease on my desk. I heard the door slide open, heard the hurried click of high heels through the reception room. The door to my office slid wide then, and Lois came into the room. She was out of breath, and she carried a thick script under her arm. “Am I late?” “A little. Come on over.” She walked to the desk and dumped the script under the lamp. “There it is, father. My sweat and blood. Now all we have to do is match it with Bruce’s.” Bruce sighed painfully. “Yes,” he he said. “That’s all we have to do.” X HAYDEN THORPE sat in the big chair under the ccilamp. The shooting script was open in his lap, and his brow was furrowed in concentration. Lois, Bruce, and I sat opposite him, side by side, on the couch. The room was quiet. Out- side, the traffic on the various levels raised a din that tried valiantly to penetrate his muted office. 1 had never seen a corradonict smoke before. 1 wasn’t even sure that Hayden was smoking. I don’t think he even knew he had that cigar in his mouth. But great bil- lows of smoke rose from his mouth, pulled out over his head, smothered him and the chair and the script. He could have acted the part of a volcano in an adventure stereo with no extra effort. He turned a page, blew out an- other stream of smoke. The rustic of the paper made a loud, scratch- ing sound in the silence of the room. Hayden made a noise that sound- ed like a cross between a burp and a grunt. He turned another page. The electric clock on the wall hummed pleasantly, throwing seconds, minutes, hours into the room. The cloud of smoke thicken- ed, and Hayden kept turning pages, one after the other, grunting oc- casionally, burping frequently. He leaned back at last, closed the script. On the couch, I felt Bruce lean forward expectantly. “Well. . .” Hayden ' said. He studied the end of his cigar, then dropped it into the disposotray. Lois gripped my hand tightly, and I glanced down at it and then over to Havden’s face. • He drew a heavy breath, and I felt Lois tense. “It’s terrific,” he said mildly. “We can start shooting at once.”

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 35 XI DINO HELA7.I cat nr to my office two days later. At first. 1 couldn’t believe inv 4 cars. *‘H'ho?" I ask>-d Lizbcth. “Dino Bclazi, Van.*’ “The Ree? The critic:? The. . . the Rec?” “The same.” “Well. MY//. Give me ten min- utes, then show him in.” I cleared oil my dots carried a high polish, sucked in my stomach, and then walked to mv desk. I tilted mv head 4 • so that the sunlight hit my profile. I waited for Dino Bclazi. The door slid open, and I heard his heavy shoes on my rug. I glanced through the blinds for a few seconds, and then turned casually. 4 Bclazi had stopped in the center of the room. Ih‘ was not at all what I had pictured. He was a small man with a carefully trimmed white board. He wore a severely tailored black 4 suit. His collar was tight, his tie thin. His shoes were black and highly polished. His straight nose sliced down the middle of his face like a cleaver. His lips were pursed beneath that nose, carefully con- cealing his teeth. His eyes could tell stories, but they \\« ic short ol ma- in ial .it the iimmi nt. “Mr. Ilcla/i.” 1 said cordially. “I’m honored.” Bclazi took a ijuick slop forward, then stopped with his heels togeth- er, his homhurg clenched in Ixith hands, his i.me looped over his right arm. “I shall make my visit brief and to the jxiint. Mr. Branos- ki,” he said. His voice was deep, but his speech was clipped. “Mr. Brant,” 1 corrected him. Bclazi smiled mirthlessly. “If you prefer.” “1 prefer.” “1 have compiled a list of alleged literary agents who arc today so- liciting the majority of smut on the market. You, unfortunately, are one of the chief purveyors. I have been systematically eliminating these men, starting at the top and work- ing my way to the Ixittom.” “Eliminating?” “Through visits. I’ve come to ask something of you, Mr. Branos . . .Mr. Brant.” “And what’s that?” “May I sit down?” ‘‘Please do.” “Thank you.” Bclazi moved to the chair oppoiste my desk, lie sat down, carefully raising his trousers to protect their crease. He put his homburg on one arm of the chair, leaned forward and rested both hands on the head of his cane. “Now, then. I’ve come to ask that vou discontinue the submission of 4 manuscripts to: (a) the magazines, (b) the paperbacks, (c) the stereo- scopic, the three dimensional, and the sensory mediums.” 4 “You missed one.” I said.

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 37 “Did I indeed?” “Yes. We’re still submitting ma- terial to the live shows.” Belazi coughed politely. “We shall eliminate the legitimate thea- tre from our discussion. I rather imagine you are not selling them a great deal of material.” I smiled. “In other words, vou’d 4 like me to go out of business, is that it?” “1 did not suggest that.” “But your statement was heavily loaded with that implication, 1 would say. Wouldn’t you?” “I would prefer not to comment on that. Do you agree to my pro- posal?” “Don’t be popped, father.” “Sir?” “Your proposal is absurd. You’re asking me to slit my own throat.” “Suicide is sometimes a more pleasant prospect than execution.” “Don’t tickle me, Belazi. The Vikes are firmly rooted It’ll take more than a threat from vou to kick us out.” “I know that. We possess the means to destroy you anil your ilk, Mr. Brant. Believe me, we are fully prepared.” “How? With bad reviews? Every time you razor something, we sell a million more copies or we get a million more viewers. Crow up, father. The people are wise.” “Are they?” “They arc. They are that. Fi- nally, after all these years, they’re wise. Oh so wise, father. They know just what they want, and we’re giving it to them.” “But is it what they want?” “I’ve no time for philo. Bilazi. And I don’t want to chop psych with vou. either. You know what they want as well as I do.” Belazi pursed his lips and said nothing. His hands were firm on the head of his cans. I I OOK bis silence for assent. “It . used to be the other way around, Belazi. The little man was the slob, wallowing in filth, breed- ing kids lie didn’t want, dreaming o| adventures be never had and ncvri would have. The paperbacks took hold then, and the little, man began to wake up. He recognized convention for what it really was: J a petty disguise of polite society, a subterfuge designed to keep the lit- tle man’s feet firmly on the ground, to keep his head from out ol the clouds.” “I’m reallv not terrible interested in — ” “And at the same time, the body magicians were at work, ‘Wear a Juno bra aiul you won't be flal- < lu sted.’ 'Use Vitagro on your hair, and you'll be dazzlin'’.’ 'Don’t smell — use Sosoap’ While the paper- backs peddled vicarious adventure, the advertising industry emphasized i lothes, cosmetics, luxuries the lit- tle man could never afford, trips to Bermuda, beauty aids, dreams. And sex reared its lovely breast. The paperbacks featured busty broads on their covers in full color, a vi- carious thrill for a quarter, the thin part of a dollar. Television joined the parade, for free this time, and il you couldn’t sec a chick’s navel on Channel 30, you switched to 29. The movies clung to their stupid censorship rulings until they realiz- ed they were losing out in the big

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38 EVAN HUNTER race. They relaxed then, and the results were amazing. Three-di- mensional processes took hold, giv- ing more reality to the vicarious pleasure. And the people liked it. The people loved it. The people — ” “All of which — ” “All of which illustrates a point. Joe Sucker began to understand an important truth. It had been (here all along, starting maybe with the now-defunct comic books, working its way up through pulp magazines, through the now-extinct hard cov- er novels, into the pabacks, into television, the movies, the stereos, the senso’s. Now he knew. The make-believe was better than the reality! The girl’s behind wiggling on the motion picture screen was a hundred times better and a thou- sand times more effective than his own wife’s fat pratt in the shabby, dubious comfort of his own home. The colorful characters of the dream world, the people with names like Drew and Allison and Mark and Cynthia, were having a hell of a lot more fun than the ljple man was. In real life, the pure maiden was the acme of perfection. In the dream world, if a chick did- n’t hop into bed after five minutes of casual conversation she was a Mongolit. ‘Hey!’ Joe Sucker yelled, ‘whore have I been all my life?’ He woke up, and the waking was a tremendously powerful thing.” “The awakening was the doom of society.” “No, Mr. Bclazi. It put the little man right where he’d always want- ed to be. He changed his name from Joe Sucker to Joel Standish. He forgot about the disappointing realities all around him and con- centrated on the purely vicarious as- pect of living. He began to enjoy himself for the first time because now his entire world was a make- believe one. He conveniently dis- posed of the reality, which no long- er served any concrete purpose in his life. He was a sucker reborn, and lie clasped hands with millions of other suckers, and began having a hell of a good time. Drugs, which had already taken a strong illegal foothold, became as common as cigarettes. Eventually, as you know, they became legal, which was a damned smart move. Marriage was abandoned ns the shoddy thing it was, the invention of some fools who wanted to indulge but conceal what is basically a disgusting ani- mal impulse. Archnirism was re- placed by new thoughts, new lan- guage, new dreams. Society was re- vitalized. It still is revitalized. It still is—” “Decadent! It is decadent!” Iielazi shouted. “Only for a Realist. For the Vike, there is pure escape. It does things better for him, with no strain and no pain. Three cheers for it, I say.” < Bclazi’s face seemed rcadv to erupt. It turned a deep red, and then modulated the chromatic scale until it reached its normal shade again. “I take it you will continue with your submissions.” “I will.” Bclazi rose stiffly. “Thank you for the history lesson, Mr. Branos- ki. I appreciated it.” He turned brusquely and started for the door, stopping halfway across the carpet. “You will re- member that you were warned.”

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 39 “Sure, I’ll remember.” “We will do everything in our power to crush you, Mr. Branoski. You and the others. The Vicarious Movement is finished, believe me.” I didn’t answer. I simply- grinned. Belazi turned on his heel and walked out. XII I UNDERSTAND cancer is that way. You can have all the signs, you can see them every day, but you won’t realize what they mean until someone tells you you’ve got six months to live. I was up to my ears in production details. The senso was going to cost a lot more than we’d figured, even cutting it to the bone. Hayden insisted on complete secrecy, which meant no outdoor shooting, no borrowing of sets, no established players who would spread the word around. It meant that we had to hire a studio large enough to hold all the sets wc needed for the show. We had to get additional equip- ment, and wc had to get it the hard way, laying out cold cash for pur- chased items rather than renting the stufT. And we had to search for actors and actresses without ad- vertising, without stirring up any outside interest. We had to get cameramen, musicians, audio and olefactory technicians, a guy to write the score and another to di- rect it. And most expensive were the men Hayden had trained in the new individual sensory techniques. It was a headache, but its possi- bilities looked even bigger to me once I got wrapped up in it And at the same time, I tried to run the agency, taking harassed calls from scribes and eds, reading tons of manuscripts, haggling over prices, marketing the material we had on hand. I hired two new eds, adding an extra strain to my budget. I lx*gan to lean on Liz more and more heavily, delegating much of the marketing to her. My mind was almost always occupied with thoughts of the show, with problems that had come up, but 1 kept a small corner of my thinking capacity open and reserved for the agency, and I used that when Liz gave me daily reports. “Three scripts back from Preen Publishers,” she said. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. They said they weren’t right.” “That’s funny. Who were the scribes?” “Mercer, Peer, Fitch.” “They’ve sold to Preen.” “I know.” “Mm. What else?” “A notice from Agon Senso. New ownership.” “What else?” “Pile of stuff back from Stereo One. Not their type, they said.” “Not their type? It’s the same stuff we’ve been sending them all along,” I complained. Liz shrugged. “You want me to remarket this stuff?” “Yes. But first call Andrews at Stereo One. Ask him what the hell he means by not their type. Tell him — ” “He’s not there any more, Van.” “Since when?” “Yesterday. A new fellow’s taken

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40 EVAN HUNTER over. I forget his name.” I nodded disgustedly. “That ex- plains it. A new cd, a new batch of pet agents and scribes. Well, scroom. There are lots of other markets.” “Hundreds,” Liz agreed. “What brews tonight, Van?” “Why?” “Got a party, thought you might like to take my arm.” “Not tonight, hon.” “Business?” “Business,” I said Liz shrugged. “It’ll probably be a dull glom anyway.” XIII AYDEN SHOWED ME a portion of the shooting script. Camera 1-2 CLOSEUP Betty Face Camera 3-4 Stf.ro Betty brsts Olefact Same, add: Musk woman Lt perspir Cloth Carl: I know! you. I want to until — Camera 1-2 Snap cu Betty mouth Camera 5-6 Over Same Olefaet Cut ai l but Roses, add Fnt t ooth pst 380-5 Betty: No! Car Special Tweed scratch Sticky blood I leant to hurt keep hurting you Camera 3-4 Under Same Camera 7-8 Same as Camera 1-2 Special None ! Carl! Camera 5-6 Filter-shot Carl arms Olefact Perfume 312a Tobacco 42 Roses Camera 7-8 CU Carl nose Special Wind Faint rain Betty: Don’t! Carl, please, please. You're hurting me! Camera 1-2 CU Carl fingers Camera 5-6 Superimp Rose bush Camera 3-4 Grid shot Betty flesh Arm Camera 7-8 OVHD DOLLY Carl fingers I looked at it and scratched my head. It had certainly changed from the simple arrangement of di- alogue Bruce and Lois had written. “Do you see now why it’s going to cost us so much?” he asked. I nodded dumbly. “I see.” XIV WE SWUNG into production, and 1 was pulled away from the office even more than usual. It was a tough grind for me, but Hayden stayed with us all every inch of the way. There were a million things to be done at the studio, and our limited budget meant that everyone had to pitch in.

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 41 And that meant that when I got home each night, I was ready to sleep through the next week. In- stead, I got up each morning at six, rushed to the office to open the mail and sort it, and then waited for Liz to come in with a rundown of the previous activities. It was on one of these mornings, while waiting for Liz, that I happened to cheek the stock room. What 1 found sur- prised me. Lizbcth pranced in at nine, her breasts sparkling with an iridescent glow'. Her skirt was the most dar- ing thing I’d ever seen in an office, consisting of a single thin strip that hung over her buttocks. Her under- wear was transparent, and fully exposed. “That’s going a little far, isn’t it?” 1 asked. She glanced at her near-nudity, lifted her eyes. She shrugged. “Kicks, father.” “Kicks? What the hell ...” “Look, Van,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me how to dress.” “I don’t give a damn what you wear on your own time. In this office, though, don’t look as if you’re ready to crawl into some god- damn Rcc’s nest.” “You’re insulting!” “And so’s that skirt!” “All right!” she shouted. “Would you like me to go home and change it?” “No. But there are a few things I’d like to know.” “Like what?” “Like where our supply of drugs went to? Did you forget to re- order, or has someone been using it for private parties?” “Neither. Swift’s is out.” “Out of drugs? Are you — ” “Out of drugs, yes.” “Then w hy didn’t you get it else- where?” “I tried. There seems to be a scarcity of the stufT.” “Of drugs?” I asked incredul- ously. ‘ Yes, ye s, of thugs. Don’t you understand when I — ” “What the lu ll’s wrong with you, Liz?” “Nothing. I haven’t had a fix yet, that’s all.” “Well, go take one then, and we’ll talk business when you’ve popped.” “There’s none in the office. You saw that yourself.” I was beginning to get a little exasperated. “Then why didn’t you pop before you left your house?” “Because I’m all out, too, and I couldn’t get any.” “I’ve got plenty at my place,” I said. “Send one of the kids when they come in.” “Opainc?” she asked, an eager light in her eyes. “Morph, mostly. A guest supply of a few others. Have you tried all the drug outfits?” “Yes, all of them.” “The private sellers?” “All of them.” “Probably a small shortage. May- be a shipment got fouled. Any- way, I want to ask you about the marketing setup. We usually get checks from Vizco and Young & Co. on Thursdays. There were none in this morning’s mail. Any idea wdiat’s wrong?” “Yes. They’ve both been taken over by a new outfit.” “Oh. What’s the name of the new owner?”

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42 EVAN HUNTER Lizbeth sucked in her breath. “Ball Associates,” she said. XV RAN INTO Deborah Dean that week. She was hurrying to catch a pneumotube, and she al- most knocked me over. ‘Hey!” 1 said, “what’s the rush?” She looked up at me for a mo- ment, and then said, “Van! How good.” She grasped my hand firm- ly, squeezed it hard. “It’s awfully nice to sec you. What are you do- ing? Where have you been keep- ing yourself?” “Well, I’ve been pretty busy,” I said. She’d changed a great deal. She wore her hair long, curling about her neck. There were no contacts on her eyes, and I noticed for the first time that their original color was a somewhat muddy brown. She’d put on weight, of course, so I assumed her trips to the Inseminary had flben successful. She wore a breast sheath that fullv covered her 4 bosom, and her skirt ended just above the knees, much longer than anything I’d ever seen on her. She wore fiats, but I attributed that to her condition. “I have, too,” she said. Her eyes seemed to sparkle, making me for- get the drabness of their color for a moment. This hardly seemed like the same exciting, vivacious De- borah I’d known. And yet, there was something new about her that hadn’t been there before, either. A glow, almost. She glanced at her wrist rhron and said, “I must run. Van. Are you going uptown?” “Yes, I am.” “Good. Come along.” We caught a dual car, sitting side by side as the buildings sped by in a blur outside. We talked of little things, neither of us mentioning the change in her. Finally, 1 asked, “Have you been having trouble getting fixed, Deb?” She smiled tolerantly. “I’m off it, Van. I’m having a baby, you know. They don’t mix well.” “Oh. Yes, of course. The In- seminar was a success, then?” She hesitated a moment before answering. “Well . . . not exactly.” I didn’t get her meaning at first. When it hit me, I stared at her in surprise. A feeling of revulsion gripped me, and I almost wanted to leap out of the car. “I thought you knew,” Deborah said softly. “Rog Brooks and I w’erc married four months ago.” “Married !” Deborah turned away from me and gazed steadily through the win- dow of the car. “A person gets tired of parties,” she said after a while. I didn’t answer her. XVI THE REPORT came through on all corns, pri and pub. It came after a week in which drugs had dwindled down to a mere trickle. I was at home, getting ready for bed. I snapped on the com, scan- ning the messages as they taped out of the machine. The report said: COM PRI-PUB DISPATCH 38C 4213 X WASHINGTON, D.C. AUGUST 12, 2174 X EF- FECTIVE 0001 AUGUST 15,

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 43 2174, ALL DRUGS. NARCO- TICS, STIMULANTS, DE- PRESSIVES ILLEGAL EX- CEPT MEDICINALLY AD- MINISTERED BY LICENSED PHYSICIANS X JOIN T SES- SION CONGRESS TODAY VOTED UNANIMOUSLY IN FAVOR BILL PROHIBI TING SALE OR CONSUMPTION OF NARCOTICS TO PRI- VATE CITIZENS X EX- TREME SERIOUSNESS OF SITUATION WAIVED DE- LAY IN FAVOR OF IMME- DIATE RESUMPTION OF RESTRICTIONS X TIIREE- DAY GRACE PERIOD GRANTED AFTER STRONG VI KE PROTESTS BUT LAW EFFECTIVE AUGUST 15 X OFFENDERS LIABLE TO AR- REST AND PROSECUTION X I tore the tape ofT and held it in trembling hands. This was impos- sible. This was utterly fantastic. I rushed over to the phone, dialed Hayden Thorpe’s number, let it ring six times before I gave up. I tried Bruce next, and when I got no answer there, I called Clark Talbot in desperation. He didn’t look good. He didn’t look good at all. He blinked his eves at the screen, wet his lips with his tongue. “That you. Van?” he asked. “Yes, Clark. Did you see the latest on the com?” “About the narcotics?” “Yes.” “They’ve been running that every ten minutes. Where you been fool- ing, father?” “Is it straight goods?” “Sure, it must be. It’s on the public communicators, too. You can’t get any bum dope on those.” “Well, Jesus, what the hell are we going to do? What docs it all mean? I thought we had a Vike majority in Congress.” “Majorities don’t mean beans, Van. You spread a little moo around in the right places, and ma- jorities become minorities over- night. Don’t you know politics?” “But ... I mean . . . well, where are we going to get our stufT?” Clark gave a short, dry laugh that sounded more like a cackle. “Jest me not, father,” he said. “I’ve been cool for the past nine days. I couldn’t raise a drop of hcrrocokc no matter how hard I tried. So this makes it illegal, so what? If you can’t get it, what difference docs it make if somebody says you’re not allowed to get it? Father, I’ve been down, really.” “Nine days!” I said, incredulity in my voice. “Cooler and cooler, and now I’m almost cold. It was rough tough stuff, Van. I thought I was done a few days ago. I was ready to make out a will.” “What about now? I mean . . . ” “Now?” Clark asked. “Now?” I looked into his eyes. They were vacuous and lonely. Something of a smile played on his lips and then died there. “No mo, Van. Gone. From my body, anyway. In my mind ... in my mind ...” He sighed deeply, then changed the subject abruptly. “Who’s Ball Associates?” “What?” I asked, still a little dazed. “Ball Associates. I understand

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44 EVAN HUNTER they’ve cornered half the god-damn publishing field. Have you sold anything of mine lately?” “Well, Clark, Triple Press is now owned by — ” “I know. Ball. What about it?” “Change of policy. You know how these tilings work. New owner, new — ” “Yeah,” Clark said drily. “Well, without a habit, all I have to worry about is food. Think you can scrape enough for that?” 1 managed to laugh weaklv. “Hell, Clark, stop talking like a—” “Ree?” he asked. He began laughing then, continued laughing until I snapped off. I walked to my home bar, checked the vials there. I still had a fair supply even though this past week had dented it badly. My hands were trembling as I pulled the lid shut. I felt like talking to someone, anyone. I thought of Hayden, realized he was out. The same applied to Bruce. I picked up the com report and looked at it again, and then I dressed slowly and left the apartment. LL TRAFFIC had been stopped on the street levels. The robot policemen had their hands full as small jet cars piled up one behind the other, their horns blaring shrilly. Everyone seemed to be in the streets. There was swearing and shouting and cursing and singing and drunken revelry. The Ree’s commanded the night, and they reeled about everywhere, proclaiming their major victory to the neon skies. Every Vike I passed stared at me dejectedly, sharing silently the blow of our defeat. There was the solemn air of a funeral procession mixed with the blatant enthusiasm of a wedding feast. The streets were a com- plexity of contrasts, but the cele- brants seemed to outweigh the mourners — if by lung power alone. I lurched along the walk, shoul- dering Ree’s aside, biting my lip, wondering how this had happened, wondering how it had all come about. I kept walking, unseeing almost, and I found myself at my office. I took the lift up, pressed my key into the lock, and entered. A light was burning, and I cursed Liz’ inefficiency until I opened the door to my private office and found her sitting at the desk. Her face was drawn in the light of the overhead lamp, her features haggard. “It’s all over,” she said. “Don’t be silly. Just because — ” “Not only the drugs,” she pro- tested. “Everything! Look at this.” She held out a white sheet of paper, and I looked at it in- credulously. It told me that Ball Associates now owned a majority of the stock throughout the publish- ing and entertainment fields, and that editorial requirements would be changed abruptly in the near future. I nodded my head vaguely. “We should have seen this coming, Liz. We should have — ” “We didn’t,” she said blankly. “It still doesn’t mean the end. We can still submit material. We can — ” “Look at the signature,” she said dully. “At the bottom of the page.” I looked.

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 45 It was signed: Dino Belazi, President. “No!” I shouted involuntarily. “This can’t — ” I stopped myself. It could, and it had. I knew then what Bclazi’s weapon had been. Money. Money to buy out the industry, and money to pay off the lobbies. Money, the Vikes’ own weapon, and in the hands of the Ree’s. How many stupid Ree’s had contributed to Bc- lazi’s death fund? How many grubby peasants had scraped up their last dollar for the cause of destroying the Vikc Movement? It made me a little ill. I crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it on the floor. I wheeled then and ran from the room, leaving Liz at the desk. I ran into the streets, into the mayhem again, shoving, push- ing, fighting my way uptown, fight- ing the blares of the horns, the sharp laughter, the voices high in song, the giggling, the roaring, the endless procession of jubilant Ree’s and despondent Vikes, the clatter and the clash, the clamor and the incessant din — - fighting all the way. And then I got where I was go- ing, and I closed the door behind me, cutting myself of! from the noise outside. I took the lift up, walked briskly down the hall and pressed the buzzer. A series of chimes rang within the apartment, and then the door panel slid open and I showed my face to the mirrored side of the seethru. The door slid back, and Lois stood there, ready for bed, her red hair fluffed behind her, her body sheathed in thin pajamas. “Van,” she said. There was something of desperation in her voice, and something of expec- tancy — as if she thought I’d have the solution to the entire problem. I went inside and walked quickly to the window, looking down at the milling crowds. She came and stood beside me, and I felt the warmth of her body, smelled the faint aroma of her perfume. “It’s bad,” I said. “This new law . . . and they’ve got control of the ■ field. Ball Associates — Dino Be- lazi. We’ll never sell them another Vike script as long as — ” “And the show?” Lois cut in. “After all this work, all the money put into it? Will that . . . die, too?” I thought of the show. Individual Sensory Productions. Something new, something spec- tacular. Something as potent as a shot of morph. Maybe . . . maybe . . . My mouth was grim when I answered. “No, Lois, the show won’t die. Wc’rc not licked yet.” She moved closer to me, and we kept watching the frantic crowd in the street until the pale beginnings of dawn chased the revelers to their homes and their beds. XVII I WENT TO SEE Dino Belazi the next day. I didn’t go there to beg or plead. I went there to tell him what I was going to do. I went there to spit in his gloating face. He wasn’t gloating, though. He was sitting seriously behind his se- vere desk. His hair was slightly disarrayed, and he stroked his beard with forced concentration.

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46 EVAN HUNTER “All right,” I said, “you’ve got it all now. Right in the palm of your fat Realist fist. But we’re not through, Bclazi. I came to tell you that you’d better enjoy your- self while you can.” “Your attitude, Mr. Branoski 99 “Mr. Brant, goddamnit! And don’t forget it!” “Your attitude, Mr. Brant is not a sound one. It is, rather — ” “Just listen to this, Bclazi. I’ve got something that’s bigger than anything that’s ever tome along. I’m producing it myself, so I don’t need any big company to bother with. In other words, I don’t need Ball Associates. I’m producing my- self, with my own money, and I’ll distribute myself — and when this hits the market, you can take your rejuvenated Ree society and stick it right up your nose. Just remember that, Belazi. Remember it, and en- joy yourself because you’ve got one foot in the grave and the other on a grapeskin.” Belazi’s face became a little sad. “I had hoped we could get together. I had hoped ...” He shrugged. “Together? Ree’s and Vikes? Hah!” I looked at him contemptu- ously. “You mean you’d hoped my writers would turn out the Ree feese you’re dying to put on the market again. Well they won’t, Bclazi. They won’t because what I’ve got is going to take all the starch out of your little coup. You’re going to be right back where you started. Only this time, we’re going to be more careful. We’re going to watch you this time, Belazi, and there’ll be no mistakes.” “Do what you must do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it, all right. I just wanted you to know. So that you won’t sit up here and gloat all day. I wanted you to worry a little, Belazi. I wanted you to know that yojir happiness is short-lived. I’ll leave now, but you’ll be hearing from me.” I turned and headed for the door. Behind me, Belazi said, “Good luck, Brarroski.” XVIII I COULDN’T contact Deborah. She was nowhere to be found. I got Hayden and Bruce, and to- gether we began scouring the city, anxious to find her because the stone she’d promised us would be enough to put the show over and smash the new Ree uprising. I still had some drugs left, and so I didn’t feel the new law as much as Clark apparently had. But they wouldn’t last forever, and we had to work fast. We had to start a bally that would generate enough Vike interest to start a counter- movement. We had to do some- thing to blast through the miasma of defeat that had settled over the city like a plague of locusts. We had to announce the new senso fast. It took me five days to find her, and when I did, she was working hard, her hair trailing over one eye, her face sweated. She was very tired, and her pregnancy seemed to show more now than it had the last time I’d seen her. She was wearing a nurse’s frock, which was in perfect keeping with her surroundings because she was in a clinic.

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 47 “Deborah,” I said, “I’ve come for the money.” She didn’t stop working. She was banking plasma row on row’, turning to pick up the jars, then stacking them ncatlv on the shelf. “The what. Van?” “The monev. The stone you promised me. Remember? That night at your party? When you told me — ” “Oh. Yes. Yes, I remember now.” There was an uncomfortable si- lence. She put another jar on the shelf and it clinked solidly against the one beneath it. “Well? Can I have it?” Deborah didn’t answer. “I said—” “I heard you. Van.” “Well?” “No.” “No? What do you mean, no? You promised me. Deb. I went ahead with plans because I was counting on that moo. Honey, if ever you wanted to help someone, this is — ” “It’s not a question of wanting to. Van. Believe me, I do want to. I simply haven’t got that much money.” “How much do you have?” “Two thousand at the most. And . . . and we’ll need that, too.” “But for Christ’s sake,” 1 said, al- most wanting to weep, “what did vou do with all your monev? Where — ” “The clinic,” she said. “It’s Rog’s, you know. We . . . we’re going to be needed. Van.” “Deb,” I said. “Deb, Deb.” “I would help you if I could, be- lieve me. But you can’t imagine what this abrupt change is doing to people. Rog has his hands full al- ready. and there’ll be more. It’s S * going to take work, Van. bard work. Rehabilitating the addicts, and then rehabilitating the sick minds.” “What? I’m sorry. Deb. What did vou sav?" • • “We’ve got to find a meeting ground, don’t you see. Van? That’s the hardest job ahead, and that’s where every psych is going to he valuable. A meeting ground, some- where in the middle.” “What do you mean? Some- where in the middle of what?” “The middle of Vike and Rcc. Neither is healthy, Van — and I think both factions realize it.” “Realize it?” I was suddenly angry. “Sure,” I said, “start talk- ing like a goddamn smug Rec tramp. Build a cozy clinic for your shackmatc and then start spouting pretty phrases. Well, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You think this Rcc business is going to last? You think the people are going to turn back to all that fecse? We’ve been Vike for more than ten years now. We’ll never go back to Rcc ” “You’re right,” Deborah said, “but only because the Rcc attitude is a sick one, too. As sick as the Vike. And Ball Associates — which was the Rre’s weapon — is a virtual monopoly, and any such monopoly of art and entertainment is bad. Van. Van, we’ve got to wed the two.” Her eves burned with a fierce intensity, and she put her hand on my arm. “We* ve got to bring them together. We’ve got to make a happy whole out of two diseased parts.”

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48 EVAN HUNTER She paused and turned her head away. “It’s going to get worse. Van. Much worse. This is only the beginning. And then someone will have to pick up the pieces. Rog is helping, and so am I. But we’ve all got to.” She paused again. “You see, we have no choice. It’s cither that ... or the end of every- thing we know.” Her voice had got very low. She looked op at me, and her fingers tightened on my arm. “Do you understand, Van?” I stared at her for a few mo- ments, and then I gently took her hand from my arm. “Goodbye, Deborah,” I said. And then I left her. XIX r' GOT WORSE. The drug ruling was strictly en- forced, and it was impossible to get as much as a stick of benzejuana anywhere. I was sick. I was sicker than I’d ever been in my life. For the next month, I stayed locked in my room, my body the only thing that concerned me. The coins re- ported new suicides daily, new men- tal crackdowns. And everywhere around me, the picture was chang- ing. Vike entertainment was slowly and deliberately being suffocated. The Ree’s were having a field day, and Dino Belazi must have been riding on a big cloud. Lois called often. Her habit had been a short one, and an easy one to shuck. My habit had come from years of use, and it left my body reluctantly, fighting for every inch of control it lost. I’d click on when- ever she called, and then lay back while she spoke. I very rarely answered her. I just listened, nod- ding now and then, thinking of my own private hell and envying the easy battle she had won. Arid then it was all over. I could cat in the morning without spitting it up again before noon. My appe- tite began to return and I started to think of other things besides the constant physical turmoil that had hi-ld me for so many weeks. I did a lot of thinking. Some of it surprised me. But chiefly, I thought of the new senso — and of the money we needed. I tried to sell the agency. It was all I had left, and I figured we could still save the show, still stage something big enough to knock the Rcc’s on their arses. But people know when you’re pedding a corpse. My stable consisted of Vike scribes. There was no market for Vike stufT now. I got laughed at in a good many places, and actually tossed out of one place. In the end, I was forced to close the office and cut the scribes loose. I moved to a cheaper apartment, and I tried to sell the furnishings. But the furnishings were of Vike design, and Vike had become syno- nymous with bubonic plague. I started to look around me then. I still had some money, and it wasn’t neccssarv for me to hunt • work immediately. I took long walks, and I watched the results of the new scheme of things. Summer was giving way to au- tumn, and brisk w-inds moved in as quickly as the Ree upsurgcncc had. I walked the streets, and I watched the people, Ree and Vike, and I thought. There was the smell of

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MALICE IN WONDERLAND 49 winter in the air. The sky had turned cast iron, and dying leaves rasped along die street levels, crushed beneath the hurrying boots of passersby. The air was crisp, with the tang of a ripe apple. It caressed the flesh with tingling fing- ers, left my face raw and my body invigorated. I walked and I watched and I listened. And 1 saw the broken pieces Drborah had mentioned, and I saw the people who were painstakingly picking up those pieces, trying to fit them to- gether into a new pattern. I thought often of the new senso and Ball Associates and Dino Belazi. I WENT TO Lois’ place after a while. I hadn’t seen her or talked to her for some time now, but I wasn’t surprised to see her looking the way she’d looked that first day in my office, long long ago, when her name had been Lydia Silverstein and her habits had been somewhere between Rec and Vike. It was good to see her like that. She was fully clothed, and somehow that made her more attractive. She was happy to see me. She took me into her living room, and we sat before a blazing fire in the hearth, mocking the cold air out- side the plexoid windows. Neither of us said anything for a long while. And then, finally, with my eyes on the crackling flames and my hand clenched in front of me, I said, “It’s all over, Lois. All of it.” She didn’t answer. “The Vikes arc dead,” I went on. “There’s nothing remaining of them, Lois.” “Maybe . . . mavbc it’s for the # # best,” she said. “Maybe . . . maybe this should have happened a long time ago." I nodded abruptly. “I’ve . . . I’ve been thinking. A lot. I’ve been looking around me and seeing kids holding hands again and being human again. I’ve seen people laughing at . . . at humor that wasn’t manufactured for them. I’ve seen tears that were personal and not generated. I ... I think this is the first time I’ve really looked around me since as long as I can remember.” “Yes, Y'an,” Lois said softly. "I was wondering ... if ... if we couldn’t take the senso to Belazi. Show him what we’ve got so far. Ask him for . . . for help in com- pleting it.” I turned my head back to the flames. It wasn’t easy to say what I was saying. It wasn’t easy at all. It was like cutting off the arm you’ve had attached to your shoul- der all your life. “You see, Lois, the senso can be changed. I mean, it doesn’t have to be . . . the . . . the way we have it. We could . . . get together. It’s still a terrific thing, and it can be used for real enter- tainment. If ... if we can find a middle ground ... a compromise.” Lois stared at me curiously. “I think we can,” she said at last. “Maybe,” I said, “maybe”. She covered my hand with hers, and her flesh was warm and not at all repulsive. “It’s not the end after all, is it, Van?” I turned to face her, and her eyes were warm, her lips parted expectantly. “No,” I said. “It may be just the beginning.” ... THE END

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Survival of the fittest, on the frontier planet, of Altair, was a matter of who could tell the biggest whopper. Con-man Harry Redder considered himself a real master of the art — but he didn’t know the Alluirians! Letter of the LAW By Alan E. Nourse Illustrated by Rudolph Palais HE PLAGE was dark and damp, and smelled like moldy leaves. ' Meyerhof!' followed the huge, bearlike Altairian guard down the slippery flagstones of the corridor, sniffing the dead, musty air with distaste. He drew his carefully - tailored, Terran - styled jacket closer about his shoulders, shivering as his eyes avoided the black, yawning cell-holes they were passing. His foot had slipped on the slimey flags from time to time, and finally he paused to wipe the caked mud from his trouser leg. “How- much farther is it?” he shouted angrily. The guard waved a heavy paw vaguely into the blackness ahead. Quite sudenly the corridor took a sharp bend, and the Altairian stopped, producing a huge key ring from some obscure fold of his hairy hide. “I still don’t sec any reason for all the fuss,” he grumbl- ed in a wounded tone. “We’ve treated him like a brother — ” One of the huge steel doors clicked open. Meyerhof!' peered in- to the blackness, catching a vague- ly human outline against the back wall. “Harry?” he called sharply. There was a startled gasp from within, and a skinny, gnarled little man suddenly appeared in the guard’s light, like a grotesque, twisted ghost out of the blackness. Wide blue eyes regarded Meyerhof!" from beneath uneven black eye- brows, and then the little man’s face broke into a crafty grin. “Paul! So they sent you! I knew I could 51

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52 ALAN E. NOURSE count on it!” He executed a deep, awkward bow, motioning Meyer- hoff into the dark cubicle. “Not much to offer you,” he said slyly, “but it’s the best! can do under the circumstances. . .” Meycrhoff scowled, and turned abruptly to the guard. “We’ll have some privacy now, if you please. Interplanetary ruling. And leave us the light.” The guard grumbled, and start- ed for the door. “It’s about time you showed up!” cried the little man in the cell. “Great day! Lucky they sent you, pal. Why, I’ve been in here for years — ” “Look, Zcckler — the name is Meyerhof!', and I’m not your pal,” Meycrhoff snapped. “And you’ve been here for two weeks, three days, and approximately four hours. You’re getting as bad as your gen- tle guards when it comes to bandy- ing the truth around!” He peered through the dim light at the gaunt face of the prisoner. Zeckler’s face was dark with a week’s beard, and his bloodshot eyes belied the cocky grin on his lips. His clothes were smeared and sodden, streaked with great splotches of mud and moss. Meyerhoffs face softened a little. “So Harry Zeckler’s in a jam again,” he said. “You look as if they’d treated you like a brother.” The little man snorted. “These overgrown teddy-bears don’t know what brotherhood means, nor hu- manity, either. Bread and water I’ve been getting, nothing more, and then only if they feel like bring- ing it down.” He sank wearily down on the rock bench along the wall. “I thought you’d never get here! I sent an appeal to the Terran Con- sulate the first day I was arrested. What happened? I mean, all they had to do was get a man over here, get the extradition papers signed, and provide transportation off the planet for me. Why so much time? I’ve been sitting here rotting — ” He broke off in mid-sentence and star- ed at Meycrhoff. You brought the papers, didn’t you? I mean, we can leave now?” Meyerhoff stared at the little man with a mixture of pity and disgust. “You are a prize fool,” he said fi- nally. “Did you know that?” Zeckler’s eves widened. “What do you mean, fool? So I spend a couple of weeks in this pneumonia- trap! The deal was worth it! I’ve got three million credits sitting in the Terran Consulate on Altair IV, just waiting for me to walk in and pick it up. Three million credits — do you hear? That’s enough to set me up for life!” Meyerhoff nodded grimly. “If you live long enough to walk in and pick it up, that is.” “What do you mean, if?” MEYERHOFF sank down be- side the man, his voice a tense whisper in the musty cell. “I mean that right now you are practically dead. Y'ou may not know it, but you arc. You walk into a newly- opened planet with your smart lit- tle bag of tricks, with a shaky pass- port and no permit, with no knowl- edge of the natives outside of two paragraphs of inaccuracies in the Explorer’s Guide — and then you’re not content to come in here and sell something legidmate, some- thing the natives might conceivably

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I LETTER OF THE LAW be able to use. No, nothing so sim- ple for you. You have to pull your usual high-pressure stuff. And this time, buddy, you’re paying the piper.” “You mean I’m not being ex- tradited?” MeyerhofT grinned unpleasantly. “I mean precisely that. You’ve committed a crime here — a major crime. The Altairians arc sore about it. And the Terran Con- sulate isn’t willing to sell all the trading possibilities here down the river just to get you out of a mess. You’re going to stand trial — and these natives are out to get you. Personally, I think they’re going to get you.” Zecklcr stood up shakily. “You can’t believe anything the natives say,” he said uneasily. “They’re pa- thological liars. Why, you should sec what they tried to sell me! You’ve never seen such a pack of liars as these critters.” He glanced up at MeyerhofT. “They’ll probab- ly drop a little fine on me and let me go.” “A little fine of one Terran neck.” MeyerhofT grinned nastily. “You’ve committed the most hein- ous crime these creatures can imagine, and they’re going to get you for it if it’s the last thing they do. I’m afraid, my friend, that your con-man days are over.” Zecklcr fished in the other man’s pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lighted it with trembling fingers. “It’s bad, then,” he said finally. “It’s bad, all right.” Some shadow of the sly, elfin grin crept over the little con-man’s face. “Well, at any rate, I’m glad they sent you over,” he said weakly. 53 “Nothing like a good lawyer to handle a trial — ” “Lawyer? Not me! Oh, no — sor- ry, but no thanks.” MeyerhofTs face beamed maliciously. I’m your advisor, old boy. Nothing else. I’m here to keep you from botching things up still worse for the Trad- ing Commission, that’s all. 1 would- n’t get tangled up in a mess with these creatures for anything!” He shook his head. “You’re vour own 4 lawyer, Mr. Super-Salesman. It’s all your show. And you’d better get your head out of the sand, or you’re going to lose a case like it’s never been lost before!” AA EYERIIOFF watched the lit- * * * tie man’s pale face, and grin- ned inwardly. In a way, he thought, it was a pity to sec such a change in the rosy-cheeked, dapper, cock- sure little man who had talked his way glibly in and out of more jams than MeyerhofT could count. Trad- ing brought scalpers; it was almost inevitable that where rich and un- exploited trading ground was un- covered, it would first fall prey to the fast-trading boys. They spread out from Terra with the first wave of exploration — the slick, fast-talk- ing men who could work new terri- tories unfettered by the legal re- strictions that soon closed down the more established planets. The first men in were the richest out, and through some curious quirk of the Terrestrial mind, they knew they could always count on Terran pro- tection, however crooked and un- derhanded their methods. But occasionally a situation arose where the civilization and social

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54 ALAN E. NOURSE practices of the alien victims made it unwise to tamper. Altair I had been recognized at once by the Trading Commission as a commer- cial prize of tremendous value, but early reports had warned of the danger of wildcat trading on the little, musty, jungle-like planet with its shaggy, thrcc-eycd inhabitants — warned specifically against the con- fidence tactics so frequently used — but there was always somebody, MeycrhofF reflected sourly, who just didn’t get the word. Zcckler puffed nervously on his cigarette, his narrow face a study in troubled concentration. “But I didn’t do anything!” he exploded finally. “So I pulled an old con game. So what! Why should they get so excited? So I clipped a few thousand fast credits, pulled a little fast business.” lie shrugged elo- quently, spreading his hands. “Everybody’s doing it. They do it to each other without batting an eye. You should see these critters operate on each other. Why, my little scheme was peanuts by com- parison— ” Meyerhoff pulled a pipe from his pocket, and began stuffing the bowl with infinite patience. “And pre- cisely what sort of con game was it?” he asked quietly. Zeckler shrugged again. “The simplest, tiredest, moldiest old racket that ever made a quick nickel. Remember the old Terran gag about the Brooklyn Bridge? The same thing. Only these critters didn’t want bridges. They wanted land — this gooey, slimey swamp they call ‘farm land’. So I gave them what they wanted. I just sold them some land.” Meyerhoff nodded fiercely. “You sure did. A hundred square kilos at a swipe. Only you sold the same hundred square kilos to a dozen different natives!” Suddenly he threw back his hands and roared. “Of all the things you shouldn’t have done — ” “But what’s a chunk of land?” Meyerhoff shook his head hope- lessly. “If you hadn’t been so greedy, you’d have found out what a chunk of land was to these na- tives before you started peddling it. You’d have found out other things about them, too. You’d have learn- ed that in spite of all their bumbling and fussing and squabbling they’re not so dull. You’d have found out that they’re marsupials, and that two out of five of them get thrown out of their mother’s pouch before they’re old enough to survive. You’d have realized that they have to start fighting for individual rights almost as soon as they’re born. Anything goes, as long as it benefits them as individuals.” Meyerhoff grinned at the little man’s horrified face. “Never heard ol that, had you? And you’ve never heard of other things, too. You’ve probably never heard that there arc just too many Altairians here for the food their planet can supply, and their diet is so finicky that they just can’t live on anything that doesn’t grow here. And consequent- ly, land is the key factor in their economy. Not money, nothing but land. “To get land, it’s every man for himself, and the loser starves, and their entire legal and monetary sys- tem revolves on that principal. And they’ve built up the most confusing

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LETTER OF THE LAW 55 and impossible system of barter and trade imaginable, aimed at indi- vidual survival, with land as the value behind the credit. That ex- plains the lying — of course they’re liars, with an economy like that. They’ve completely missed the con- cept of truth. “Pathological? You bet they’re pathological! Only a fool would tell the truth when his life depended on his being a better liar than the next guy! Lying is the time-honored tradition, with their entire legal system built around it — ” ZECKLER snorted. “But how could they possibly have a legal system? I mean, if they don’t recog- nize the truth when it slaps them in the face?” McyerhofT shrugged. “As we understand legal systems, I suppose they don’t have one. They have only the haziest idea what truth represents, and they’ve shrugged ofT the idea as impossible and useless.” He chuckled maliciously. “So you went out and found a chunk of ground in the uplands, and sold it to a dozen separate, sclf-ccntercd, half-starved natives! Encroachment on private property is legal grounds for murder on this planet, and twelve of them descended on the same chunk of land at the same time, all armed with title-deeds — ” McyerhofT sighed. “You’ve got twelve mad Altairians in your hair. You’ve got a mad planet in your hair. And in the meantime, Terra’s most valuable uranium strike in five centuries is threatening to cut off supply unless they sec your blood splattered liberally all the way from here to the equator.” Zccklcr was visibly shaken. “Look,” he said weakly. “So I wasn’t so smart — what am I going to do? I mean, are you going to sit quietly by and let them butcher me? How could 1 defend myself in a legal setup like this?” McyerhofT smiled coolly. “You’re going to get your sly little con-man brain to working, I think,” he said softly. “By Interplanetary Rules, they have to give you a trial in Tcr- ran legal form — judge, jury, court procedure, all that foldcrol. They think it’s a big joke — after all, what could a judicial oath mean to them? — but they agreed. Only thing is, they’re going to hang you, if they die trying. So you’d better get those stunted little wits of yours to click- ing— and if you try to implicate me, even a little bit, I’ll be out of there so fast you won’t know what hap- pened.” With that, MeyerhofT chuckled and strolled to the door. He jerked it inward sharply, and spilled three guards over on their faces. “Priva- cy,” he grunted, and started back up the slippery corridor. IT CERTAINLY looked like a I courtroom, at any rate. In the front of the long, damp stone room was a bench, with a seat behind it, and a small straight chair to the light. To the left was a stand with twelve chairs — larger chairs, with a railing running along the front. The rest of the room was filled almost to the door with seats facing the bench. Zccklcr followed the shaggy- haired guard into the room, nod- ding approvingly. “Not such a bad

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56 ALAN E. NOURSE arrangement,” he said. “They must have gotten the idea fast.” Meyerhof! wiped the perspiration from his forehead and shot the lit- tle con-man a stony glancct “At least you’ve got a courtroom, a judge, and a jury for this mess. Be- yond that — ” He shrugged elo- quently. “I can’t make any prom- ises.” In the back of the room a door burst open with a bang. Loud, harsh voices were heard as half a dozen huge Altairians attempted to push through the door at once. Zeckler clamped on the headset to his translator unit, and watched the hubbub in the anteroom with grow- ing alarm. Finally the question of precedence seemed to be settled, and a group of the Altairians filed into the room in order of stature. stalking across the room in flowing black robes, pug-nosed faces glow- ering in self-importance. They de- scended upon the jury box, grunt- ing and scrapping with each other for the first-row scats, and the judge took his place with obvious satis- faction behind the heavy wooden bench. Finally the prosecuting at- torney appeared, flanked by two clerks, who took their places beside him. The prosecutor eyed Zeckler with cold malevolence, then turned and delivered a sly wink at the judge. In a moment the room was a hubbub as it filled with the huge, bumbling, bcarlike creatures, jostl- ing each other and fighting for seats, growling and complaining. Two small fights broke out in the rear, but were quickly subdued by

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LETTER OF THE LAW 57 the group of gendarmes guarding the entrance. Finally the judge glared down at Zcckler with all three eyes and pounded the benc h top with a wooden mallet until the roar of activity subsided. The jury- men wriggled uncomfortably in their scats, exchanging winks, and finally turned their attention to the front of the court. “We are reading the case of the people of Altair I,” the judge’s voice roared out, “against one Har- rs' Zackler — ” he paused for a long, impressive moment — “Terran.” The courtroom immediately burst into an angry grosvl, until the judge pounded the bench live or six times more. “This — creature — is hereby / accused of the following crimes,” the judge bellowed. “Conspiracy to overthrow the government of Al- tair I. Brutal murder of seventeen law-abiding citizens of the village of Karzan at the third hour before dawn in the second period after his arrival. Desecration of the Temple of our beloved Goddess Zennat, Queen of the Harvest. Conspiring with the lesser gods to cause the unprecedented drought in the Dcr- matti section of our fair globe. Ob- scene exposure of his pouch-marks in a public square. Four separate and distinct charges of jailbreak and briber.' — ” die judge pounded the bench for order — “Espionage with the accursed scum of Altair II in preparation for interplanetary in- vasion— ” The little con-man’s jaw sagged lower and lower, the color draining from his face. He turned, wide- eyed, to Meyerhof!', then back to the judge. “The chairman of the jury,” said the judge succinctly, “will read die verdict!” The little native in the front of the jury-box popped up like a pup- pet on a string. “Defendant found guilty on all counts,” he said. “Defendant is guilty! The court will pronounce sentence — ” “Now wail a minute!” Zcckler was on his feet, wild-eyed. “What kind of railroad job—” The judge blinked disappointed- ly at Paul MeverholT. “Not yet?” he asked, unhappily. “No.” MevcrholFs hands twitch- ed nervously. “Not yet, your honor. Later, your honor. The trial comes first." THE JUDGE looked as if his candy had been stolen. “But you said I should call for the ver- dict— ” “Later. You have to have the trial before you can have the ver- dict.” The Altairian shrugged indiffer- ently. “Now. . .later. . .” lie mut- tered. “1 lave the prosecutor call his first witness.” said Mcvcrhofi. Zcckler leaned over, his face ashen. “These charges,” he hissed. “Thev’rc insane!” “Of course they are,” McyerhofT hissed back. “But what am I going to — ” “Sit tight. Let them set up.” “But those lies. They’re liars, the whole pack of them — ” He broke off as the prosecutor roared a name. The shaggy brute who took the stand was wearing a bright purple hat which sat rakishlv over one ear. •

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58 ALAN E. NOURSE He grinned the Altairian equivalent of a hungry- grin at the prosecutor; Then he cleared his throat and started: "This Terran rifTrair — ” “The oath,” muttered the judge. “We’ve got to have the oath.” The prosecutor nodded, and four natives moved forward, carrying huge insc ribed marble slabs to the front of the court. One by one the chunks were reverently piled in a heap at the witness’s feet. The wit- ness placed a huge, hairy paw on the cairn, and the prosecutor said, “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you — ” He paused to squint at the paper in his hand, and finished on a puzzled note, “ — God- dess?” The witness removed the paw from the rock pile long enough to scratch his car. Then he replaced it, and replied, “Of course,” in an injured tone. “Then tell this court what you have seen of the activities of this abominable wretch.” The witness settled back into the chair, fixing one eye on Zeckler’s face, another on the prosecutor, and closing the third as if in meditation. “1 think it was on the fourth night of the seventh crossing of Altair II (may the Goddess cast a drought upon it) — or was it the seventh night of the fourth crossing? — ” he grinned apologetically at the judge — "when I was making my way back through town toward my blessed land-plot, minding my own business, your honor, after weeks of bargaining for the crop I was har- vesting. Then suddenly from the shadow of a building, this creature — ” he waved his paw at Zcckler — “stopped me in my tracks with a vicious cry. He had a weapon I’d never seen before, and before I could find my voice he forced me back against the wall. I could sec by the cruel glint in his eyes that there was no warmth, no sympathy in his heart, that I was--” "Objection!” Zeckler squealed plaintively, jumping to his feet. “This witness can’t even remember what night he’s talking about!” The judge looked startled. Then he pawed feverishly through his bundle of notes. “Overruled,” he said abruptly. “Continue, please.” The witness glowered at Zeckler. “As I was saying before this loutish interruption,” he muttered, “I could see that I was face to face with the most desperate of criminal types, even for Terrans. Note the shape of his head, the flabbiness of his cars! I was petrified with fear. And then, helpless as I was, this two-legged abomination began to shower me with threats of evil to my blessed home, dark threats of poisoning my land unless 1 would tell him where he could find the resting place of our blessed Goddess )} “I never saw him before in my life,” Zcckler moaned to McyerhofT. “Listen to him! Why should I care where their Goddess — ” McyerhofT gave him a stony look. “The Goddess runs things around here. She makes it rain. If it does- n’t rain, somebody’s insulted her. It’s very simple.” “Hut how can I fight testimony like that?” “I doubt if you can fight it.” "But they can’t prove a word of it. . .” He looked at the jury, who

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LETTER OF THE LAW 59 were listening enraptured to the second witness on the stand. This one was testifying regarding the butchcrous slaughter of eighteen (or was it twenty-three? Oh, yes, twenty-three) women and children in the suburban village of Karzan. The pogrom, it seemed, had been accomplished by an energy weapon which ate great, gaping holes in the sides of buildings. A third witness took the stand, continuing the drone as the room grew hotter and muggier. Zcekler grew paler and paler, his eyes turning glassy as the testimony piled up. “but it’s not true ” he whispered to Meyerhof!. “Of course it isn’t! Can’t you un- derstand? These f)eof>le have no regard for truth. It’s stupid, to them, silly, a mark of low intelli- gence. The only thing in the world they have any respect for is a liar bigger and more skillful than they ZEGKLER jerked around abruptly as he heard his name bellowed out. “Does the defendant have anything to say before the jury- delivers the verdict ?” “Do I have—” Zcekler was across the room in a flash, his pale cheeks suddenly taking on a fever- ish glow. He sat down gingerly on the witness (hair, facing the judge, his eyes bright with fear and excite- ment. “Your — your honor, I — I have a statement to make which will have a most important bearing on this case. You must listen with the greatest care.” He glanced quickly at Meyerhof!, and back to the judge. “Your honor,” he said in a hushed voice, “you are in grav- est of danger. All of you. Your lives — your very land is at stake.” The judge blinked, and shuffled through his notes hurriedly as a murmur arose in the court. “Our land?” “Your lives, your land, every- thing you hold dear,” Zcekler said quickly, licking his lips nervously. “You must try to understand me — ” he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder — "now, because I may not live long enough to repeat what I am about to tell vou — ” # The murmur quieted down, all ears straining in their headsets to hear his words. “These charges,” he continued, “all of them — they’re perfectly true. At least, they seem to be prifcctly true. Hut in every instance, 1 was working with heart and soul, risking my life, for the welfare of your beautiful planet.” There was a loud hiss from the back of the court. Zcekler frowned and rubbed his hands together. “It was my mi' fortune,” he said, “to go to the wrong planet when I first came to Altair from my homeland on Terra. 1 1 landed on Altair II, a grave mistake, but as it turned out, a very fortunate error. Because in attempting to arrange trading in that frightful place, 1 made certain contacts.” His voice trembled, and sank lower. “1 learned the horrible thing which is about to happen to this planet, at the hands of those barbarians. The conspiracy is theirs, not mine. They have bribed your Goddess, flattered her and lied to her, coerced her all-powerful good- ness to their own evil interests, pre- paring for the day when they could persuade her to cast your land into the firev furnace of a ten year

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60 ALAN E. NOURSE drought — ” Somebody in the middle of the court burst out laughing. One by one the natives nudged one another, and booed, and guffawed, until the rising tide of racket drowned out Zecklcr’s words. “The defendant is obviously lying,” roared the prose- cutor over the pandemonium. “Any fool knows that the Goddess can’t be bribed. How could she be a Goddess if she could?” Zeckler grew paler. “But — per- haps they were very clever — ” “And how could they flatter her, when she knows, beyond doubt, that she is the most exquisitely ra- diant creature in all the Universe? And you dare to insult her, drag her name in the dirt — ” The hisses grew louder, more bel- ligerent. Cries of “Butcher him!” and “Scald his bowels!” rose from the courtroom. The judge banged for silence, his eyes angry. “Unless the defendant wishes to take up more of our precious time with these ridiculous lies, the jury “Wait! Your honor, I request a short recess before I present my final plea.” “Recess?” “A few moments to collect my thoughts, to arrange my case.” The judge settled back with a disgusted snarl. “Do I have to?” he asked McyerhofF. MeyerhofF nodded. The judge shrugged, pointing over his should- er at the little anteroom. “You can go in there,” he said. Somehow, Zeckler managed to stumble from the witness stand, amid riotous boocs and hisses, and tottered into the anteroom. ZECKLER puffed hungrily on a cigarette, and looked up at Meyerhof! with haunted eyes. “It — it .doesn’t look so good,” he mut- tered. Meycrhoff’s eyes were worried, too. For some reason, he felt a surge of pity and admiration for the haggard little con-man. “It’s worse than I’d anticipated,” he admitted glumly. “That was a good try, but you just don’t know enough about them and their Goddess.” He sat down wearily. “I don’t sec what you can do. They want your blood, and they’re going to have it. They just won’t believe you, no matter how big a lie you tell.” Zeckler sat in silence for a mo- ment. “This lying business,” he said finally. “Exactly how does it work?” “The biggest, most convincing liar wins. It’s as simple as that. It doesn’t matter how outlandish a whopper you tell. Unless, of course, they’ve made up their minds that you just naturally aren’t as big a liar as they arc. And it looks like that’s just what they’ve done. It wouldn’t make any difference to them what you say — unless, some- how, you could make them believe it.” Zeckler was on his feet, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement. “Wait a minute,” he said tensely. “To tell them a lie that they’d have to believe — a lie they simply could- n’t helf) but believe — ” He turned on McyerhofF, his hands trembling. “Do they think the way we do — I mean, with logic, cause and effect, examining evidence and drawing conclusions? Given certain evidence, would they have to draw the same

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LETTER OF THE LAW 61 conclusion that we have to draw?” Meycrhoff blinked. "Well — yes. Oh, yes, they’re perfectly logical.” Zcckler’s eyes Hashed, and a huge grin broke out on his sallow face. Mis thin body fairly shook, and he started hopping up and down on one foot, staring idiotically into space. “If I could only think. . he muttered. “Somebody — some- where— something I read. . .” “Whatever arc you talking about?” “It was a Greek, I think. . .” Meyerhof! stared at. him. “Oh, come now. Have you gone off your rocker completely? You*vc got a problem on your hands, man — ” “No, no — I’ve got a problem in the bag!” Zecklcr’s cheeks flushed. “Let’s go back in there — I think I’ve got an answer!” The courtroom quieted the mo- ment they opened the door, and the judge banged the gavel for silence. As soon as Zeckler had taken his seat on the witness stand, the judge turned to the head juryman. “Now, then,” he said with happy finality. “The jury—” “Hold on! Just one minute more.” The judge stared down at Zcck- ler as if he were a bug on a rock. “Oh, yes. You had something else to say. Well, go ahead and say it.” Zeckler looked sharply around the hushed room. “You want to convict me,” he said softly, “in the worst sort of way. Isn’t that right?” The judge looked uncomfortable. “If you’ve got something to say, go ahead and say it.” “I’ve got just one statement to make. Short and sweet. But vou’d 4 better listen to it, and think it out carefully before you decide that you reallv want to convict me.” He paused, and glanced slyly at the judge. "You don’t think much of those who tell the truth, it seems. Well, put this statement in your record, then.” His voice was loud and clear in the still room. “All Eartlnncn arc absolutely inca/iable of telling the truth.'’ Puzzled frowns appeared on the jury’s faces. One or two ext hanged startled glances, and the room was still as death. The judge stared at him, and then at Meyerhof!, then back. "But you. . .” he stammered. “You’re. . .” he stopped in mid- sentence, his jaw sagging. One of the jurymen let out a lit- tle squeak, and fainted dead away. It took, all in all, about ten seconds for the statement to soak in. Then pandemonium broke loose in the courtroom. REALLY,” said Harry Zeckler loftily, “it was so obvious I’m amazed that it didn’t occur to me first thing.” He settled himself down comfortably in the control cabin of the 1 ntcrplanetary rocket and grinned at the outline of A hair IV looming larger in the view- screen. Paul Meyerhof! stared stonily at the controls, his lips compressed angrily. “You might at least have told me what you were planning.” “And take the chance of being overheard? Don’t be silly. It bad to come as a bombshell. I had to es- tablish myself as a liar, the prize liar of them all, but I had to tell the sort of lie that they simply could not cope with. Something

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62 ALAN E. NOURSE that would throw them into such utter confusion that they wouldn’t dare convict me.” He grinned imp- ishly at Meyerhoff. “The paradox of Epiminedes the Cretan. It really stopped them cold. They knew I was an Earthman, which meant that mv statement that Earthmen 4 were liars was a lie, which meant that maybe I wasn’t a liar, in which case — oh, it was tailor-made.” “It sure was.” MeverhofTs voice 4 was a snarl. “Well, it made me out a liar in a class they couldn’t approach, did- n’t it?” MeyerhofFs face was purple with anger. “Oh, indeed it did! And it put all Earthmen in exactly the same class, too.” “So what’s honor among thieves? I got off, didn’t I?” Meyerhoff turned on him fierce- ly. “Oh, you got off just fine. You scared the living daylights out of them. In an con of lying they never have run up against a short-circuit like that. You’ve also completely botched any hope of ever setting up a trading alliance with Altair I, and that includes uranium, too. Smart people don’t gamble with loaded dice. You seared them so badly they don’t want anything to do with us.” Zcckler’s grin broadened, and he leaned back luxuriously. “Ah, well. After all, the Trading Alliance was your outlook, wasn’t it? What a pity!” He clucked his tongue sadly. “Me, I’ve got a fortune in credits sitting back at the consulate waiting for me — enough to keep me on silk for quite a while, I might say. I think I’ll just take a nice, long va- cation.” Meyerhoff turned to him, and a twinkle of malignant glee appeared in his eyes. “Yes, I think you will. I’m quite sure of it, in fact. Won’t cost you a cent, cither.” “Eh?” Meyerhoff grinned unpleasantly. He brushed an imaginary' lint fleck from his lapel, and loked up at Zecklcr slyly. “That — uh — jury trial. The Altairians weren’t any too happy to oblige. They wanted to execute you outright. Thought a trial was awfully silly — until they got their money back, of course. Not too much — just three million credits. . .” Zecklcr went white. “But that money was in banking custody!” “Is that right ? My goodness. You don’t supose they could have lost those papers, do you?” Meyerhoff grinned at the little con-man. “And incidentally, you’re under arrest, you know.” 4 A choking sound came from Zecklcr’s throat. “Arrest!” “Oh, yes. Didn’t I tell you? Con- spiring to undermine the authority of the Terra n Trading Commission. Serious charge, you know. Yes, I think we’ll take a nice long vaca- tion together — straight back to Ter- ra. And there I think you’ll face a jury trial.” Zecklcr sputtered. “There’s no evidence! You’ve got nothing on me! What kind of a frame are you trying to pull?” “A lovely frame. Airtight. A frame from the bottom up, and you’re right square in the middle. And this time — ” Meyerhoff tapped a cigarette on his thumb with hap- py finality — “this time I don’t think you’ll get off.” ... THE END

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The Army had a new theme son g: “ Anything you can do, we can do better!" And they meant anything, including up-to-date hornpipes! NAVY DAY By Harry Harrison Illustrated by Kelly Freas General wingrove looked at the rows of faces without seeing them. His vision went beyond the Congress of the United States, past the balmy June day to another day diat was com- ing. A day when the Army would have its destined place of authority. He drew a deep breath and de- livered what was perhaps the shortest speech ever heard in the hallowed halls of Congress: 63

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64 HARRY HARRISON “The General Staff of the U.S. Army requests Congress to abolish the archaic branch of the armed forces known as the U. S. Navy.” The aging Senator from Georgia checked his hearing aid to see if it was in operating order, while the press box emptied itself in one concerted rush and a clat- ter of running feet that died off in the direction of the telephone room. A buzz of excited comment ran through the giant chamber. One by one the heads turned to face the Naval section where rows of blue figures stirred and buzzed like smoked-out bees. The knot of men around a paunchy figure heavy with gold braid broke up and Ad- miral Fitzjamcs climbed slowly to his feet. Lesser men have quailed before that piercing stare, but General Wingrove was never the lesser man. The admiral tossed his head with disgust, every line of his body de- noting outraged dignity. He turned to his audience, a small pulse beat- ing in his forehead. “I cannot comprehend the gen- eral’s attitude, nor can I under- stand why he has attacked the Navy in this unwarranted fashion. The Navy has existed and will always exist as the first barrier of Ameri- can defense. I ask you, gentlemen, to ignore this request as you would ignore the statements of any per- son . . . er, slightly demented. I should like to offer a recommenda- tion that the general’s sanity be in- vestigated, and an inquiry be made as to the mental health of anyone else connected with this preposter- ous proposal!” The general smiled calmly. “I understand, Admiral, and really don’t blame you for being slightly annoyed. But, please let us not bring this issue of national importance down to a shallow personal level. The Army has facts to back up this request — facts that shall be demon- strated tomorrow morning.” Turning his back on the raging admiral, General Wingrove in- cluded all the assembled solons in one sweeping gesture. “Reserve your judgment until that time, gentlemen, make no hasty judgments until you have seen the force of argument with which we back up our request. It is the end of an era. In the morning the Navy joins its fellow fossils, the dodo and the brontosaurus.” The admiral’s blood pressure mounted to a new record and the gentle thud of his unconscious body striking the floor was the only sound to break the shocked silence of the giant hall. THE EARLY morning sun warmed the white marble of the Jefferson Memorial and glinted from the soldiers’ helmets and the roofs of the packed cars that crowded forward in a slow-moving stream. All the gentlemen of Con- gress were there, the passage of their cars cleared by the screaming sirens of motorcycle policemen. Around and under the wheels of the official cars pressed a solid wave of government workers and common citizens of the capital city. The trucks of the radio and television services pressed close, microphones and cameras extended. The stage was set for a great day.

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NAVY DAY 65 Neat rows of olive drab vehicles curved along the water’s edge. Jeeps and half-tracks shouldered close bv * weapons carriers and six-bys, all ol them shrinking to insignificance be- side the looming Patton tanks. A speakers’ platform was set up in the center of the line, near the audi- ence. At precisely 10 a.m. General Win- grove stepped forward and scowled at the crowd until they settled into an uncomfortable silence. His speech was short and consisted of nothing more than amplifications of his opening statement that ac- tions speak louder than words. He pointed to the first truck in line, a 2|/£-ton filled with an infantry squad sitting stiffly at attention. The driver caught the signal and kicked the engine into life; with a grind of gears it moved forward toward the river’s edge. There was an indrawn gasp from the crowd as the front wheels ground over the marble parapet — then the truck was plunging down towards the muddy waters of the Potomac. The wheels touched the water and the surface seemed to sink while taking on a strange glassy character. The truck roared into high gear and rode forward on the surface of the water surrounded by a saucer-shaped depression. It parked two-hundred yards off shore and the soldiers, goaded by the sergeant’s bark, leapt out and lined up with a showy present aims. The general returned the salute and waved to the remaining ve- hicles. They moved forward in a series of maneuvers that indicated a great number of rehearsal hours on some hidden pond. The tanks rumbled slowly over the water while the jeeps cut back and forth through their lines in intricate pat- terns. The trucks backed and turned like pulling ballerinas. The audience was rooted in a hushed silence, their eyeballs bulg- ing. They continued to watch the amazing display as General Win- grove spoke again: “You see before you a typical example of Army ingenuity, de- veloped in Army laboratories. These motor units are supported on the surface of the water by an inten- sifying of the surface tension in their immediate area. Their weight is evenly distributed over the sur- face, causing the shallow depres- sions you see around them. ¥ “This remarkable feat has been accomplished by the use of the Dornifier. A remarkable invention that is named after that brilliant scientist, Colonel Robert A. Dorn, Commander of the Brooke Point Experimental Laboratory. It was there that one ol the civilian em- ployees discovered the Dorn effect — under the Colonel’s constant gui- dance, of course. “Utilizing this invention the Army now becomes master of the sea as well as the land. Army con- voys of trucks and tanks can blan- ket the world. The surface of the water is our highway, our motor park, our battleground — the air- field and runway for our planes.” Mechanics were pushing a Shoot- ing Star onto the water. They stepped clear as flame gushed from the tail pipe; with the familiar whooshing rumble it sped down the Potomac and hurled itself into the air.

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66 HARRY HARRISON “When this cheap and simple method of crossing oceans is adopted it will of course mean the end of that, fantastic medieval anachronism, the Navy. No need * • for billion-dollar aircraft carriers, battleships, drydocks and all the other cumbersome junk that keeps those boats and things afloat. Give the taxpayer back his hard-earned dollar!” Teeth grated in the Naval sec- tion as carriers and battleships were called “boats” and the rest of America’s sea might lumped under the casual heading of “things.” Lips were curled at the transparent ap- peal to the taxpayer’s pocketbook. But with leaden hearts they knew that all this justified wrath and con- tempt would avail them nothing. This was Army Day with a venge- ance, and the doom of the Navy seemed inescapable. The Army had made elaborate plans for what they called “Opera- tion Sinker.” Even as the general spoke the publicity mills ground into high gear. From coast to coast the citizens absorbed the news with their morning nourishment. “. . . Agnes, you hear what the radio said! The Army’s gonna give a trip around the world in a B-36 as first prize in this limerick con- test. All you have to do is fill in the last line, and mail one copy to the Pentagon and the other to the Navy ...” The Naval mail room had stand- ing orders to bum all the limericks when they came in, but some of the newer men seemed to think the entire thing was a big joke. Com- mander Bullman found one in the mess hall : The Army will always he there. On the land, on the sea, in the air So why should the Navy Take all of the gravy . . . to which a seagoing scribe had added : And not give us ensigns our share ? The newspapers were filled daily with photographs of mighty B-36’s landing on Lake Erie, and grinning soldiers making mock beachhead attacks on Coney Island. Each man wore a buzzing black box at his waist and walked on the bosom of the now quiet Atlantic like a bib- lical prophet. Radio and television also carried the thousands of news releases that poured in an unending flow from the Pentagon Building. Cards, let- ters, telegrams and packages de- scended on Washington in an over- whelming torrent. The Navy De- partment was the unhappy recipi- ent of deprecatory letters and a vast quantity of little cardboard battle- ships. The people spoke and their rep- resentatives listened closely. This was an election year. There didn’t seem to be much doubt as to the decision, particularly when the re- duction in the budget was consid- ered. It took Congress only two months to make up its collective mind. The people were all pro-Army. The nov- elty of the idea had fired their imaginations. They were about to take the final vote in the lower house. If the amendment passed it would go to the states for ratification, and their votes were certain to follow that of

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NAVY DAY 67 Congress. The Navy had fought a last-ditch battle to no avail. The balloting was going to be pretty much of a sure thing — the wet water Navy would soon become an- cient history. For some reason the admirals didn’t look as unhappy as they should. THE NAVAL Department had requested one last opportunity to address the Congress. Congress had patronizingly granted permission, for even the doomed man is allowed one last speech. Admiral Fitzjames, who had recovered from his chol- eric attack, was the appointed speaker. “Gentlemen of the Congress of the United States. We in the Navy have a fighting tradition. We ‘damn the torpedoes’ and sail straight ahead into the enemy’s fire if that is necessary. We have been stabbed in the back — we have suffered a second Pearl Harbor sneak attack! The Army relinquished its rights to fair treatment with this attack. Therefore we are counter-attack- ing!” Worn out by his attacking and mixed metaphors, the Admiral mopped his brow. “Our laboratories have been working night and day on the per- fection of a device we hoped we would never be forced to use. It is now in operation, having passed the final trials a few days ago. “The significance of this device cannot be underestimated. We are so positive of its importance that — we are demanding that the Army be abolished!” He waved his hand towards the window and bellowed one word. “LOOK!” Everyone looked. They blinked and looked again. They rubbed their eyes and kept looking. Sailing majestically up the mid- dle of Constitution Avenue was the battleship Missouri. The Admiral’s voice rang through the room like a trumpet of victory. “The Mark-1 Debinder, as you see, temporarily lessens the binding energies that hold molecules of solid matter together. Solids become liq- uids, and a ship equipped with this device can sail anywhere in the world — on sea or land. Take your vote, gentlemen; the world awaits your decision.” . . . THE END Don't Forget: Is Monthly! TWICE AS GOOD— TWICE AS OFTEN! The best science fiction available anywhere — that’s the simple summation of IF’s policy. And that policy has proved itself so successful that now you’ll be able to buy the magazine containing your fa- vorite writers, artists and features twice as often. IF will be monthly instead of bi-monthly; you’ll find a sparkling new issue on the stands early in every month. Or, have it delivered regu- larly to your home by subscribing now: 12 issues for $3.50.

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Space travel is possible. Even the worst cynics now admit that, but some still ask skeptically why it’s needed, and what possible good it can do. Hcre}s a new and surprising answer ! A WORD FDR FREEDOM By James E. Gunn Illustrated by Rudolph Palais FROM THE lascivious embrace of the pneumatic chair in the anteroom, Bryson watched the sec- retary with the dark hair and the blue eyes being efficient over her typewriter. She was small, pretty, and trim. She wore a class-five navy-blue suit with a white, starch- ed collar, but the figure beneath was strictly Class A. He would have enjoyed watching her longer as a slow flush creeping up beneath her clear, creamy skin said that she was not unaware of his admiration, but the box on her desk murmured and she looked up. “You may go in now, Mr. Bry- son,” she said respectfully to his gray-pinstripe, class-three business suit. “Mr. Gregg is expecting you.” His shoes clicked across the as- phalt tile, and the solid door swung silently open in front of him. The room was large, he thought, paus- ing at the doorway — larger than the anteroom. And then he realized that it was mainly an illusion, that the room was not over twenty by twenty-five. There were no blast-dangerous windows, of course, but die upper half of one wall was almost all mir- ror. That helped. But die most compelling feature of the room was the biggest example of the popular three-dimensional pictures Bryson had ever seen. It was a landscape, done with realism if not with feel- ing: rolling green fields, rising to low wooded hills in the background,

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70 JAMES E. GUNN lighted from without in the Dutch manner. Then the tall, thin, greying man was approaching with his hand out- stretched. “I’m Ben Gregg,” he said with nervous energy. “Call me Ben. And you are John Bryson.” “That’s right.” Gregg’s handshake was firm and dry. He gestured Bryson to a chair and settled himself behind the broad desk, picked up the manu- script from the pile at his side, and laid it in front of him. “Er-ah — I wanted to speak to you personally,” he said uncertain- ly, “because 1 didn’t think I could put what I had to say in writing. Let me say first that this is a good story — cr — a very good story. It has strong believable characters, a con- vincing, significant plot, effective description — ” His voice trailed away. “But?” Bryson prompted drily. Gregg smiled and relaxed a little. “Yes. But I can’t publish it.” He tossed the manuscript across the desk. “The language?” Bryson asked. “The words?” Gregg nodded. “Exactly. I’m as willing to try something new as the next editor — maybe a little more so — but this has too much against it.” “I know,” Bryson nodded. “That’s why I sent the story to you. If it doesn’t go over here, it hasn’t a chance anywhere.” “That’s very flattering,” Gregg said, getting up to pace back and forth behind his desk. “But you must understand my position. We publish a middle-class magazine — classes six to three to be exact — and in these days, when one must aim at a specific market, that means a great deal. The middle-class has always been the stoutest defender of the status quo, both in the social order and the literary field. You can’t offend its ideas of propriety and expect anything but failure.” “Unfortunately that’s true,” Bry- son agreed. “And yet that’s where one must start if one is ever to do any good.” Gregg stopped for a moment and stared at him with a speculative look in his dark eyes. “I thought that you had more than a literary objective in mind. Maybe I’m in sympathy with it. But the time has passed when you can inject all those new phrases and words. They don’t sound prop- er; they don’t seem, even to me, in good taste. You could have done it twenty years ago — in the forties or even the early fifties — but not to- day. Clean it up and I think I can use it.” Bryson shook his head. “That would be removing the whole purpose of it.” Bryson paused and his eyes drift- ed to the picture. It might have been a window looking out onto rural New England. He looked back at Gregg. “The language is in a strait- jacket,” he continued abruptly. “The English language has harden- ed and calcified, ceased to grow, has become rigid and inflexible, hostile to anything new. English literature is dying because of this straitjacket — it is killing the vigor which has always been its dominant feature. Unless something is done,

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A WORD FOR FREEDOM 71 tlu- language will soon be as dead .uni dry as Sanskrit.” ( Jrrgg smiled. “Let me hazard a guess. You’re a teacher.” Bryson nodded. “English. You should see the young writers I’m trying to help — heating their heads against the im- penetrable wall of language, trying, as all writers must, to express the inexpressible and finding them- selves tied down by dead or dying words, rendered impotent and mute. It’s enough to put out the fires of mature genius, much less discourage forever struggling young talent. 1 tell you. Mr. Gregg — ” “Ben,” Gregg smiled. “I tell you, Ben, if something isn’t done a whole literary genera- tion will be wiped out — a catastro- phe from which English literature might not recover for centuries. That wall must be leveled, Ben. That barrier of language must be broken down. The straitjacket must be unloosed, or circulation will be cut off entirely and limbs will have to fie amputated, even if the patient does not die.” Gregg sighed. “Which it looks as if it will. The cold war slowly gets hotter, like a bunch of oily rags thrown under the basement steps. Maybe you’re worrying too much about a lan- guage there may be no one around to speak.” Bryson shook his head. “That’s no solution. We’ve got to act as if the human race were going to pull through this, or we may have nothing worthwhile left, even if we do survive.” “But what good will this one storv do?” Gregg objected. fii vsnn spread bis bands helpless- ly, 4 “I don’t know. The hole in the dike maybe? The ei.u k in the wall? The slit in the straitjacket? You have to start somewhere." “But. I’m afraid, not here,” Gregg said with Imalily. “Not be- cause I don’t believe in much of what you've been saying 1 do: but because I don’t think it will do any good .” Bisson's eves drifted back to the picture, and Gregg’s gaze followed. 1 1 is laugh was a little embarrassed. “Pretty poor, isn't it?” he ad- mitted. "But it’s there for psycho- logical, not aesthetic, reasons. A touch of claustrophobia, the neuro- sis of our age. Being in these win- dow-less offices for hours on end, I begin to get a little stilled. Then I look at that thing and imagine it's a window and it goes away some- times.” HRYSON LOOKED at Gregg and back at the picture, back and forth as if he bad suddenly dis- covered some strange identity be- tween the two. Gregg followed him with a puzzled frown for a mo- ment ; then his face cleared and he began to chuckle. “I see what you mean,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Maybe you’re right. Come on — the least 1 can do is buy you a drink.” The door swung open as he ap- proached. Bryson followed him in- to the reception room. “I’m going out for a moment, Miss llaines,” Gregg informed the secretary. “If anything urgent

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72 JAMES E. GUNN comes up, you can get me at Tony’s.” As Bryson passed the desk, he bent over and breathed huskilv in _ • • her car, but loud enough for Gregg to overhear: “What do you say we go out on the town tonight, you and me?” She jerked back, her face shock- ed and white, as if she had just learned that he was radioactive. “Okay, okay,” Bryson said, straightening and shrugging. “If you’re busy you’re busy.” When he joined Gregg in the hall, he was laughing. “You sec?” he said, after they were out of earshot. Gregg raised a thin, dark eye- brow. “You surely didn’t expect any- thing else?” “Oh, the answer was all right. Al- though I must admit I’d have been more pleased — in one way — with another. But the reaction was a lit- tle violent, don’t you think?” “That ‘let’s go out on the town tonight’ was pretty vulgar,” Gregg objected. “Romance speaks all languages,” Bryson said as Gregg signaled for the elevator. “No, I’m afraid the answer would have been the same no matter how I phrased it. A class-five girl doesn’t go out with a class-three man and keep her repu- tation. You’d be surprised how many dates I’ve missed that way.” He sighed. “All the lovely girls I see are in other classes. The barriers are getting high and thick. On the other hand, if you had invited her to your apartment, I bet she’d have come — reluctantly, maybe, but she’d have come. You know — droit de seigneur?” “I’m married,” Gregg said stiffly. “The principle’s the same,” Bry- son laughed. “The attitude of the lower classes is getting positively medieval.” “You might be right,” Gregg re- laxed and smiled. “But I hope you don’t repeat the experiment. That sort of thing might quickly demoral- ize my staff — besides giving me dan- gerous ideas.” The elevator doors swung open. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gregg,” the boy said, and with almost im- perceptible shading, “Good after- noon, sir.” As they faced the closing doors, Bryson nodded significantly toward the back of the boy’s head. Gregg shrugged in recognition. The ele- vator lunged to a cushioned stop. “I must admit,” Gregg said, when the doors had closed behind them and they were walking across the foyer, “that I’m becoming aware of a lot of things I took for granted before. And I’m not sure I like the awakening.” “Oh, we’re all falling into molds. It’s a highly stratified society in which everybody knows his place and nobody steps out of it. Except me.” Bryson grinned recklessly. “I make rebellion a habit — an in- effectual one, perhaps, but soul- satisfying. Once I carried a sam- ple of low-grade uranium ore into a security lock and shoved it under the geiger. You should have seen the commotion. Bolts clicked, bright lights came on, the scanner stamped my card and the video told me in a cold voice that my picture

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A WORD FOR FREEDOM 73 and identifying characteristics were in the wanted (ile and that I must not move. Within a minute, an emergency ear wailed up outside, the front door clicked open, I walk- ed out with five guns covering me, and I was whisked away to head- quarters. Then’s when the fun really began.” “You have plenty of nerve,” Gregg commented drily. “Oh, that!” Bryson shrugged. “I was shaking before it was over. But I did manage to wangle a release before they got everything straight- ened out. I still have a little fun with it.” Gregg opened the door, and they stepped into the security lock. The editor slipped his card quickly into the slot and fared the screen. A cackle, and the card was back in his hand. Then Bryson inserted the corner of his card and grinned at Gregg. “Watch what happens!” lie said slyly. He pushed tin* card and it dis- appeared into the wall. Extra holts clicked in the doors. The lock was filled with an intense, merciless light that showed up every line, every bead of sweat on Gregg’s paling face. “What the hell, Bryson — ” he be- gan, his voice shaking. “Listen!” Bryson (buckled. The video sprang into life. “Oh, my God!” said a weary, dis- illusioned voice. “It’s you again.” “There seems to be something wrong with the machine,” Bryson said apologetically. “There’s nothing wrong with the machine,” the voice shouted. “It’s you — you — you — troublemak- er! There’s something wrong with you!” ‘’Maybe it’s the card,” Bryson sugested meekly. “Of course it’s the card!” the voice screamed. With obvious ef- fort, the voice regained control of itself. “See here, Brvson! I’m warn- ing you for the last time. Gome in and get a new card or I’ll send a squad out to bring you in!” THE SCREEN snapped off with finality. The bolts shot back, and the outside door swung open. Gregg stepped precipitately onto the sidewalk, Bryson following more slowly. 1 le had a little difficulty walking; he was shaking with laughter. Finally he took a hand- kerchief and wiped the tears from his eyes. “That clerk!” he said. “Some- times I think lie’ll crack wide open.” Bryson glanced at Gregg, and his laughter was suddenly cut off. Gregg’s face was still white; he was mopping at his forehead. “Oh, say,” Bryson said, sincerely apologetic now. “I’m sorry I upset you. I had no idea — ” “It wasn’t that,” Gregg said, smiling feebly. “It’s the being shut up— you know!” “I should have remembered,” Bryson said, waggling his head re- pentantly. “I’m never troubled with it, and I tend to forget. For- give me, will you?” Gregg waved his hand and man- aged a ghost of a chuckle. “Forget it. It was rather amus- ing. at that.” The sidewalks were busy, but the

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74 JAMES E. GUNN steady streams of pedestrians had formed an eddy around them, care- fully delineated. As they walked south, the eddv followed them. Over the heads of the crowd, Brv- # son could sec other eddies, some approaching, others traveling in the same direction as they were. The general stream seemed to separate into layers, like unmixable liquids: along the street side the class nine and ten, laborers; next, classes seven and eight, skilled workers and technicians; toward the buildings, classes five and six, white-collar workers, class four, su- pervisors and students; in the mid- dle, class threes and above. Even a casual eye could detect the subtle but definite tones, cut, and style of clothing that marked the differ- ences. Then another eddy met theirs and merged with it for a moment. Gregg nodded, with precise equali- ty, at the class-two businessman in the center. Then die eddies split apart again, like a fissioning amoeba. “Rebellion is all right as an in- dividual protest,” Gregg remarked, “but it’s suicidal for anyone de- pendent on public approval — in a purely pragmatic dollars and cents way, at that.” “Perhaps you’re underestimating the sub-current of revolt among your readers?” Gregg scoffed. “What sub-current? You should read the letters I get. The slightest deviation from the norm is greeted with howls of protest and demands for the heads not only of the writer

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A WORD FOR FREEDOM 75 but invsclf. Would you like to know what would happen if 1 printed your story?” Bryson nodded. “Well,” Gregg began, “first, it would stand out like a prostitute at a meeting of the Anti-Sex League. It would be inconsistent with the rest of the material in the maga- zine. The critical letters would descend upon us like a Second Flood, half of them threatening to cancel their subscriptions. Various organizations for the suppression of this or that would launch cam- paigns against us. We’d be labeled ‘vulgar,’ ‘immoral,’ ‘indecent,’ ‘sub- versive,’ and finally ‘un-American’ or ‘Communistic.* ” “That’s absurd. Russia is in even a tighter straitjacket than wc arc,” Bryson objected, “if that’s any con- solation.” “What difference has that ever made? But I’m not finished. The critics would complete the massa- cre with charges of ‘decadence,’ ‘slovenly writing,’ ‘corrupting the language,’ ‘defiling the pure springs of American speech and literature,’ etc., etc., etc. At their head would be Joshua Duncan.” Gregg winced at his own sugges- tion. “I’ve had him on my back a few times before and, I’m sorry to say, come out of it glad to cling to niy job and my scalp.” Bryson made a grimace of dis- taste. “Duncan! That big bag of super- fluous remarks!” “Perhaps,” Gregg shrugged, “but he wields an inordinate amount of power — and a deadly typewriter. At the Chinese Torture of a Thousand Cuts or relatively painless decapita- tion, lie is unrivaled. And I’m not sure that some of the things he may say will not be justified.” “Such as?” “That the neologisms and new phrases are, on the whole, obviously contrived, artificial, and unlikely.” Bryson’s spirits seemed slightly dampened. “That’s right, I supose. How can one invent a new, vital language? That has to grow out of the life of a people; it comes spontaneously under the influence of a strong, new impulse. And yet, what can one do when one wishes to represent such a situation?” “Fail, Duncan will say. And that you should never have tried.” “Duncan is a fool,” Bryson said gloomily. “And yet if it weren’t he, it would be someone else. Flic age called out for a literary dictator and * Duncan answered, as Samuel John- son did in his. Outside of the fact that Johnson had some creative power and Duncan has none, there’s an amazing resemblance be- tween the two. Oh, Duncan has some merits: he can recognize what’s good within certain narrow limits and encourage it. But out- side of that, he’s blind and vindic- tive. He stands for everything that’s responsible for the death of our world and our language — the nar- rowness, the restrictions, the ossi- fication, the insensitivity, the — ” THE STREET wailed, a mount- ing, soul-piercing shriek that echoed between the city cliffs and screamed terror to the winds. The streams of humanity froze, and in

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76 JAMES E. GUNN the next moment distinctions of person and class were forgotten. With one mind, the crowd turned and began running, threading around or vaulting the cars and busses pulled up in the middle of the street, whose occupants had poured out to join the rest. Like sands in an hourglass, the fractions of humanity poured slowly through the constricting necks of openings into the earth. “This way,” Gregg shouted. “The nearest subway is just down the block.” They ran, battling against the pushers and shovers on either side. Squeezed in finally, they were un- able to help their own progress any more but permitted themselves to be carried along, concentrating only on keeping their feet — a difficult process when the grains began to flow down the steps. Down — down — down — past the subway levels and down again. At last they were released in a huge concrete room, broken by large pillars and scatter- ed benches. Gregg and Bryson pulled at their disarranged suits, whose untorn condition was a proof of the quality of class two and three tailoring. Some of the others who now began to fill the room were not so fortu- nate; here a sleeve was missing; there a man was naked to the waist, his shirt hanging in shreds. Slowly the trickle into the room diminished and stopped; armed guards appeared at the doors. The mob began to mill around, gather- ing into groups here and there until Gregg and Bryson were isolated. “We seem to be alone,” Bryson said drily. It was true. They were the only class twos and threes in the room. Everywhere else knots of men and women talked and gestured in com- radery, even venturing an occasion- al short, barking laugh ; but the space around them was as clearly defined as it had been on the street. Bryson glanced around the crowded room. “A symbol of the age,” he said. “We’re in what Matthew Arnold called an epoch of concentration, like England in the 1790’s, produc- ed by what he called the hostile, forcible pressure of foreign ideas. We call it a cold war.” “Cold!” exclaimed Gregg, look- ing around the bomb shelter. “Every epoch of concentration, Arnold said, is followed by an epoch of expansion. But I wonder how long an epoch of concentration can last without inflicting permanent damage. Ours has lasted twenty years. A little longer and we may not be able to recover.” “We’re no nearer a solution than we were twenty years ago,” Gregg said moodily. “I know. There seems to be no hope of a diplomatic settlement of the cold war, or of Russia’s being weakened by internal dissension. But if a new frontier opened. . . Look at England’s Elizabethan Age if you want to sec what an c|X>ch of expansion looks like.” “What do you mean?” “The defeat of the Spanish Ar- mada and the great explorations and discoveries opened up vast new territories. As a consequence, the Elizabethan was the lustiest, most fully alive age of English literature. It was full of the joy of living; new

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A WORD FOR FREEDOM 77 words were being absorbed into the language by the thousands; the per- iod was receptive to all sorts ol in- fluences. And then, as England be- gan to age and harden, America became the center of vigor. A frontier, that seemed as if it would last forever, eternally renewed the language and kept it alive. But the frontiers are gone, and we are both dying and the language with us, and there is nowhere else to look.” There was silence bteween them for a moment. Gregg began to fid- get and pull at his collar. “It’s stifling in here,” he com- plained. The large screen at the end of the room came alive, and the air of tension that had begun to grow throughout the crowd subsided. The screen imaged the blue sky pulled with clouds. There were white trails in the blue, circling and climbing. “Interceptors,” Gregg muttered. “For what?” In the depths of the blue there was a glint that sparkled and was gone. And the glint came again and was steady. “God!” breathed Gregg. “The interceptors arc invisible. That must be big!” The glint came nearer and was a silver dot that poured forth a long, white tail. And the screen went blank. “This telecast,” the voice from the speaker said, “is interrupted for security reasons. There is no cause for alarm at this time, but the all- clear will be withheld until the mili- tary authorities have had time to make a final check.” The screen came back on with a light, airy movie — a pastoral in- terlude with songs and dances and gay chatter. The worries were minute, the problems simple, the atmosphere joyous. It was the la- test rage. It was, however, not com- pletely successful. The tension be- gan to grow again, until it became almost tangible. Conversations ceased or became monosyllabic. Laughter was cut off short. The crowd swaved a little toward 4 the entrance. “Remain where you arc,” a speaker warned, “until the sounding of the all-clear.” The crowd swayed back, hesi- tated for a moment, and surged again toward the door. A guard turned and pressed a button near the entrance. A steel door slid across the opening. The guards un- buttoned their holster flaps. A SIGH went up from the crowd, and it sagged to its former posi- tion. A slow , uneasy murmur began to grow. A class-nine laborer tore at the collar of his gray working- clothes and ripped it open, breath- ing harshly. “Don’t you think the air’s getting bad in here?” Gregg asked, his face getting white. He pulled down his tie and unloosed his collar. “Surclv not,” Brvson said cheer- fully. "The place is well ven- tilated” Minutes passed. The free space around them began to grow smaller and less sharply defined. Some- where a woman fainted and a child began to wail. The sanitary facili- ties were kept busy; lines formed at the drinking fountains.

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78 JAMES E. GUNN Gregg’s face began to twist as his breath came quickly. “God,” he muttered. “Oh, God!” Finally the speaker cleared its throat. “The Airport Authority has just announced that the object which caused the initial alarm has landed at an undisclosed airport near the city. The object was a manned rocket constructed by the Depart- ment of Defense. It has just re- turned from the moon. The all-clear will be sounded immediately; you may all return to your normal ac- tivities.” The last few words were lost in the cheers and swelling conversa- tional hubbub that greeted the an- nouncement. Gregg and Bryson looked at each other with lifted eye- brows. Bryson nodded, and they made their way toward the now- open door, the all-clear wailing be- hind them. They emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. “There’s your new frontier,” Gregg said. “Maybe,” Bryson said noncomit- tally. “Or maybe it’s the last stitch in the straitjacket. Depending on how it’s used.” “You mean if it’s exploited solely for military purposes.” Bryson nodded. “And presented to the public as military in nature. Docs the moon- gate open out to freedom or in to hell? It all depends.” Gregg came to a halt in front of a door-lock. “Here we are.” Bryson looked up and saw the word “Tony’s” printed across the blackened windows in what must be luminescent paint. Gregg fidgeted beside him. “Go ahead,” Bryson motioned with a smile. “I won’t put you through that twice.” With a muttered thanks, Gregg disappeared through the door. Af- ter a moment, Bryson followed him. When he came out inside, he was chuckling. “That clerk — ” he began. “Look!” interrupted Gregg, mo- tioning. “The great man himself.” At a rear lx>oth of the dimly lit, sedately luxurious bar, Bryson saw a large, ugly, fat man surrounded by a group of eagerly listening ad- mirers. The man’s booming voice carried easily to where they stood. "As a writer, Saundcrson is a stink in the nostrils of the American public; as a philosopher, he is an abomination in the eyes of God.” Bryson screwed up his face and glanced at Gregg. “So that is Duncan!” “In his full glory.” “Ah there, Gregg,” the voice rolled out. “Still publishing those sections of tripe you call short stories.” Gregg winced. “Come back,” Duncan bellowed. “I have someone here I want you to meet. You may bring your half- witted friend with you.” Bryson flushed, but Gregg shrug- ged his shoulders and strolled to the rear. “Here,” said Duncan when they arrived, indicating a dark, nonde- script young man, “is a dull-w'itted fellow who writes the sort of swill you prefer. He’d like to show you a story.” Gregg lifted a thin, dark eye-

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A WORD FOR FREEDOM 79 brow at the unsmiling young man. “Tomorrow morning — at ten?” The young man nodded. “And now,” said Duncan, turn- ing away from them, “begone! I am already beginning to feel taint- ed. And take your half-witted friend with you. He has been made happy enough for one day.” Bryson leaned forward across the table. “You, sir, are as insulting as you arc ugly and as stupidly narrow as you are fat. You are a stink in the nostrils of the American public and an abomination in the eyes of God.” Duncan turned back. “Ah, a lad with spirit,” he said coolly. “I like a lad with spirit.” And then his voice grew icy. “But puerile, juvenile, and unoriginal. Take him away, Gregg, until he ripens.” Gregg tugged at his coat-tails, and Bryson permitted himself to be led from the table. “Why do you stand for that?” In- demanded, fuming, when they had found a booth and pressed quickly for a drink. “Because I can’t help myself.” “You surely aren’t going to see that sullen fellow he urged on you.” “Oh, yes,” Gregg shrugged. “And I’ll buy his story, I imagine. Dun- can’s pretty shrewd. It probably is the sort of swill I prefer.” “If I were in your shoes, I’d do something about it,” Bryson said bitterly. Gregg smiled humorlessly. “Let me tell you about someone who did. He was an editor — told Duncan off, too — in public and in print. So every chance Joshua got, he slipped in a sly remark about the editor until you had only to men- tion his name in almost any gather- ing to get a laugh and have some- one repeat Duncan’s latest witti- cism. He was laughed out of town. He’s now hacking out fiction, and tiie only way he can sell it is under a pseudonym.” “What this country needs,” Bry- son muttered, “is another Mencken who could stand up to him and trade blow for blow for freedom. Someone who could beat him at his own game.” THEY SAT huddled over their drinks for several minutes, thinking their thoughts in silence, until an uproar at the door-lock brought them nut of their reveries. One of the bai tenders was engaged in a violent argument with a small, sunburned man in an uncertain as- sortment of garments which were incapable of t lassilication. Behind him, a medley of men of all classes, from four dow n to ten, were emerg- ing from the lock. “I’m very sorrv,” said the bar- 4 4 9 tender, sounding not the least sor- rv as he barred the wav, his arms folded across his chest. “This bar is reserved for class-three patrons and above.” “Out of my way, Earthbound,” the bantam said imperiously in a surprising baritone voice, and then he burst out with irrepressible exu- berance. “I’ve reached E.V., and I’m almost space-bound. Today’s my day, and I’m blowing all my jets. Don’t try to tie me down; I’m space dust. I’m free as a comet’s tail and twice as hard to take hold of. Make way. Obsolete, or I’ll tie

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80 JAMES E. GUNN a rocket to your tail and ride you bareback to Venus.” By sheer volume and vigor and by the weight of numbers behind him, the cocky little fellow pushed his way past the stunned bartender, who stood staring after him with his mouth hanging half- way open. The intruder, who could not have stood over five feet three or four, pounded vigorously on the bar with his clenched fist. “A bulb and a straw,” he shout- ed. “Straight bourbon.” There was a chorus of seconds from his worshipping followers, some of whom seemed just a little uneasy in the surroundings. Not so the bantam. “Whoo-ce!” lie yelled, after downing his drink. “Throw me a line — I’m floating.” Gregg and Bryson exchanged glances. “There’s your new language,” Gregg grimaced. “Vulgar!” Bryson exclaimed with admiration. “Vulgar as hell!” The crowd around the bantam increased. Gregg watched in amazement as even class twos and threes began to join the group in friendly non-distinction. “Maybe this is it,” Bryson said. “Maybe the pressure from within has burst through the walls. The influences of concentration will try to push it back into the mold, but if the force is strong enough, may- be it will completely shatter the walls and scatter the pieces from here to the moon. It’s a beginning, anyway. Maybe even the cold war won’t be able to stand up to it when the word gets out that the United States lias broken the chains of Earth, has opened the way to the stars.” He pulled out a pen and a piece of paper and began to scribble madly. A familiar voice bellowed from a back booth. “The atmosphere in here has be- come fouled with the stench of the masses. Sweep the garbage out!” No one moved. The bartenders stared toward Duncan helplessly. “Oh-oh!” muttered Bryson. “The restraining influence begins. Can the new force withstand it?” “Either the rabble goes,” Duncan lumblcd, as if there were no doubt of the final choice, “or I go.” One of the bartenders, glancing cautiously toward the group at the bar, lifted a phone, dialed and spoke briefly into the receiver. “Float a bulb to the overstufTed groundhog in the back booth,” said the bantam cheerfully. “He can’t help it if he’s planet-bound.” Duncan got up ponderously and stalked, glowering toward the bar. He pushed his way through the throng until he stood towering above the little intruder. “Mite on the back of culture!” he thundered. “Flea in the fur of the world-bitch! You and your trained chimpanzees are unwelcome here. We want none of your tricks and even less of your vulgar, mean- ingless monkey chatter. Go and an- noy someone else, vacuum brain!” The bantam pressed himself for- ward against Duncan’s overhanging belly and stared defiantly up at the jowled, furious face. “Dampen them, Overload. If you were my cargo, you’d be jetti- soned before anything else. You

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A WORD FOR FREEDOM 81 haven’t got the jayvee to lift that overage hull off the ground. Your jets are eaten out : one more blast and you’ll blow oil vour stern, You 4 4 think you’re in a tight orbit because you’re eating your own exhaust, but you were born six feet under and never dug yourself out.” Step by step, Duncan backed toward the front as the bantam fol- lowed, keeping him off balance with his light word-jabs. Finally Duncan stood bewildered, against the door- lock. “Bah!” he muttered. “I won’t trade insults with a vulgar bar- barian.” He turned and fled through the door. The room exploded with laughter. “Whoo-ce!” shouted the victor- ious bantam. ‘Tin a cosmic ray. You can’t keep me out and you can’t keep me in. All you know is that I’ve passed when you count the atoms I’ve split.” When Gregg ceased shaking, he wiped his eyes. “Oh, Duncan will never live this down. Beaten by a flyweight who wouldn’t know a verbal from a vocative.” The place suddenly grew quiet as two officers of the security patrol stood in the door. The bartender hurried to them and pointed toward the little intruder and his friends, but the officers shook their heads and continued to search the room. Then one stopped and nodded toward the side of the room where Bryson and Gregg were sitting. They strode detenninably forward, skirting the tables. “All right, Bryson,” one of them said. “Gome with us.” “Me?’ Bryson said. “You’ve got a little business to settle with the security office.” 4 Bryson got up slowly. “Just a millisecond,” said the bantam, bursting between them. “Let’s not break up the party, Grounderew.” Bryson patted the little fellow on the shoulder. “Thai’s all right, hero. You’ve done enough for one day.” “Come on, Bryson,” said one of the officers, wearily. “Let’s get that card fixed up. One of the clerks had hysterics, right in the middle ol the main control room, just be- cause of you.” Bryson laughed and started across the floor with them. “I'll send Miss Haines down to vouch lm you,” Gregg called after him. “And Bryson,” he shouted with sudden decision, “fix up the neologisms and put Duncan in it, and I’ll buy that storv.” • • Bryson chortled, leaped in the air, and Happed his arms. “Whoo-ce!” lie shouted. “I’m floating.” ... THE END The Big News: if Is Monthly! Yes, beginning with the March issue, you’ll be able to buy your favorite science fiction magazine each and every month! And you won’t want to miss an issue — they’ll all be tops!

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The barn turned out to be a spaceship in disguise, arid that was only the beginning. Before his strange adven- ture ended, young Paul Asher found himself going around in circles — very peculiar circles indeed! DOUBLE TAKE By Richard Wilson Illustrated by Paul Orban PAUL ASHER, 27, men’s furn- ishings buyer, leaned back and let the cloth band be fastened across his chest, just under his armpits. He adjusted his heavy spectacles, closed his eyes [or a moment, breathed deeply, and ivas off. The semi-darkness was dispelled as he shot out of a tunnel into daz- zling sunlight. The high-powered vehicle lie was driving purred smoothly as it took the long, rising curve. The road climbed steadily toward the mountaintop city ahead. He looked around to satisfy himself that he was alone in the car. He wasn’t. The girl was a pretty one. He’d seen her somewhere before, he thought. She was looking insolently at him, her wide red mouth in a half smile. Her dark hair stirred in the breeze coming through the win- dow, next to her, which was open just a slit. She said: “Just keep going, Sweetheart, as fast as you can.” And she patted the oversized pocketbook that lay in her lap. He pressed down on the accelera- tor and the car responded with a How of power. The countryside fell away from the road on either side. Far below he could see a river, winding broadly to the far-off sea. The summer day sent its heat- shimmers across the miniature land- scape. The road curved again. Theirs was the only car he had seen since he’d come out of the tunnel. But now, far ahead, he saw another. It was standing at the side of the road, next to a gate that came down in the manner of one at a railroad crossing. But he knew by its black and white diagonals and by the lit- tle sentrv hut half hidden behind d the other car that it marked the frontier. A man with a rifle on his

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84 RICHARD WILSON shoulder stood there. They drew up to it fast, but his foot automa- tic ally eased up on the floorboard pedal until die -girl spoke sharply. “Right through it, Sweetheart.” In the rearview mirror he saw her leaning forward, her face tense. In a moment it would be time to stop, if he were going to. Paul Asher hesitated a moment. Then he too leaned forward, the band pressing into his chest. He was breathing heavily. There was an almost inaudible click. He trod on the accelerator. He had a glimpse of the guard unsling- ing his rifle from his shoulder and of another man running toward the parked car as his vehicle smashed into the flimsy gate and sent it, cracked and splintered, to the side of the road. He fought the slight wrench of die wheel and sped on. He thought he heard a shot. “Nice work,” die girl said. She seemed to be appraising him as she looked at him. “My name, inci- dentally, is Naomi.” “Hello,” he heard himself saying as he whipped the car around a curve that hid the frontier behind a hill. “You seem to know who I am.” “That I do.” she said. “Then why don’t you call me by my name, instead of ‘Sweetheart’?” “That’s because I like you, Swcedieart.” She was looking out the rear window. “Now just step on the gas, because we’ve got com- pany.” The car that had been parked near the sentry hut was whipping into view around the curve. It was lighter than his, but it was fast, too. He stepped on it. OW THE ROAD had become narrow and twisting. The grade was steep but the surface was good. Abruptly, it entered a forest. The girl said : “Two more curves. Then you’ll see a field and a barn. OfT the road and into the barn, fast.” He took the curves with rubber screaming and almost without brak- ing sent the car bumping across the field and into the barn. It was bigger than it had seemed from the outside. As he brought the car to a lurching halt the barn door closed. Where he had expected to sec stalls and milking machines and hay he saw an expanse of metal floor and monstrous machinery. The barn door which had been a rickety wooden slab from the outside was a gleaming sheet of metal from the inside. It glided silently shut and left no joint or seam to show where there had been an opening. “Out,” said Naomi. As they left the car, a flexible metal arm snaked from one of the smooth walls, attached itself to the front bumper of the vehicle, and whisked it into a cubicle which opened to receive it and closed be- hind it. A power-driven w’heclchair sped up to them. Sitting in it was a fat man of middle age, with pendulous jowls and a totally bald head. His expression was a sardonic scowl. “You have the plans?” he asked the girl. “Sweetheart here has them.” “I don’t know what you’re talk- ing about,” the young man said. “He knows, all right,” the girl said. “He pretends to be innocent, but that is merely his training. He

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DOUBLE TAKE 85 has them under a sticking plaster on the small of his back.” “Remove your coat and shirt,” commanded the man in the wheel- chair. At that moment the floor shud- dered under their feet, a gong be- gan to clang insistently, and the giant machinery, which had been silent, throbbed into life. The man in the wheelchair whirled and was off, shouting com- mands to men who materialized high on the walls in cylindrical tur- rets which the visitor could only think of as battle stations. “What is this place?” he asked. He got no answer. Instead the girl grabbed his arm and pulled him oir to the edge of the gigantic metal room. An opening appeared in the wall and she pushed him through it into a room beyond. The entranceway snapped shut behind them and when he looked he could sec no door. The room also was windowless. Naomi went to a metal table and as she looked down into its surface it became a screen. Mirrored in it was the mountainous countryside they had driven through to get to the barn — or what had seemed to be a barn from the outside. He looked over her shoulder. They saw as from a height. There was the light car that had chased them from the frontier. Standing near it was a man in an officer’s uniform and another in civilian clothes. They were talking and gesturing. Beside the car was a tank. As they watched, its gun fired and the structure they were in shuddered, but they heard no sound. Lumbering up the mountain road were more tanks and a self-propel- led gun. One of the tanks became enveloped in smoke and flames as they watched. After a moment the smoke cleared. The tank was gone; where it had been there was a deep crater. Gradually, the figures in the drama below grew smaller. At the. same time the vista widened, so that they saw more and more countryside. It twisted beneath them and the horizon came giddily into view. A few moments later the curvature of the earth could be plainly seen. Everything fitted together at once. Some of the things, anyway. “We’re in a ship,” he said. “Some kind of rocket-ship.” “It’s a planet plane,” the girl said. “We’re safe now.” “Safe from what?” he asked. “What’s this all about?” She smiled enigmatically. “Ha- fitz could tell you, if he chose. He’s the boss.” “The man in the wheelchair?” She nodded and took out a com- pact. As she added lipstick to her mouth, she looked him over, be- tween glances in her mirror. “You don’t look like the spy type. If there is a type.” “I’m not a spy. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “The innocent! Go on, take off your coat and shirt. We’ll save Hafitz some time.” “I’ll be glad to, just to prove this is all ridiculous. A case of mistaken identity. You’ve made a mistake, that’s what you’ve done.” He stood there, hesitating. The girl gave a burst of laughter.

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86 RICHARD WILSON Then she said: “All right, Sweet- heart. I’ll turn my back.” She did, and he pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Then he froze. Taped to the skin of his back was a Hat package. Paul Asher made the decision. He bent forward , feeling perspiration in the palms of his hands. There was a faint click. UICKLY he ripped the ad- hesive from his back. There was an instant of pain as the plas- ter came free. He wadded up the sticky package, dropped it to the floor and kicked it under the desk. Then he took off his coat, tie and shirt. “You can turn around now,” he said. “A more modest spy I’ve never seen. Okay,” she said, “now you turn around.” “As you see,” he said, “there arc no plans — no papers.” “No — not now. But there is a red mark on your back. What is it?” “Oh” he said. “Oh— that’s a birthmark.” She spun him around to face her. Her face was harsh. She slapped his cheek. “Where is the sticking plaster? Don’t trifle with me.” Her eyes bored into his. He re- turned the gaze, then shrugged. “Under the desk,” he said. “I tore it off and kicked it under the desk.” “You are sensible to confess,” she said. She bent down, unwisely. Paul Asher felt the familiar tightening in his chest as he leaned forward. The click was barely it card. He raised his hand and brought the edge of it down hard on the back of her neck. She crumpled and fell to the metal floor. He noticed that a smear of her freshly-applied lipstick came off on it. He pushed the unconscious body aside and fished the packet out from under the desk. He searched the room for another hiding place. But it was too late. A section of wall opened and Hafitz, the fat man in the wheelchair, sped in. He wheeled past the young man, looked briefly at the unconscious girl, then whisked himself around. “You will pay for this, my friend,” he said. “But first we will have the plans for the way-station. Where are they?” “I don’t know anything about any plans and I don’t know any- thing about a way-station. I tried to tell the girl: it’s all a crazy mis- take.” “We will see,” said Hafitz. He pressed a button on the arm of his wheelchair and two bruisers ap- peared through the walls, in the abrupt way people had of material- izing here. Bruisers was the only way they could be described. They were human brutes, all muscle and malevolence. “Take them,” said Hafitz, indi- cating the unconscious girl and the young man. “Take them and search them for a small packet. If you do not find it, search this room. If you do not find it still, hurt the male animal. They persuade well with pain here, I understand. But do not kill him. I will be in the com-

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DOUBLE TAKE 87 munications room.” He sped off, through a wall open- ing. One of the bruisers picked up the girl, roughly, and disappeared with her. The other grabbed the young man and hauled him oil in a third direction. The young man hastily snatched up his coat, shirt and tie en route. They ended up in a cell of a room, about seven feet in all di- rections, in which the bruiser stripped him, methodically went through each piece of cloth- ing, and then satisfied himself that he didn’t have the packet anywhere on his body. The muscle-man then raised a fist. “Wait,” his prospective victim said. He thought back quickly. “Hafitz didn’t say you could bat me around till you searched the room, too.” The other spoke for the first time. “You say the truth.” He put his arm down. The young man watched intently as the bruiser went through the wall of the cell-like room. He dressed fast. By placing his fingers in exactly the same position as the other had done, was able to make the wall open for him. The silver-metal corridor had two directions. He went to the right. After many turnings, at each of which he reconnoitercd carefully, he came to a passageway that was damp. Why it was damp he could- n’t tell, but there in the wetness were tracks which could have been made by a wheelchair. He followed them, feeling the throb of giant engines underfoot. HE WHEELCHAIR tracks abruptly made a ninety-degree turn and ended at a blank wall. Somewhere beyond it must be the communications room. He retreated and waited. In time the wall snapped open and Hafitz sped out. The young man retreated into the maze of cor- ridors and hoped chance would be on his side. It was. Hafitz went an- other way. The young man ran back to the wall and used his fingers on it in the combination he had learned. It opened for him. He closed it behind him and blinked at the huge instrument panel which filled almost the entire room. One of the instruments was a color vision screen, tuned in to a 100m in which there was a maho- gany desk, at which was seated a man in uniform. Behind him was a map of the United States. The man in uniform was a major general in the Air Force. An aide, a lieutenant colonel, was leaning over the desk. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand. The men’s con- versation was audible. “Messages have been coming in from all over Europe,” the colonel was saying. “Here’s the way it re- constructs: “Our agent was en route to the rendezvous when he was intercept- ed by Naomi. That’s the only name we have for her. She’s a spy. She’s worked for half a dozen countries and her present employer could be any one of them. They were spot- ted as they crossed the frontier be- tween Italy and France. Their car went into a barn and we thought

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88 RICHARD WILSON wc had them. But the barn turned out to be a spaceship in disguise. It took off.” So I'm their agent, Paul Asher thought. So that's what it's all about. I'm a secret agent for the United States , but they didn’t tell me anything about it. This is real George, this is . . . He expected to hear a faint click and leaned for- ward experimentally, but nothing happened. He leaned backward. Still nothing. The colonel was answering a question from the general. “We don’t know who they are, Sir. They- ’re not from Earth, obviously. And the best scientific minds go still further — they’re not even from our solar system. Whoever they are, it’s clear that they don’t want us to build a way-station in space.” “Those spaceships started buz- zing around right after our first Moon trip,” the general said. “This is the first time they’ve become really troublesome — now that we’ve got the Moon under control and are ready to build the way-station so we can get to Mars.” “That’s right, Sir,” said the colonel. “Progress is a wonderful thing,” said the general. “Things certainly have changed since those early days of strategic atomic bombing and guided missile experiments.” “Yes, Sir,” said the colonel. The young man in the communi- cations room of the spaceship let his attention wander away from the scene back on Earth and experi- mented with some of the switches and controls. Trial and error led him to one which lit up a signal on the desk of the general. The general flicked it on. “Yes?” he said. He looked puz- zled when he got no picture, just a voice saying, “Hello, hello.” “Yes?” he said. “Hello. Speak up, man.” “This is your agent aboard the enemy spaceship,” said the young man. “Do you read me?” “Yes,” said the general. “We read you. Go ahead.” “I may not have much time. Get a fix on me if you can. And send hdp.” “What’s your position?” the gen- eral was reacting well. He was alert and all business. “I don’t know. I’ve been taken prisoner, but I’m temporarily free. There isn’t much time. Hafitz is bound to be back soon. He seems to be the brains of this outfit — this part of the outfit, anyway. Naomi is here, too, but I don’t know whether she’s with them or against them.” “Where are the plans, son?” asked the general. “They’re safe, for the moment. I can’t guarantee for how long.” “I’m getting the fix,” the colonel said. He was beyond the range of the young man’s vision screen. “I’ve got him. He’s still within range, but accelerating fast. We can inter- cept if we get up a rocket soon enough.” “Get it up,” ordered the general. “Get up a squadron. Scramble the Moon patrol and send out reserves from Earth at once.” “Right!” said the colonel. The young man was so engrossed in the makings of his rescue party that he didn’t see the wall open up behind him.

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DOUBLE TAKE 89 There was a squeak of rubber tires and he whirled to see Hafitz, in his wheelchair, slamming toward him. The fat man’s hand held a weird-looking gun. The young man recoiled. His back pushed against a row of con- trol buttons. Then everything went white. PAUL ASHER blinked his eyes, like a man awakening from a vivid dream. The house lights went on and the manager of the theater came on the stage. He stood in front of the blank master screen with its check- erboard pattern of smaller screens, on which the several lines of action had taken place simultaneously. Paul took off his selectorscope spec- tacles with the earphone attach- ments. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the manager said. “1 regret very much having to announce that this vicar- ion of the production Spies from Space, was defective. The multi- film has broken and, because of the complexity of the vikie process, it will be impossible to splice it with- out returning it to the laboratory. “Ushers are at the exits with passes good for any future perform- ance. Those of you who prefer can exchange them at the box office for a full refund of your admission price.” Paul Asher unstrapped the wir- ed canvas band from across his chest. He put the selectorscope spectacles into the pouch on the arm of the seat and walked out of the R.K.O. Vicarion into High Street and around the corner to where his car was parked. His roommate at the communapt, MacCloy, was still up when he got there, going over some projectos. Mac snapped off the screen and quickly swept the slides together and into a case. “You’re back early,” MacCloy said. “The multifilm broke,” Paul told him. “Oh.” Mac seemed abstracted, as he often did, and again Paul won- dered about this man he knew so casually and who had never con- fided in him about anything — es- spccially about his government job. “So 1 missed the ending,” Paul said. “1 guess it was near the end, anyhow. The space patrol was on the way, but the villain, that Hafitz, was just about to blast me with his gun and 1 don’t know how I would have got out of that.” “I remember that,” Mae said. He laughed. “You must have been Positive all the way through. Like I was when 1 saw it. If you’d had any negative reac tions — if you’d leaned hack against the strap in- stead of forward — you’d have been at some other point in the multi- plot and I wouldn’t have recogniz- ed that part. Want me to tell you how it ends?” “Go ahead. Then if I do sec it again I’ll change the ending some- where along the line with a lean- back.” “Okay. There really wasn’t much more. It takes so much film to provide all the plot choices that they can’t make them very long. “Well, Hafitz blasts me and misses,” Mac went on, “ — or blasts you and misses, to keep it in your

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90 RICHARD WILSON' viewpoint. When you jump back, you set off a bunch of controls. That was the control room, too, not just the communications room. Well, those controls you lean back against take the ship out of auto- matic pilot and send it into some wild acrobatics and that’s why Ha- fitz misses. Also it knocks him out of the wheelchair so he’s helpless and you get his gun. Also you sec that the plans are still there — right where you put them, stuck to the bottom of his wheelchair.” “So that was it.” said Paul. “Yes,” said Mac. “And then you cover Hafitz while he straightens out the ship and you rendezeous with the space control and they take you all into custody. You get a ci- tation from the government. That’s about it. Corny, huh?” “But what about the girl?” Paul asked. “Is she really a spy?” “Girl? What girl?” “Naomi, her name was,” Paul said. “You couldn’t miss her. She was in the vikie right at the be- ginning— that brunette in the fast car.” “But there wasn’t any girl, Paul,” Mac insisted. “Not when 1 saw it.” “Of course there was. There had to be — the vikics all start out the same way, no matter who sees them.” “It beats me, pal. I know I didn’t sec her. Maybe you dreamed up the dame.” “I don’t think so,” Paul said. “But of course it’s possible.” He yawned. “I wouldn’t mind dream- ing of her tonight, at that. Think I’ll turn in now, Mac. I’ve got that long trip tomorrow, you know. Up to Canada to look over a new line of Marswool sport jackets at the All-Planets Showroom.” “Driving or flying?” “The weather prognosis is zero- zero. I’ll drive.” “Good,” said Mac. PAUL ASHER woke up late. He had a confused recollection of a dream. Something about a beau- tiful brunette giving him a backrub. A look at the chrono sent the dream out of his head and he hur- ried through shaving and dressing. His car was waiting for him, en- gine idling, at the curb. He got in, tossing his briefcase and topcoat ahead of him to the far side of the front seat. His back began to itch, insistently, and he rubbed it against the leather upholsters-. Paul adjusted the safety belt around him, and fastened it. Might as well do it now, instead of havj ing to fool around with it later Damn that itch, anyway! It was as if something were stuck to his skin — like a sticking plaster. . . The high-powered vehicle purred smoothly as it took a long, rising curve. The road climbed steadily toward the inountaintop city ahead. The scene was familiar. The itching of his back spread and became a prickly feeling in the small hairs at the nape of his neck. He knew now that he was not alone in the car. He looked in the rear-view mirror. Naomi. She was looking at him insolently, her wide red mouth in a half smile. She said: “Just keep going. Sweetheart, as fast as you can.” ... THE END

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Personalities in Si ienre Fresh Fields of Science Are His Home Ground YBERNETICS is a word that has been accepted and placed in everyday use with amazing rapidity. It is also a concept of tremendous usefulness and awe-inspiring possi- bilities. The man who coined the word and gave the world the con- cept is Professor Norbert Weiner of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Boston. Considered one of the top six ma- thematicians in the United States, this one-time child prodigy pub- lished his study of control and com- 4 inunieation in the animal and the machine under the title, Cyber- netics, in the early part of 1919. Within six weeks after the first American printing (it was pub- lished first in France), three more printings were necessary because of the unprecedented demand for it from readers of all types. I he hook is beautifully written, lucid, direc t and. despite its complexity, readable by the layman as well as the scien- tist; it has been said that anyone seriously interested in our eiviliza- tion would find it imposiblc to ignore. It is not easy to ignore Weiner himself, either. Norbert Weiner is Norbert Weiner short, heavy, brown-eyed, greying, and bearded; he is also a bundle of nervous energy. Although best known as a mathematician, he is also a physicist, an engineer, and an export in almost all the physical sciences. Just to top it oil, he has a doctor’s degree in philosophy. But he scoffs disdainfully at anyone who tails him a genius, and proves his |>oint by bidding wildly at bridge and playing only mediocre chess. Born in Columbus, Missouri, in 1894. Weiner was constantly being written up in newspapers because of bis precocity. The family’s move halfway across the continent to Massachusetts when he was in his early childhood did little to hamper young Norton's education. He

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92 PERSONALITIES IN SCIENCE managed to graduate from the local high school at the age of 12. and received his Bachelor of Arts de- gree from Tufts College when he was 15. By this time he had had four years of Greek, seven years of Latin, four of German, one of French and a smattering of both Spanish and Chinese in addition to his scientific education. After getting his Master’s at 1 lar- vard, he took extension courses at Cambridge and Heidelberg. For a while he proceeded to use this mag- nificent education to earn his living as a high-class hack writer for the Encyclopedia Brittanica. He spent a year as a reporter for the Boston Herald, and between 1917 and 1918 worked at the Aberdeen Proving Grounds, first as a civilian computer and later as a private in the Army. During World War II Weiner worked for the United States Gov- ernment on the construction of au- tomatically aimed guns, and did re- search in the guided missile field. When questioned about the latter work he told reporters, “The inter- change of ideas which is one of the great traditions of science must re- ceive limitations when the scientist becomes the arbiter of life and death. I realize that I am acting as a censor of my own ideas and may sound arbitrary. If I do not desire to participate in the bombing of de- fenseless people — and I do not — I must take a serious responsibility as to those to whom I disclose my ideas.” During his war work Weiner studied the handling of information in highly involved machines such as automatic computers, radar devices, servo mechanisms and others. From the operation of the feedback prin- ciple ( which is nicely exemplified by the thermostat) in these devices, and the necessary preoccupation with accuracy rather than efficiency found in their design, it was made evident to Weiner and his fellow workers in the field — physicists, psychologists, electronics engineers, and researchers from almost every other division of science — that a similarity existed between such me- chanisms and the human brain and nervous system. Cybernetics, which Weiner considered an invasion of the no-man’s land betwen establish- ed fields, was the natural result. HE PROPER names of Weiner’s two most important discoveries are less familiar; they arc General- ized Harmonic Analysis and the Universal Taubcrian Theorem. In- credibly involved and difficult to understand, these arc the results of his constant probing into the un- known territories of mathematics. The results of his discoveries are in the newspapers every day, and in- clude not only the electronic brain and automatically tracking guns but also “automatic factories” now be- ing put into use by the chemical in- dustry. As a typical example of control and communication in the machine, Professor Weiner cites the governor of a steam engine, which senses mechanically when the engine is going too fast and reduces the steam supply accordingly. A machine, when instructed to carry out a cer- tain task, will do so — barring me- chanical failure. A man may carry out the task or he may refuse to do

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PERSONALITIES IN SCIENCE 93 so — for some sound reason, for pure cussedness, or out of sheer laziness. The difference, according to Wein- er, “proves the immense superiority of man over the machine.” The Professor believes that the great new computers are harbingers of a whole new science of communi- cation and control. So far, they have no senses nr effectors such as arms and legs, but why shouldn’t they have in the future? There are all sorts of artificial eyes, ears and fingertips (thermometers, strain gauges, pressure indicators, photo- electric tubes) that may be hooked up to them. The machines already can and do work typewriters to set down answers to the questions fed into them; Weiner insists that they can be built to work valves, switches and other c ontrol devices. Sue h a development, says Weiner, will usher in “the second industrial revolution” there will be wholly automatic factories with artificial brains keeping track of every pro- cess. They will order raw materials, inspect them, store them, route them through the plant. Some of the Professor’s colleagues call this pure sensationalism. Others acclaim it. In point of fact, the telephone company has already in- stalled computer-type machines that watc h the operations of a dial ex- change and total up the- subscribers’ hills. It’s reasonable to expert many more of Weiner’s ideas to be- put in- to use in the near future. He is not only amazingly good at discove ring and developing them, but be is also much better at pointing out the practical possibilities than the aver- age theoretical scientist. His work with machines alone should not be overemphasized, how- ever. He has ideas for improving the iron lung, for instance, by al- lowing the paralyzed person to con- trol the artific ial breathing appara- tus with his own nerve impulses. He believes that someday amputees will be provided with artificial arms and legs with which they can actually feel. He also wants to use electronic brains to gain new and deeper in- sights into human thinking and var- ious mental and nervous disorders. A list of Norbert Weiner’s con- tributions to mathematics, scientific and philosophical journals totals more than one hundred and reveals better than anything else how wide- spread his interests are. In these ar- ticles he has discussed suc h varied — and difficult subjects as the postu- late theory, the foundation of ma- thematics, the assemblages and functions of a real variable, proba- bility theory, analysis, Tauberian theorems, mathematical logic, trigo- nometric expansion, potential the- ory analysis, relativity, cpistomology and electrical networks. This definitely human thinking machine lives in an unpretentious house in Belmont. Massachusetts, claiming lie has no time for any of the usual pleasures and privileges associated with wealth and prestige. The time and energy he pours into his work, on the other hand, is enormous. He’s often tired and pre- occupied, and has a few of the typi- cal eccentricities of the famous ab- sent-minded professor. But the truth is exactly the opposite1; he is very much present in his mind, and through his searchings there he is learning more and more about vour mind and mine! *

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Harold discovered the time-sphere by a lucky accident. Ilis brother Peter decided to use it selfishly, and laid his plans with extreme care, '/'lien there was another accident . . . ANACHRON By Damon Knight Illustrated by Philip B. Parsons THE BODY was never found. And for dial reason alone, there was no body to find. It sounds like inverted logic — which, in a sense, it is — but there’s no paradox involved. It was a per- fectly orderly and explicable event, even though it could only have hap- pened to a Castellan*. Odd fish, the Castcllare brothers. Sons of a Scots-Knglishwoman and an expatriate Italian, born in Eng- land, educated on the Continent, they were at ease anywhere in the world and at home nowhere. Nevertheless, in their middle years, they had become settled men. Expatriates like their father, they lived on the island of Ischia, oil the Neapolitan coast, in a palace — quattrocento, very fine, with peel- ing eupids on the walls, a multitude of rats, no central heating, and no neighbors. They went nowhere; no one ex- cept their agents and their lawyers came to them. Neither had ever married. Each, at about the age of thirty, had given up the world of people for an inner world of more precise and more enduring pleas- ures. Each was an amateur — a fanatical, compulsive amateur. They had been born out of their time. Peter’s passion was virtu. He col- lected relentlessly, it would not be too much to say savagely; he col- lected as some men hunt big game. His taste was catholic, and his ac- quisitions filled the huge rooms of the palace and half the vaults under them — paintings, statuary, enamel, porcelain, glass, crystal, metalwork. At fifty, he was a round little man with small, sardonic eyes and a care- less patch of pinkish goatee. Harold Castcllare, Peter’s talented 95

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96 DAMON KNIGHT brother, was a scientist. An amateur scientist. He belonged in the 19th century, as Peter was a throwback to a still earlier epoch. Modern science is largely a matter of team- work and drudgery, both impossible concepts to a Castcllarc. Hut Har- old’s intelligence was in its own way as penetrating and original as a Newton’s or a Franklin’s. He had done respectable work in physics and electronics, and had even, at his lawyer’s instance, taken out a few patents. The income from these, when his own purchases of instru- ments and equipment did not con- sume it, he gave to his brother, who accepted it without gratitude or rancor. Harold, at fifty-three, was spare and shrunken, sallow and spotted, with a bloodless, melancholy coun- tenance on whose upper lip grew a neat hedge of pink-and-salt mus- tache, the companion piece and antithesis of his brother’s goatee. On a certain May morning, Har- old had an accident. Goodyear dropped rubber on a hot stove; Archimedes took a bath; Curie left a piece of uranium ore in a drawer with a photographic plate. Harold Castcllarc, working pa- tiently with an apparatus which had so far consumed a great deal of current without producing anything more spectacular than some rather unusual corona effects, sneezed con- vulsively and dropped an ordinary bar magnet across two charged terminals. Harold, getting up from his in- stinctive crouch, blinked at it in profound astonishment. As he wat< lied, the cloudiness abruptly difiiip|M‘urcd and hr was looking through the bubble at a section ol tcssclatcd flooring that seemed to be about three feet above the real floor. He could also sec the corner of a carved wooden bench, and on the bench a small, oddly-shaped stringed instrument. Harold swore fervently to him- self, made agitated notes, and then began to experiment. He tested tin- sphere cautiously with an electro- scope, with a magnet, with a Gcigei counter. Negative. He tore a tiny bit of paper from his notepad and dropped it toward the sphere. Tin- paper disappeared; he couldn’t see where it went. Speechless, Harold picked up a meter stick and thrust it delicately forward. There was no feeling of contact; the rule went into and through the bubble as if the latter did not exist. Then it touched tin- stringed instrument, with a solid click. Harold pushed. The instru- ment slid over the edge of tin- bench and struck the floor with a hollow thump and jangle. Staring at it, Harold suddenly recognized its tantalizinglv familial shape. Recklessly he let go the meter slick, reached in and picked the fra- gile thing out of the bubble. It was solid and cool in his fingers. The varnish was clear, the color of tin- wood glowing through it. It looked as if it might have been made yesterday. Peter owned one almost exactly like it, except for preservation — a viola d’amore of the 17th century. # Harold stooped to look through the bubble horizontally. Gold and rust tapestries hid the wall, fifty feet away, except for an ornate door in

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ANAC! IRON 97 1 1 M i cuter. The door began to open; II iiclil saw .t llickrr ol umber. I lim tin- sphi-rr went cloudy again. 1 1 is hands were empty: the viola d'aiuore was gone. And the mi it i stick, which he had dropped inside the sphere, lay on the Hour at his feet. L( >OK AT THAT,” said Harold l simply. Peter's eyebrows went up slightly. “What is it, a new kind ol tele- vision?” "No. no. Look here.” The viola d’.unore lay on the bench, precisely where it had been before. Harold icacbed into the sphere and drew it out. I'elcr started, "(jive me that . . .” lie took it in his hands, rubbed the smoothly finished wood. He stared * at his brother. "Bv God and all the • saints,” he said. "Time travel.” Harold snorted impatiently. "My dear Peter, linn ’ is ,i meaning- less word taken by itsell, just as sp.ti e is. "But, haning that, time travel.” " 1 1 you like, yes." "You’ll he quite famous.” I expei l m». Trier looked down at (he inslru- Iiient in his hands. “I'd like to keep i his, il I mav.” "Td be very happy to let ym, but \ t mi can’t.” As In* spoke, the bubble went < loudy: the viola cTainorr was gone like smoke. “ There, you see?” “What sint ol devil's triek is ih.it?” “I I goes back . . . Later voiTIl see. I had that thing out oner be- fore, and this happened. When the spin ir lin anie transparent again, the \k»| was when* I had louml it.” “And your explanation lor this?” Ilamld hesitated. “None. Until I can wo i k out the appropriate matliemat’h s \\ hit h mav take you some t • lime Meauwhih-, in layman’s lan- guage Harold's Lire < reused with the ellort and interest ol translation. "Ycia roughly. then I should say it means that < vents are conserved. Two or three centuries ago — ” " I lirec. Noth <■ the sound-holes.” " I luce centuries ago, then, at this panic ular time of dav. someone was in that room. If the viol were gone, he or she would have noticed the fn< t. I hat would constitute an alteration ol events already lixed; therefore it doesn’t happen. For the same leason, 1 conjecture', we can’t see into tin- sphere, or— ” He probed at it with a fountain pen. I thought not or re.ic h into it to tom Ii anything; that would also constitute an alteration. And any- thing we put into the sphere while • • s ii is transparent ionics out again when il becomes opaque. To pul it very ( iiidely, we cannot alter the L n " past. "But it seems to me that we did alter it. Just now, when you took the vol out, even il no one of that time saw it happen.” "This.” said Ilamld. "is tin* dif- ficulty of using language as a means ol ex. u t communication. If you had not forgotten all your calculus — However. It mav he postulated (re- membering that everything I say is a lie, bec ause I sav it in English ) that an eve nt which doe sn’t inti u-

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98 DAMON KNIGHT cncc other events is not an event. In other words — ” “That, since no one saw you take it. it doesn’t matter whether you took it or not. A rather dangerous precept, Harold; you would have been burned at the stake for that at one time.” “Very likclv. Hut it can lx- stated in another way, or indeed, in an infinity of ways which only scent to be different. If someone, let us say God, were to remove the moon as 1 am talking to you, using zero dura- tion, and substitute an exact replica made of concrete and plaster of paris, with the same mass, albedo, and so on as the genuine moon, it would make no measurable differ- ence in the universe as we perceive it — and therefore we cannot cer- tainly say that it hasn’t happened. Nor, I may add, does it make any difference whether it has or not.” “ — ‘when there’s no one about on the quad’,” said Peter. “Yes. A basic, and, as a natural consequence, a meaningless prob- lem of philosophy. Except,” he added, “in this one particular mani- festation.” He stared at the cloudy sphere. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Peter? I’ve got to work on this.” “When will you publish, do you suppose?” “Immediately. That’s to say, in a week or two.” “Don’t do it till vou’vc talked it 4 over with me, will you? I have a notion about it.” Harold looked at him sharply. “Commercial?” “In a way.” “No,” said Harold. “This is not the sort of thing one patents, or keeps secret, Peter.” “Of course. I’ll sec you at din- ner, I hope?” “I think so. If I forget, knock on the door, will you?” “Yes. Until then.” “Until then." AT DINNER, Peter asked only- two questions. “Have you found any possibility of changing the time your thing reaches — from the seventeenth cen- tury to the eighteenth, for example, or from Monday to Tuesday?” “Yes, as a matter of fact. Amaz- ing. It’s lucky that I had a rheostat already in the circuit; I wouldn’t dare turn the current off. Varying the amperage varies the time-set. I’ve had it up to what I think was Wednesday of last week, at any rate my smock was lying over the work- bench where I left it, I remember, Wednesday afternoon. I pulled it out. A curious sensation, Peter — I was wearing the same smock at the time. And then the sphere went opaque and of course the smock vanished. That must have been my- self, coming into the room . . .” “And the future?” “Yes. Another funny thing, I’ve had it forward to various times in the near future, and the machine itself is still there, but nothing’s been done to it . . . none of the things I’m thinking I might do. That might be because of the con- servation of events, again, but I rather think not. Still farther for- ward there are cloudy areas, blanks; I can’t see anything that isn’t in existence now, apparently . . . but here, in the next few days, there’s

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ANACHRON 99 nothing of that. “It’s as if I wore going away. Where do you suppose I’m going?” HAROLDS ABRUPT depar- ture took pi. uc between mid- night and morning lie parked his own grip, it would seem, left un- attended, and was seen no more. It was extraordinary, of course, that he should have left at all, hut the details were in no wav odd. Harold 4 had alwavs detested what he called 4 "the tyranny of the valet.” He was, as everyone knew, a most indepen- dent man. On the following day Peter made some trilling experiments with the time-sphere. From the 16th cen- tury he picked up a scent-bottle of Venetian glass; from the 18th, a crucifix of carved rosewood; from the 19th, when the palace had been the residence of an Austrian count and his Italian mistress, a hand- illuminated copy of de Sadr’s La Nouvellc Ju\tinr, very curiously bound in human skin. They all vanished, naturallv, within minutes or hours — all but the scent-bottle-. This gave Peter matter for reflection. There had been half a dozen lliekers of cloudi- ness in the sphere just futureward of the bottle; it ought to have van- ished, but it hadn’t. But then, he had found it on the floor near a wall with quite a large rat-hole in it. When objects disappeared unac- countably, he asked himself, was it because thev had rolled into rat- holes — or because some time fisher had picked them up when they were in a position to do so? He did not make any attempt to explore the future. That afternoon he telephoned his lawyers in Naples and gave them instructions for a new will. His estate, including his half of the jointly-owned Ischia property, was to go to the Italian Government on two conditions; (1) that Harold Castellan- would make a similar I request of the re- maining half of the property, and (2) that the Italian Government would turn the palace into a na- tional museum to house Peter’s col- let lion, using the income from his estate for its administration and for further acquisitions. His surviving relatives, two cousins in Scotland, he cut off with a shilling each. He did nothing more until after tire document had been brought out to him, signed, and witnessed. Only then did he venture to look into his own future. Events were conserved, Harold had said — meaning. Peter very well understood, events of the present and future as well as of the past. But was there only one pattern in which the future could he fixed? Could a result exist before its cause had occurred? The Castellan- motto was Auden- tes furtuna jurat — into which Peter, at the age of fourteen, had inter- polated the word “ prudent esque" : “Fortune favors the bold — and the prudent.” Tomorrow': no change; the room he was looking at was so exactly like this one that the time-sphere seemed to vanish. The next day: a cloudy blur. And the next, and the next . . . Opacity, straight through to what Peter judged, by the distance he

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100 DAMON KNIGHT had moved the rheostat handle, to hr ten years ahead. Then, suddenly, the room was a long marble hall Idled with display cases. Peter smiled wryly. If you were Harold, obviously you could not look ahead and see Peter working in your laboratory. And if you were Peter, equally obviously, you could not look ahead and know whether the room you saw were an improve- ment you yourself were going to make, or part of a museum estab- lished after your death, eight or nine years from now, or — No. Eight years was little enough, but he could not even be sure of that. It would, after all, be seven years before Harold could be de- clared legally dead . . . Peter turned the vernier knob slowly forward. A flicker, another, a long scries. Forward faster. Now the flickering melted into a gray- ness; objects winked out of exist- ence and were replaced by others in the showcases; the marble dark- ened and lightened again, darkened and lightened, darkened and re- mained dark. He was, Peter judged, looking at the hall as it would be some five hundred years in the fu- # turc. There was a thick film of dust on every exposed surface; rubbish and the carcass of some small ani- mal had liecn swept carelessly into a corner. The sphere clouded. When it cleared, there was an intricate trail of footprints in the dust, and two of the showcases were empty. The footprints were splayed, tri- furcate, and thirty inches long. Aftrr a moment’s deliberation Peter walked around the workbench and leaned down to look through the sphere from the opposite direc- tion. Framed in the nearest of the four tall windows was a scene of picture-postcard banality: the sun- silvered Hay and the foreshortened arc of the city, with Vcsuvio faintly fuming in the background. But there was something wrong about the colors, even grayed as they were by distance. Peter went and got his binoculars. The trouble was, of course, that Naples was green. Where the city ought to have been a rankness had sprouted. Between the clumps of foliage lie could catch occasional glimjjses of gray-white that might equally well have been boulders or the wreckage of buildings. There was no movement. There was no shipping in the harbor. But something rather odd was crawling up the side of the volcano. A rust-orange pipe, it appeared to be, supported on hairline struts like the legs of a centipede, and ending without rhyme or reason just short of the top. While Peter watched, it turned slowly blue. ONE DAY farther forward: now all the display cases had been looted; the museum, it would seem, was empty. Given, that in five centuries the world, or at any rate the depart- ment of Campania, has been over- run by a race of Somethings, the human population being killed or driven out in the process; and that the conquerors take an interest in the museum’s contents, which they have accordingly removed.

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ANACHRON 101 Removed where, and why? This question, Peter conceded, might have a thousand answers, nine hundred and ninety-nine of which would mean that he had lost his gamble. The remaining answer was: to the vaults, for safety. 4 With his own hands Peter built a hood to cover the apparatus on the workbench and the sphere above it. It was unaccustomed labor; it took him the better part of two days. Then he called in workmen to break a hole in the stone (looting next to the interior wall, rig a hoist, and cut the power cable that supplied the time-sphere loose from its supports all the way back to the fuse-box, leaving him a single flexible length of cable more than a hundred feet long. They un- bolted the workbench from the floor, attached casters to its legs, lowered it into the empty vault be- low, and went away. Peter unfastened and removed the hood. He looked into the sphere. Treasure. Crates, large and small, racked in rows into dimness. With pudgy lingers that did not tremble, lie advanced the rheostat. A cloudy flicker, another, a leaping blur of them as he moved the ver- nier faster — and then no more, to the limit of the time-sphere’s range. Two hundred years, Peter guessed — A. 1). 2700 to 2900 or thereabout — in which no one would enter the vault. Two hundred years of “un- 4 liquidated time.” He put the rheostat back to the beginning of that uninterrupted period. He drew out a small crate and prized it open. Chessmen, ivory with gold inlay, Florentine, 1 4th century. Superb. Another, from the opposite rack. T’ang figurines, horses and men, ten to fourteen inches high. Priceless. THE CRATES would not burn, Tomaso told him. I le went down to the kitchen to see, and it was true. The pieces lay in the roar- ing stove untouched. He fished one out with a poker; even the feathery splinters of the unplaned wood had not ignited. It made a certain extraordinary kind of sense. When the moment came for the crates to go back, any physical scrambling that had oc- curred in the meantime would have no effect; they would simply put themselves together as they had been before, like Thor’s goats. Hut burning was another matter; burn- ing would have released energy which could not be replaced. That settled one paradox, at any rate. There was another that nagged at Peter’s orderly mind. If the things he took out of that vault, seven hundred-odd years in the fu- ture, were to become part of the collection bequeathed by him to the museum, preserved by it, and even- tually stored in the vault for him to find — then precisely where had they come from in the first place? It worried him. Peter had learned in life, as his brother in physics, that one never gets anything for nothing. Moreover this riddle was only one 4 of his perplexities, and that not among the greatest. For another example, there was the obstinate opacity of the time-sphere when-

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ANACHRON 103 ever he attempted to examine the immediate future. However often he tried it the result was always the same: a cloudy blank, all the way forward to the sudden unveiling of the marble gallery. It was reasonable to expect the sphere to show nothing at times when he himself was going to be in the vault, but this accounted for only five or six hours out of every twenty-four. Again, presumably, it would show him no changes to be made by himself, since foreknowl- edge would make it possible for him to alter his actions. But he labori- ously cleared one end of the vault, put up a screen to hide the rest with the vow — which he kept — not to alter the clear space or move the screen for a week — and tried again with the same result. The only remaining explanation was that sometime during the next ten years, something was going to happen which he would prevent if he could; and the clue to it was there, buried in that frustrating un- broken blankness. As a corollary, it was going to be something which he could prevent if only he knew what it was ... or even when it was supposed to happen. The event in question, in all probability, was his own death. Peter therefore hired nine men to guard him, three to a shift — be- cause one man alone could not be trusted, two might conspire against him, whereas three, with the very minimum of effort, could be kept in a state of mutual suspicion . He also underwent a thorough medical examination, had new locks in- stalled on every door and window. and took every other precaution in- genuity could suggest. When he had done all these things, the next ten years were as blank as before. Peter had more than half ex- pected it. He cheeked through his list of safeguards once more, found it good, and thereafter let the mat- ter rest. He had done all he could; either he would survive the crisis or he would not. In either case, events were conserved ; the time-sphere could give him no forewarning. Another man might have found his pleasure blunted by guilt and fear; Peter’s was whetted to a keener edge. If he had been a re- cluse before, now he was an ere- mite; he grudged every hour that was not given to his work. Mornings he spent in the vault, unpacking his acquisitions; afternoons and eve- nings, soiling, cataloguing, examin- ing, and — the word is not too strong - — gloating. When three weeks had passed in this way, the shelves were bare as far as the power cable would allow him to reach in every direction, except for crates whose contents were undoubtedly too large to pass through the sphere. These, with heroic self-control, Peter had left untouched. ' And still lie had looted onlv a hundredth part of that incredible treasure-house. With grappling hooks he could have extended his reach by perhaps three or four yards, but at the risk of damaging his prizes; and in any case this would have been no solution but only a postponement of the prob- lem. There was nothing for it but to go through the sphere himself, and unpack the crales while on the other “side” of it.

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104 DAMON KNIGHT PETER THOUGHT about it in a fury of concentration for the rest of the day. So far as he was concerned there was no question that the gain would be worth any calculated risk; the problem was how to measure the risk and if pos- sible reduce it. Item: he felt a definite uneasi- ness at the thought rtf venturing through that insubstantial bubble. Intuition was supported, if not by logic, at least by a sense of the dramatically appropriate. Now, if ever, would be the time for his crisis. Item: common sense did not con- cur. The uneasiness had two sym- bols. One was the white face of his brother Harold just before the water closed over it; the other was a phantasm born of those gigantic, splayed footprints in the dust of the gallery. In spite of himself, Peter had often found himself trying to imagine what the creatures that made them must look like, until his visualization was so clear that he could almost swear lie had seen them. Towering monsters they were, with crested ophidian heads and great unwinking eyes; and they moved in a strutting glide, nodding their heads, like fantastic barnyard fowl . . . But, taking these premonitory' images in turn; first, it was impos- sible that he should ever be seri- ously inconvenienced by Harold’s death. There were no witnesses; he was sure; he had struck the blow with a stone; stones also were the weights that had dragged the body down, and the rope was an odd length Peter had picked up on the shore. Second, the three-toed Some- things might be as fearful as all the world’s bogies put together ; it made no difference, he could never meet them. Nevertheless, the uneasiness per- sisted; Peter was not satisfied; he wanted a lifeline. When he found it, he wondered that he had not thought of it before. He would set the time-sphere for a period just before one of the in- tervals of blankness. That would take care of accidents, sudden ill- nesses, and other unforeseeable con- tingencies. It would also insure him against one very real and not at all irrational dread: the fear that the mechanism which generated the time-sphere might fail while he was on the other side. For the conserva- tion of events was not a condition created by the sphere but one which limited its operation. No matter what happened, it was impossible for him to occupy the same place- time as any future or past observer; therefore, when the monster entered that vault, Peter would not be there any more. There was, of course, the scent- bottle to remember. Every rule has its exception; but in this case, Peter thought, the example did not apply. A scent-bottle rould roll into a rat- hole; a man could not. He turned the rheostat carefully 4 back to the last flicker of grayncss; past that to the next, still more care- fully. The interval between the two, he judged, was something under an hour: excellent. His pulse s<-emcd a trifle rapid, but his brain was clear and cool. He thrust his head into the sphere and sniffed cautiously. The air was

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ANACHRON 105 stale and had a faint, unpleasant odor, but it was breathable. Using a crate as a stepping-stool, he climbed to the top of the work- bench. He arranged another close to the sphere to make a platform level with its equator. And seven and a half centuries in the future, a third crate stood on the floor di- rectly under the sphere. Peter stepped into the sphere, dropped, and landed easily, legs bending to take the shock. When he straightened, he was standing in what to all appearances was a large circular hole in the workbench; his chin was just above the top of the sphere. He lowered himself, half-squat- ting, until lie had drawn his head through and stepped down from the crate. He was in the future vault. The sphere was a brightly luminous thing that hung unsupported in the air behind him, its midpoint just higher than his head. The shadows it cast spread black and wedge- shaped in every direction, melting into obscurity. 4 Peter’s heart was pounding mis- erably. He had an illusory stifling sensation, coupled with the idiotic notion that lie ought to he wearing a diver’s helmet. The silence was like the pause before a shout. But down the aisles marched the crated treasures in their hundreds. Peter set to work. It was diffi- cult, exacting labor, opening the crates where they lay, removing the contents and nailing the crates up again, all without disturbing the positions of the cratis themselves, but it was the price he had to pay for his lifeline. Each crate was in a sense a microcosm. like the vault itself — a capsule of unliquidated time. But the vault’s term would end some fifty minutes from now, when crested heads nodded down these aisles; those of the crates’ in- teriors, for all that Peter knew to the contrary, went on forever. The first crate contained lace- work porcelain; the second, sha- kudo sword-hilts; the third, an exquisite 4th-ccntury Greek orna- ment in repousse bronze, the equal in every way of the Siris bronzes. 4 w Peter found it almost physically difficult to set the thing down, but he did so; standing on his platform- crate in the future with his head projecting above the sphere in the present — like (again the absurd thought!) a diver rising from the ocean — he laid it carefully beside the others on the workbench. Then down again, into the fragile silence and the gloom. The next crates were too large, and those just beyond were doubtful. Peter fol- lowed his shadow down the aisle. He had almost thirty minutes left: / enough for one more crate, chosen with care, and an ample margin. Glancing to his right at the end of the row, he saw a door. It was a heavy door, rivet- studded, with a single iron step be- low it. There had been no door there in Peter’s time; the whole plan of the building must have been altered. Of course!, he realized suddenly. If it had not, if so much as a single tile or lintel had re- mained of the palace as he knew it, then the sphere could never have let him see or enter this particular here-and-now, this — what would Harold have called it — this nexus

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106 DAMON KNIGHT in space-time. For if you saw any now-existing tiling as it was going to appear in the future, you could alter it in the present — carve your initials in it, break it apart, chop it down — which was manifestly impossible, and therefore . . . And therefore the first ten years were necessarily blank when he looked into the sphere, not because anything unpleasant was going to happen to him, but because in that time the last traces of the old palace had not yet been eradicated. There was no crisis. Wait a moment, though! Harold had been able to look into the near future . . . But— of course — Harold had been about to die. In the dimness between Peter and the door he saw a rack of crates that looked promising. The way was uneven; one of the untidy accumulations of refuse that seemed to be characteristic of the Some- things lay in windrows across the floor. Peter stepped forward care- fully— but not carefully enough. Harold castellare had had another accident — and again, if you choose to look at it in that way, a lucky one. The blow stunned him; the old rope slipped from the stones; flaccid, he floated where a struggling man might have drowned. A fishing boat nearly ran him down and picked him up in- stead, suffering from a concussion, shock, exposure, and asphyxiation and more than three-quarters dead . . . But he was still alive when he was delivered, an hour later, to a hospital in Naples. There were of course no identi- fying papers, labels or monograms in his clothing — Peter had seen to that — and for the first week after his rescue Harold was quite genu- inely unable to give any account of himself. During the second week he was mending but uncommunica- tive, and at the end of the third, finding that there was some diffi- culty about gaining his release in spite of his physical recovery, he affected to recover his memory, gave a circumstantial but entirely fictitious identification and was discharged. To understand this as well as all his subsequent actions, it is only necessary to remember that Harold was a Castellare. In Naples, not wishing to give Peter any unneces- sary anxiety, he did not approach his bank for funds but cashed a check with an incurious acquaint- ance, and predated it by four weeks. With part of the money so acquired he paid his hospital bill and re- warded his rescuers. Another part went for new clothing and for four days’ residence in an inconspicuous hotel, while he grew used to walk- ing and dressing himself again. The rest, on his last day, he spent in the purchase of a discreetly small re- volver and a box of cartridges. He took the last boat to Ischia, and arrived at his own front door a few minutes before eleven. It was a cool evening, and a most cheer- ful fire was burning in the central hafl. “Signor Peter is well, I suppose,” said Harold, removing his coat. “Yes, Signor Harold. He is very well, very busy with his collection.” “Where is he? I should like to

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ANACHRON 107 speak to him.” “He is in the vaults, Signor Har- old. But—” “Yes?” “Signor Peter sees no one when he is in the vaults. He has given strict orders that no one is to bother him, Signor Harold, when he is in the vaults.” “Oh, well,” said Harold. “I dare- say he’ll see me.” IT WAS A THING something like a bear trap, apparently, except that instead of two semi- circular jaws it had four segments that snapped together in the mid- dle, each with a shallow, sharp tooth. The pain was quite unen- durable. Each segment moved at the end of a thin arm, cunningly hinged so that the ghastly thing would close over whichever ol the four triggers you stepped on. Each arm had a spring too powerful for Peter’s muscles. The whole affair was con- nected by a chain to a staple solidly embedded in the concrete floor: it left Peter free to move in any direc- tion a matter of some ten inches. Short of gnawing oil his own leg. he thought sickly, there was very little lie could do about it. The riddle was. what could the thing possibly be doing here? There were rats in the vaults, no doubt, now as in his own time, but surely nothing larger. Was it conceivable that even the three- toed Somethings would set an engine like this to catch a rat? Lost inventions, Peter thought irrelevantly, had a way of being rediscovered. Even if he suppressed the time-sphere during his lifetime and it did not happen to survive him, still there might be other time- fishers in the remote future — not here, perhaps, but in other treasure- houses of the world. And that might account for the existence of this metal-jawed horror. Indeed, it might account for the vault itself — a better man-trap — except that it was all nonsense, the trap could only be full until the trapper came to look at it. Events, and the lives of prudent time-travelers, were conserved. And lie had been in the vault for almost fortv minutes. Twenty min- utrs to go, twenty-five, thirty at the most, then the Somethings would enter and their entrance would free him. He had his lifeline; the knowl- edge was the only thing that made it possible to live with the pain that was the center of his universe just now. It was like going to the den- tist, in the bad old days before procaine; it was very bad, some- times. but you knew that it would end. He rocked his head toward the door, holding his breath. A distant thud, another, then a curiously un- pleasant squeaking, then silence. But he had heard them. He knew they were there. It couldn’t be much longer now. THREE MEN, two stocky, one lean, were playing cards in the passageway in front of the closed door that led to the vault staircase. They got up slowly. “Who is he?” demanded the shortest one. Tomaso clattered at him in fur-

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108 DAMON KNIGHT ious Sicilian; the man’s face dark- ened. but he looked at Harold with respect. “I am now,” stated Harold, ‘‘go- ing down to see my brother.” “No, signor,” said the shortest one positively. “You are impertinent,” Harold told him. “Yes, signor.” Harold frowned. “You will not let me pass?” “No, signor.” “Then go and tell my brother I am here.” The shortest one said apologeti- cally but firmly that there were strict orders against this also; it would have astonished Harold very much if he had said anything else. “Well, at least I suppose you can tell me how long it will be before he comes out?” “Not long, signor. One hour, no more.” “Oh, very well, then,” said Har- old pettishly, turning half away. He paused. “One thing more,” he said, taking the gun out of his pocket as he turned, “put your hands up and stand against the wall there, will you ?” The first two complied slgwly. The third, the lean one, fired through his coat pocket, just like the gangsters in the American movies. It was not a sharp sensation at all. Harold was surprised to find: it was more as if someone had hit him in the side with a cricket bat. The racket seemed to bounce inter- minably from the walls. He felt the gun jolt in his hand as he fired back, but couldn’t tell if he had hit anybody. Everything seemed to be happening very’ slowly, and yet it was astonishingly hard to keep his balance. As he swung around he saw the two stockv ones with their 4 hands half inside their jackets, and the lean one with his mouth open, and Tomaso with bulging eyes. Then the wall came at him and he began to swim along it, paying par- ticular attention to the problem of not dropping one’s gun. As he weathered the first turn in the passageway the roar broke out afresh. A fountain of plaster stung his eyes; then he was running clum- sily, and there was a bedlam of shouting behind him. Without thinking about it he seemed to have selected the labora- tory as his destination, it was an instinctive choice, without much to recommend it logically, and in any case, he realized halfway across the central hall, he was not going to get there. He turned and squinted at the passageway entrance; saw a blur move and fin'd at it. It disap- peared. He turned again awkward- ly and had taken two steps nearer an armchair which offered the nearest shelter when something clubbed him between the shoulder- blades. One step more, knees buckling, and the wall struck him a second, softer blow. He toppled, clutching at the tapestry that hung near the fireplace. WHEN THE three guards, whose names were Enrico, Alberto and Luca, emerged cau- tiously from the passage and ap- proached Harold’s body it was al- ready flaming like a viking’s in its

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ANACHRON 109 impromptu shroud; the dim horses and men and falcons of the tajM-s- try were writhing and crisping into brilliance. A moment later an un- certain ring of fire wavered toward them across the carpet. Although the servants came with fire extinguishers and with buckets of water from the kitchen, and al- though the fire department was called, it was all quite useless. In five minutes the whole room was ablaze, in ten, as windows burst and walls buckled, the fire engulfed the second story. In twenty a mass of flaming timbers dropped into the vault through the hole Peter had made in the floor of the laboratory, utterly destroying the time-sphere apparatus and reaching shortly thereafter, as the authorities con- cerned were lalei to agree, an in- tensity of heat entirely sufficient to # • consume a human body without leaving any identifiable trace. For that reason alone, there was no trace of Peter’s body to be found. THE SOUNDS had just begun again when Peter saw the light from the lime-sphere turn ruddy and then wink out like a snuffed candle. In the darkness, he heard the door open. . . . THE END IF you know . . . LISTED liELOW, in jumbled fashion, are the names of 1U seientifie instruments, with a brief description of each. Can you mnnh up at least six of them correctly for a passing score? Seven to nine is good; 10 ex- cellent. The answers are on page 1 13. 1. ONDOMETER (a) 2. OLFACTOMETER (b) 3. PERIMETER (c) 4. PYROMETER (*») 5. PHOTOHELIOGRAPH (c) 6. CRYOMETER (f) 7. CYCLOMETER (g) 8. PHOTOMETER (h) 9. PYRHELIOMETER (i) 10. PENETROMETER (j) any instrument for measuring the intensity of light, one for measuring a lower tem- perature than the ordinary mer- cury-thermometer will indicate, it measures strength of X-rays, an instrument for registering the form of electric waves, for measuring solar radiation, one for testing the scope of the field of vision. is used to measure the keenness of the sense of smell, a telescopic photographic instru- ment for taking pictures of the sun (as during an eclipse), an instrument for recording tin- rotations of a wheel, measures high degrees of heat.

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110 SCIENCE BRIEFS The Road to Space SPACE TRAVEL is just around the corner; there are many prob- lems to be solved yet, but clues to their solutions are becoming abund- ant. When manned rockets burst out of Earth’s atmosphere, and when they land on the moon and the planets, they will probably carry special equipment the design of which has been influenced by the conquerors of Mount Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary and his Sherpa tribesman guide, Tenzing Bhutia. Special oxygen equipment will be a must, for instance, and the Everest expedition earned the light- est and most efficient breathing ap- paratus ever designed. Even so, Col. Sir John Hunt, the expedition’s leader, said it had to be even better for future trips, and improvements are undoubtedly on the way. Vacuum packs compressed the expedition’s food rations into solid wedges, which reverted to their nor- mal form (including cereals, cheese, tea, coffee, lemonade, sugar sweets and pemmican) when seals on the packs were broken. Thus, for the first time, a properly balanced diet was carried to really high altitudes. Tents were of a new material, a specially woven light-weight mix- ture of cotton and nylon. Boots for the final assault had to be very light and easy to put on in the ra reified atmosphere, but also very warm and strong. Those used had a glace kid outer surface, an inner insulation of fiber surounded by a lining of waterproof fabric, inner soles of leather with lightweight rubberized fabric backing, an inner sock of plastic fiber, and an outer sole of rubber reinforced with syn- thetic resin aerated for lightness. Walkic talkie sets weighing only five pounds were carried. The equipment used by space travelers may bear no exact re- semblance to that described here, but the techniques that will be used in making that equipment arc be- ing discovered and used right now! The Weatherman Says ANEW PLUG for the space platform idea has come from Dr. Harry Wexlcr, chief of the Sci- entific Services Division of the United States Weather Bureau. Dr. Wexlcr points out that the sun is of course responsible for our weather, but that “there arc many things in our atmosphere that inter- fere with solar radiation.” He listed particularly dust and the amount of carbon dioxide, but excluded atom bombs, which “dissipate too quickly.” What we need. Dr. Wexlcr con- tinues, is “instruments close enough to the sun to measure the variations of solar radiation.” Comparing these with ground measurements, we could learn the precise effect of the atmospheric resistance — after

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SCIENCE BRIEFS 111 which wc could proceed to change the composition of the atmosphere in order to change the weather, if we wished. And the obvious conclusion, the way to get the necessary instru- ments above tin- atmosphere, is to get that much-discussed space plat- form into operation! Dr. Wexlor is convinced that we’ll do so one of these davs. Dr. Wexler also points out that the Earth has become hotter. This is supported by the work of ph\sicist Gilbert N. I ’lass of The Johns Hop- kins University, who has reealeu- luted the opacity of carbon dioxide to long-wave heat radiation and found it to be much greater than formerly believed. With so much m industrial activity adding carbon dioxide to the air, the result is a greenhouse effect in which short- wave heat arrives from the sun but longer heat waves are prevented from escaping the Earth. Plass figures that the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere will be doubled by the year 2080, and that this will raise the Earth’s temperature by about four per eent. '1 ’h is will also lessen the tempera- ture differential between the tops and bottoms of clouds, weakening the convection currents responsible for rainfall. If this happens, the weather will definitely be clearer and drier. Tragedy Unearthed T’S A PARADOX that the terri- ble tragedy of the sudden burial of the Roman city of Pompeii in 79 A.D. should become an advan- tage to modern archaeologists — but it has. The very nature of the ca- tastrophe has made it invaluable in the accumulation of historical relics from this spot. When the un- fortunate city with its 25.000 citi- zens was abruptly engulfed under volcanic ash, resulting from the tremendous eruption of Mt. Vesu- vius, important works of art and science, as well as articles of every- day life, were preserved for future historians. These ditl not suffer the inroads of slow destruction by the elements, as normally occurs. The volcanic ash mixed with the rain as it fell and hardened to form perfect casts, preserving victims’ features imme- diately after death. Even minute facial features of the Pompeiians were kept intact. By pouring plas- ter into the cavity formed in the volcanic ash where a victim was buried, a lifelike duplication of the person’s appearance nearly 2,01)0 years ago is possible. Excavations were first started on this spot in 1748, and digging has been continued off and on with many interruptions. Since that time, over 00 per cent of the over- lay of ash from the volcano’s erup- tion has been removed. Watch the Fishie! THE FIRST equipment ever designed especially for photo- graphing underwater life at night has been put into operation off the Florida Revs by the National Geo- graphic Society. Called the aqua- scope, this new diving chamber con- sists of a flat lank seven feet long by five feet wide and 17'/^ inches high. There is room inside for two

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112 SCIENCE BRIEFS men with color cameras, high vol- tage power equipment and bright lights. Constructed of armorplate steel, the aquascopc looks like something out of science fiction. It narrows at one end like a lobster’s tail, and there arc two side windows that ex- tend outwards like metallic claws containing floodlights. A long stain- less steel “feeler” extending above the photographed area carries a third set of lights. The device is designed to pho- tograph underwater night life at depths of 50 to 100 feet. Using it, the photographers lie prone on air mattresses in perfect comfort. Bright but brief flashes of light apparently do not disturb the fish, and no tell- tale air bubbles emerge from the aquascopc since outgoing air is re- turned to the surface by hose. Even a fish has no privacy these days! Triple Threat Genes ANEW THEORY about genes that may help explain the cause of several diseases, includ- ing cancer, has been advanced by Dr. David M. Bonner, research as- sociate in microbiology at Yale Uni- versity. The main difference from former ideas on the subject is that Dr. Bonner believe genes — the tiny particles in the body that govern individual characteristics — may have three functional parts instead of only one. The single-function hypothesis held that the gene controlled a spe- cific type of reaction within the cell. Now Dr. Bonner has demonstrated that each gene also controls the time and rate of speed of such re- actions. If anv one of these three 4 functions is upset, a serious change results in the body’s biochemical reactions. It’s interesting to note that it was Dr. Bonner himself, in company with other scientists, who established the earlier theory eight years ago. Sci- ence keeps advancing largely be- cause scientists are willing and able to re-examine their own ideas! Measuring by Sound T N THE PAST, mechanical dc- vices for measuring the flow of fluids often altered that flow by their own presence. This disadvan- tage has been overcome in a new instrument developed by the Na- tional Bureau of Standards. It does the job by sound waves. A trans- mitter sends an impulse to a re- receiver a short distance along the line of flow, and the speed of the current is found by its effect on the speed of the sound. Thus the rate of flow of liquids in tubes, speeds of boats in the water, and even minute air currents can be measured easily and accurately. 3-D For Good Eyesight? RODUCERS of three-dimen- sional movies haven’t gotten around to ballyhooing this in their advertising, but some experts claim that the widespread appearance of such films may raise the level of eyesight of the entire world. According to the calculations of R. A. Sherman, a Bausch & Lomb Optical Co. visual specialist, be- tween 12 and 15 per cent of the public now have eye problems of

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SCIENCE BRIEFS 113 wlii* 'll flit \ .n»* mi.iu.uf ami aboul whi« !i II It . nil Im il»« hibi time* vituiim a-1) movies. 4% I hr ryes of sin !i movie-goers ran then Im- trained to lessen or elimin- ate these diflirulties. “The heneln i.il iiiip.n l on vision of propet ly produced. projeeted and viewed stereo motion pinnies will he profound." Sherman has stall'd. “Dircctlv and indirectly, viewing nl trui1 ihree-diim nsional pietnres will improve visual prr- joruiaiiee and therehv improve the general well-being ol hundreds of thousands of individuals with good rvrsight. 1‘ui thci more, additional llmiiN.tmls with iiiMiflii irnt visit. il skills will Im stimulated l«» i»rt | u* •- Irssional c\t* tare. which. in turn. m will rrsult in mme rlliriciit and sat- islaelorv vision fni them/’ So rven it you don't enjov (In* movies oidinuiilv. vou our it to yourself to srr st •me* !»-l) pit lures. Vour evt b tnav he the winnei ! 4 4 .l/nor/N to IF YOU KNOW . . . 1— d; 2— g; 3 — f : 1 — j ; 5- h: 6 — b; 7 — i: B- a; 9 — e; 10 — c. WORTH CITING: CHILDHOOD'S END. b\ Artlun C. Clarke. Ball. inline Books. New York. 1933. (33c and $2.(Ml.j Arthur (!. Clarke is In st known to the puhlie at large as an expert on roekriry and spaceflight, hut science Imion readeis know him equal Iv well as a fit tioti wiiter with a disum tiv lv quiet and el lei live stv le. Ills seieutilie haikgroimd. ol t ourse. helps make his stories outstanding, hut hi> ability to make li is i ha rat ters lome alive anil his w illinqnrss to saei iliee all the usual hlood-and- thundei nicks to achieve credibility have also eontrihuted to his popularity. In ( hihlhnotl' \ End he has taken another step forward. While it rout. tins enough new ideas and new slants on old ideas to satis- fy tin most tiioi. Highly spai cw.irprd fan. it ran also he iccom- niended to new readers, sinee it stalls in a iei ogni/ahli- near- luture and gradually, convincingly shows the changes in humani- ty and civilization that ikcui undei 2(Hi years ol domination by the alien “Overlords.” The plot is one that can’t and shouldn’t he summed up in a review. Naturally, sin h a theme has limitations: no one human character c an be “hero*’ or e ve n heroine vitallv important to the reader. This makes for remoteness, hut still the hook is an ad- mirable accomplishment and a thrill to read.

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Shure and begorra, it was a great day for the Earth! The fust envoy from another world was about to speak — that is, if he could forget that horse for a minute . . . off course By Mack Reynolds Illustrated by Kelly Freas FIRST ON the scene were Larry Dermott and Tim Casey of the State Highway Patrol. They as- sumed they were witnessing the crash of a new type of Air Force plane and slipped and skidded des- perately across the field to within thirty feet of the strange craft, only to discover that the landing had been made without accident. 114

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OFF COURSE 115 Patrolman Dermott shook his head. “They’re gettin’ queerer look- ing every year. Get a load of it no wheels, no propeller, no ccx'kpit.” They left the ear and made then- way toward the strange egg-shaped vessel. Tim Casey loosened his .38 in its holster and said. “Sure and I’m beginning to wonder if it’s one of ours. No insignia and — ” A circular door slid open at that point and Dameri Tass stepped out, yawning. He spotted them, smiled and said, “Glork.” They gaped at him. “Glork is right,” Dermott swal- lowed. Tim Casey elosed his mouth with an effort. “Do vou mind the color 4 of his faro?” he blurted. “How could I help it?” Dameri Tass rubbed a blue-nailed pink hand down his purplish coun- tenance and yawned again. “Gorra inanigan horp soratium,” he said. Patrolman Dermott and Patrol- man Casey shot stares at each other. “’Tis double talk he’s after givin’ us,” Casey said. Dameri 'Pass frowned. “Ha- rama?” he asked. Larry Dermott pushed his cap to the back of his head. “That doesn’t sound like any language I’ve even heard about.” Dameri Tass grimaced, turned and reentered his spacecraft to emerge in half a minute with his hands full of contraption. He held a box-like arrangement under his left arm: in his right hand were two metal caps connected to the box by wires. 4 While the patrolmen watched him, he set the box on the ground. twirled two dials and put one of the caps on his head. He offered du- mber to Larry Dennot; his desire was obvious. Trained to grasp a situation and immediately respond in manner best suited to protect the welfare of the people of New York Stale, Dermott cleared his throat and said. “Tim, take over while I report.” “Hey!” Casey protested, but his fellow minion had left. “Mandaia,” Dameri Tass told Casey, holding out the metal cap. “Faith, an’ do I look balmy?” Casey told him. “I wouldn’t be 4 puttin’ that dingus on my head for all the colleens in Ireland.” “Mandaia,” the stranger said impatiently. “Bejasus,” Casey snorted, “ye can’t—” Dermott called from the car. “Tim. the captain says to humor this guy. We’re to keep him here until the officials arrive.” T'iin Casey closed his eves and 4 4 groaned. “Humor him, he’s after savin’. Orders it is.” He shouted 4 hack. “Sure an’ did vc tell ’em he’s in technicolor? Bcgorra, he looks like a man from Mars.” “That’s what they think,” Larry yelled, “and the governor is on his way. We’re to do everything pos- sible short of violence to keep this character here. Humor him. Tim!” “Mandaia,” Dameri Tass snapped, pushing the cap into Casey’s reluctant hands. Muttering his protests, Casey lifted it gingerly and placed it on his head. Not feeling any immedi- ate effect, he said. “There, ’tis sat- isfied ye arc now. I’m supposin’.” The alien stooped down and

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116 MACK REYNOLDS I liclird a switch on the little box. It hummed gently. Tim Casey sur- dcnly shrieked and sat down on the stubble and grass of the field. “Bc- gorra,” he yelped, “I’ve been mur- thered!” He tore the cap from his head. His companion came running, “What’s the matter, Tim?” he shouted. Dameri Tass removed the metal cap from his own head. “Sure, an’ nothin’ is after bein’ the matter with him,” he said. “Evidently the bhoy has niver been a-wcarin’ of a kcrit helmet afore. ’Twill hurt him not at all.” YOU CAN talk!” Dermott blurted, skidding to a stop. Dameri Tass shrugged. “Faith an’ why not? As I was after sayin*, I shared the kerit helmet with Tim Casey.” Patrolman Dermott glared at him unbelievingly. “You learned the language just by sticking that Rube Goldberg deal on Tim’s head?” “Sure, an’ why not?” Dermott muttered, “And with it he has to pick up the corniest brogue west of Dublin.” T im Casey got to his feet indig- nantly. “I’m after resentin’ that, Larry Dermott. Sure, an’ the way we talk in Ireland is — ” Dameri Tass interrupted, point- ing to a bedraggled horse that had made its way to within fifty feet of the vessel. “Now what could that be after bein’?” The patrolmen followed his stare. “It’s a horse. What else?” “A horse?” Larry Dermott looked again, just to make sure. “Yeah — not much of a horse, but a horse.” Dameri Tass sighed ecstatically. “And jist what is a horse, if I may be so bold as to be askin’?” “It’s an animal you ride on.” The alien tore his gaze from the animal to look his disbelief at the other. “Arc you after mcanin’ that you climb upon the craturc’s back and ride him? Faith now, quit your blarney.” He looked at the horse again, then down at his equipment. “Bc- gorra,” he muttered, “I’ll share the kcrit helmet with the craturc.” “Hey, hold it,” Dermot said anx- iously. He was beginning to feel like a character in a shaggy dog story. Interest in the horse was ended with the sudden arrival of a heli- copter. It swooped down on the field and settled within twenty feet • of the alien craft. Almost before it had touched, the door was flung open and the flying windmill dis- gorged two bestarred and efficient- looking Army officers. Casey and Dermott snapped them a salute. The senior general didn’t take his eyes from the alien and the spacecraft as he spoke, and they bugged quite as effectively as had those of the patrolmen w’hcn they’d first arrived on the scene. “I’m Major General Browning,” he rapped. “I want a police cordon thrown up around this, er, vessel. No newsmen, no sightseers, nobody without my permission. As soon as Army personnel arrives, we’ll take over completely.” “Yes, sir,” Larry Dermott said. “I just got a rcjjort on the radio that

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OFF COURSE the governor is on his way, sir. How about him?” The general muttered something under his breath. Then, "When the w governor arrives, let me know; otherwise, nobody gets through!” Damcri lass said, “Faith, and what goes on?” The general’s eves bugged still further. "He talks!" he accused. “Yes, sir,” Dcrmott said. “He had some kind of a machine. He put it over Tim’s head and seconds later he could talk.” “Nonsense!” the general snapped. Further discussion was inter- rupted by the screaming arrival of several motorcycle patrolmen tol- lowed by three heavily laden patrol cars. Overhead, pursuit planes zoomed in and began darting about nervously above the field. # “Sure, and it’s quite a reception I’m after gettin’,” Dameri l ass said. He yawned. "Hut what I’in wantin’ is a chance to get sonic sleep. Faith, an’ I’ve been awake for almost a decal. r DAMERI TASS was hurried, via helicopter, to Washington. There he disappeared for several days, being held incommunicado while White House, Pentagon, State De- partment and Congress tried to figure out just what to do with him. Never in the history of the planet had such a furor arisen. Thus far, no newspapermen had been allowed within speaking distance. Adminis- tration higher-ups were being sub- jected to a volcano of editorial heat but the longer the space alien was discussed the more they viewed with alarm the situation his arrival had 1 17 precipitated. There were angles that hadn’t at hist been evident. Obviously lie was from some civi- 4 lization far bevond that of Earth’. That was the rub. No matter what he said, it would shake governments, possibly overthrow social systems, perhaps even destroy established re- ligious concepts. But they couldn’t keep him under wraps indefinitely. It was the United Nations that cracked the iron curtain. Their de- mands that the alien he heard lie- fore their bodv were too strong and had too much public opinion behind them to be ignored. The White House yielded and the date was set for the visitor to speak before the Assembly. Excitement, anticipation, blank- eted the world. Shepherds in Sin- kiang, multi-millionaires in Switzer- land, fakirs in Pakistan, gauchos in the Argentine were raised t a zenith of expectation. Panhandlers debated the message to conic with pedestrians; jinrikisha men argued it with their passengers; miners dis- cussed it deep beneath the surface; pilots argued with their co-pilots thousands of feet above. It was the most universally awaited event of the ages. By the time the delegates from every nation, tribe, religion, class, color, anil race had gathered in New York to receive the message from the stars, the majority of Earth had decided that Dameri Tass was the plenipotentiary of a super-civilization which had been viewing developments on this planet with misgivings. It was thought this other civilization had advanced gicatly beyond Earth’s and that the

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MACK REYNOLDS 118 problems besetting us — social, eco- nomic, scientific — had been solved by the super-civilization. Obviously, then, Damcri Tass had come, an advisor from a benevolent and friendly people, to guide the world aright. And nine-tenths of the popula- tion of Earth stood ready and will- ing to be guided. The other tenth liked things as they were and were quite convinced that the space envoy would upset their applecarts. VILJALMAR Andersen, Secre- tary-General of the U.N., was to introduce the space emissary. “Can you give me an idea at all of what he is like?” he asked nervously. President McCord was as upset as the Dane. He shrugged in agi- tation. “I know almost as little as you do.” Sir Alfred Oxford protested, “Rut my dear chap, you’ve had him for almost two weeks. Certainly in that time — ” The President snapped back, “You probably won’t believe this, but lie’s been asleep until yesterday. When he first arrived he told us he hadn’t slept for a decal, whatever that is; so we held off our discussion with him until morning. Well — he didn’t awaken in the morning, nor the next. Six days later, fear- ing something was wrong we woke him.” “What happened?” Sir Alfred asked. The President showed embarrass- ment. “He used some rather ripe Irish profanity on us, rolled over, anti went bark to sleep.” Viljalmar Andersen asked, “Well, what happened yesterday?” “We actually haven’t had time to Suestion him. Among other things, tere’s been some controversy about whose jurisdiction he comes under. The State Department claims the Army shouldn’t — ” The Secretary General sighed deeply. “Just what did he do?” “The Secret Service reports he spent the day whistling Mother Ma- chrec and playing with his dog, cat and mouse.” “Dog, cat and mouse? I say!” blurted Sir Alfred. The President was defensive. “He had to have some occupation, and lie seems to be particularly inter- ested in our animal life. He wanted a horse but compromised for the others. I understand he insists all three of them come with him wher- ever he goes.” “I wish we knew what he was going to say,” Andersen worried. “Here he comes,” said Sir Alfred. Surrounded by F.B.I. men, Dameri Tass was ushered to the speaker’s stand. He had a kitten in his arms; a Scotty followed him. The alien frowned worriedly. “Sure,” he said, “and what kin all this be? Is it some ordinance I’ve been after breakin’?” McCord, Sir Alfred and Ander- sen hastened to reassure him and made him comfortable in a chair. Viljalmar Andersen faced the thousands in the audience and held up his hands, but it was ten min- utes before he was able to quiet the cheering, stamping delegates from all Earth. Finally: “Fellow Tcrrans, I shall not take your time for a lengthy introduction of the envoy from the

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OFF COURSE 119 stars. I will only say that, without doubt, this is the most important moment in the history of the human race. We will now hear from the first being to come to Earth from another world.” He turned and gestured to Da- mcri Tass who hadn’t been paying over much attention to the chair- man in view of some dog and cat hostilities that had been developing about his feet. But now the alien’s purplish face faded to a light blue. He stood and said hoarsely. “Faith, an’ what was that last you said?” Viljalmar Andersen repeated, “We will now hear from the first being ever to come to Earth from another world.” The face of the alien went a lighter blue. “Sure, and’ ye wouldn’t jist be frightenin’ a body, would ye? You don’t mean to tell me this planet isn’t after bein’ a member of the Galactic League?” Andersen’s face was blank. “Ga- lactic League?” “Cushlainachree,” Dameri Tass moaned. “I’ve gone and put me foot in it again. I’ll be after getting kert for this.” Sir Alfred was on his feet. “I don’t understand! Do you mean you aren’t an envoy from another planet?” Dameri Tass held his head is his hands and groaned. “An envoy, he’s savin’, and mesclf only a second rate collector of specimens for the Car- this zoo.” He straightened and started off the speaker’s stand. “Sure, an’ I must blast off immediately.” Things were moving fast for President McCord but already an edge of relief was manifesting itself. Taking the initiative, he said, “Of course, of course, if that is your desire.” I le signaled to the body- guard who had accompanied the alien to the assemblage. A dull roar was beginning to emanate from the thousands gath- ered in the tremendous hall, mur- muring, questioning, disbelieving. VILJALMAR Andersen felt that he must say something. He ex- tended a detaining hand. “Now you are here,” he said urgently, “even though by mistake, before you go can’t you give us some brief word? Our world is in chaos. Many of us have lost faith. Perhaps . . Dameri Tass shook off the re- straining hand. “Do 1 look daft? Begorry, I should have been a-knowin* something was queer. All your weapons and your strange ideas. Faith, I wouldn’t be sur- prised if yc hadn’t yet established a planet- wide government. Sure, an’ I’ll go still further. Ye prob- ably still have wars on this be- nighted world. No wonder it is yc haven’t been invited to join the Galactic League an’ take your place among the civilized planets.” He hustled from the rostrum and made his way, still surrounded by guards, to the door by which he had entered. The dog and the cat trot- ted after, undismayed by the furor about them. They arrived about four hours later at the field on which he’d landed, and the alien from space hurried toward his craft, still mut- tering. He’l been accompanied by a general and by tire President, but

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120 MACK REYNOLDS all the wav he had refrained from 4 speaking. He scurried from the car and toward the spacecraft. President MeGord said, “You’ve forgotten your pets. We would be glad if you would accept them as—” The alien’s face faded a light blue again. “Faith, an’ I’d almost forgotten,” he said. “If I’d taken a craturc from this quarantined planet, my name’d be tiork. Keep your dog and your kitty.” 1 1e shook his head sadly and extracted a mouse from a pocket. “An’ this amazin’ little craturc as well.” They followed him to the space craft. Just before entering, he spot- ted the bedraggled horse that had been present on his landing. A longing expression came over his highly colored face. “Jist one thing,” he said. “Faith now’, were they pullin’ my leg when they said vou w-ere after ridin’ on the back of 4 those things?” The President looked at the woe- begone nag. “It’s a horse,” he said, surprised. “Man has been riding them for centuries.” Damcri Tass shook his head. “Sure an’ ’twould’ve been my makin’ if I could’ve taken one back to Carthis.” He entered his vessel. The others drew back, out of range of the expected blast, and watched, each with his own thoughts, as the first visitor from space hurriedly left Earth. ... THE END ONE SANE MAN — IN A NEUROTIC WORLD! LEADING OFF the first monthly issue of IF will be a stunning short novel by one of the most popular and talented writers in the field, Sam Merwin Jr., entitled The Ambassador. Here you’ll find an intriguing situation, replete with action, romance and humor — and a grim problem you’ll twist your wits trying to solve. The scene is a future in which Earth is ruled by computing machines and entangled in eccentric notions — just for instance, it’s the height of politeness to make yourself as ugly as possible! There’s a cast of unique people, including a multitude of spies and plotters, two mysterious and beautiful women, and Am- bassador Zalcn Lindsay, the strikingly human Man-from-Mars who must straighten out the tottering mess or see two worlds perish. This stellar performance will be backed up by the best work of such top-notch writers as Robert Abernathy, James McKimmey Jr., Frank M. Robinson and many others. There will also be the first of a series of articles designed to acquaint you entertainingly with the scientific facts of today and possibili- ties of tomorrow. January 8th is the date the March issue goes on sale — don’t miss it!

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ROBGT MINING con eliminate all the dangers and hardships now undergone by human miners, and extend the possible depth of shafts to five or even ten miles below the surface. The robot shown here is drilling holes for the demolition squad. It is radiO*con trolled, and a television camera in its head keeps its operators on the surface fully informed of its progress. (Drawings by Ed Valigursky 1

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