Worlds of IF (August 1957) (Modified)

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WORLDS OF AUGUST 35 CENTS SCIENCE FICTION Meet the Mad Musical Ad-men of Tomorrow in TUNESMITH by Lloyd Biggie, Jr. Also GODWIN • NOURSE • ELLISON • BARTHOLOMEW

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THE FIRST WORLD of if HERE IS one of the top science fiction treats of 1957! Twenty outstanding short stories selected from the first five years of IF Magazine — covering a greater variety of science fiction themes than you have ever before encountered in one volume. You will find something excitingly differ- ent in every story — a thrilling change of mood, idea, theme and pace. The editors, however, have given them all one com- mon denominator — entertaining science fiction. At your news dealer — only 50 cents. Or direct from IF Magazine, Kingston, N.Y. I GREAT SHORT STORIES ( I B ROBERT ABERNATHY 1 I ISAAC ASIMOV I I CHARLES BEAUMONT I JEROME BIXBY | I JAMES BUSH i I RICHARD BOLTON 1 I ED. M. CLINTON, JR. MIRIAM ALLEN DE FORD 1 PHILIP K. DICK 1 KIRK AND GAREN DRUSSAI 1 DAVE DRYFOOS I CHARLES L. FONTENAY HORACE B. FYFE | I DICK HETSCHEL 1 I MILTON LESSER I EDWARD W. LUDWIG I FRANK RILEY 1 I ROBERT SHECKLEY I I GEORGE H. SMITH ROBERT F. YOUNG | Ill

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WORLDS of SCIENCE FICTION AUGUST 1957 All Stories New and Complete Editor: JAMES L. QUINN Assistant Editor: EVE WULFF Art Director: MEL HUNTER I SPECIAL! | WHY GUIDED MISSILES CAN NOT | 1 BE CONTROLLED by "Y" 51 | I NOVELETTES j I THE TUNESMITH by Lloyd Biggie, Jr. 4 | | WANTED IN SURGERY by Harlan Ellison 58 | 1 SHORT STORIES | I THE LAST VICTORY by Tom Godwin 36 1 I THE BIRDS AND THE BEES by Dave E. Fisher 81 | I BRAMBLE BUSH by Alan E. Nourse 88 | I THE BRIDGE by G. G. Revelle 100 | I THE LAST BRAVE INVADER by Charles L. Fontenay 108 I f FEATURES | 1 EDITOR'S REPORT 2 i 1 WHAT IS YOUR SCIENCE I.Q.? 50 i 1 SCIENCE BRIEFS 116 i HUE AND CRY 118 | s | COVER: | | Illustrating "Why Guided Missiles Can Not Be Controlled" 1 | by Mel Hunter | 5lllllll»IIIIIIIHIIIIIIIIIIIHIIIII|,|,|,|ll,,,,,,,,,,,,,l,,,,,,,,H,,,lll,,l,,,,l,,l,||,,,l|,l,,,l,,,H|,,l,,,l,,|,|,,,|,l,,|,l,,,,,,l,,,|,,|,ll,,,,,,l,l,,,,,,,,|,|l,,,,lt5 IF is published bi-monthly by Quinn Publishing Company, Inc. Volume 7, No. 5. Copyright 1957 by Quinn Publishing Co., Inc. Office of publication, 8 Lord Street, Buffalo New York. Entered as Second Glass Matter at Post Office, Buffalo, New York. Subscription $3.50 for 12 issues in U.S. and Possessions; Canada $4 for 12 issues; elsewhere $4. DO. Allow four weeks for change of address. All stories appear- ing in this magazine are liction; any similarity to actual persons is coincidental. Not responsible for unsolicited artwork or manuscripts. 35c a copy. Printed in U.S.A. EDITORIAL AND BUSINESS OFFICES, KINGSTON, NEW YORK Next ( October ) issue on sale August 12th

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^iiiniiiiwuiiiiiuiiiiiuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiimiiiuuiiwiiiuimiitHiiimHmHWi^ A proposal made to the United Nations by the United States not so long ago is the subject of an article that appears in this issue and which could very easily de- velop into a uhot potato”. Whether it does or not, the facts are worth sober consideration. The title of it is WHY GUIDED MISSILES CAN NOT BE CONTROLLED, written by a man who is well known in his field and knows whereof he speaks — but who shall have to re- main anonymous as far as what he says here is concerned. The pro- posal referred to is of a “propa- gandistic” type which, to any in- telligent person, is so faulty that it borders on folly — and perhaps is. If it ever comes to a vote and is adopted, with Russia gleefully ac- cepting, which it would, we could kiss farewell any peace of mind we ever had as individuals or as a nation. The author, whom we shall call “Y”, is an authority of long experience on his subject and he tells us exactly the provable rea- sons why this paper still before the United Nations (at this writing) should never be allowed to become a reality. The singing telegram might have started it all. Perhaps it did. But just before television came into prominence, our radios started vi- brating with singing commercials. When television blossomed, adver- tising became show business in a big way. And because of well- heeled sponsors we can enjoy some fine entertainment. Today, the novelty of television has worn off and audiences are becoming dis- criminatory, turning off the poorer programs. However, television ad- vertising does sell products and in the future we will have better and better programs. But the fly in the ointment is this: will the commer- cials ever reach a degree of sane- ness and palatability. Some are unique and perhaps catchy, but others are downright nauseating and have the effect of making the viewer swear off for life the prod- uct it advertises. I think the read- ers of IF will have to admit that it is rather disconcerting to hear the functions of Burple’s Bile Cor- recting Capsules set to the tune of “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair” or to hear a few bars of Mozart, Brahms or Beethoven goo- ed up with somebody’s infantile prattle about the merits of an a- mazing discovery containing X- 31785, a magic new ingredient, that miraculously removes old prune pits from the grease trap of your kitch- en plumbing. And maybe you can think of some even more ab- 2

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surd. Anyway, what this is pre- amble to is this: Lloyd Biggie, Jr., who did such a delightful job with the super salesmen of tomorrow in On The Dotted Line (June IF), has now turned his satire dripping pen (or typewriter keys, if you will) to the subject of the advertising song writers of tomorrow. Whether The Tunesmith is a threat or a promise of what will happen when people tune in their radios or tele- visions a hundred years from now is something we’ll let you decide. Three years ago, we ran a national collegiate science fiction contest offering $2000 in prizes for the best novelettes, written by college students, depicting life in America 100 years from now. Of the win- ners, only Leo Kelley, who placed third, has written a story since then that we have accepted. It ran in the June issue and the title was The Human Element. It was about a circus clown — and oddly enough, the marionette which helped pay his way through Wilkes College was a circus clown named “Candy”, star of a local television program. Now 28 years old, he is a native of Kingston, Pennsylvania, which is quite all right, because our beef is with — mail addressed to us (N. Y.) that goes to Kingston, New Jersey ... If you are one who thinks science fiction has to be gimmicked with time or gadgets (and we hope not) read The Bridge , by G. G. Revelle, who has given us a dramatic science fiction situation that can happen this after- noon or wake you up tomorrow morning . . * It has now been definitely estab- lished that the satellite, to be launched sometime during the In- ternational Geophysical Year by the United States, will be a three-stage rocket. The globule is still there, but when the ultimate satellite is finally designed and launched, refer to your copies of the June and Aug- ust ( 1956) issues of IF and see how accurate were James M. Nuding and Paul Vanous in their proposal! . . . In a letter from Aron M. Mathieu, editor of the Writers 1957 Yearbook, I was asked this ques- tion: “Do you think well- written, hot, spicy sex, when actually part of an sf story converts more people into sf readers?” I replied that we look on sex entirely from the viewpoint that it must have something to do with the story and must be handled in good taste; that as the main theme of a story, or as an ingredient, we have not found that it converts people into science fiction readers. So, the editorial attitude toward sex a- round here is simply that of how it’s handled. Whether you are “fer” it or “agin” it, here’s one way of treating sex which we found rather refreshing: it’s called The Birds and the Bees , by Dave Fisher, a newcomer to the pages of IF. Sex is not a part of his story, nor is it an ingredient — it is the whole dog- goned story! Letters inquiring about a Second World of IF have begun to arrive. Readers want to know: When? Will it contain novelettes only, a mixture — or what? Well, what would you like? — jlq 3

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BY LLOYD B1GGLE, JR. He was a real atomic tunesmith, the boy with the go. A throwback who knew more music than any man alive. That made him dangerous . . . too dangerous to live. EVERYONE GALLS it the Center. It has another name, a long one, that gets listed in government appropria- tions and can be looked up in the encyclopedia, but no one uses it. From Bombay to Lima, it is — the Center. You can stagger out of the rolling mists of Venus, elbow your way up to a bar, and begin, “When I was at the Center . . And every stranger within hearing will listen attentively. You can mention the Center in the depths of London, or on a Martian desert, or at the solitary outpost on Pluto, and know you are understood. No one ever explains the Center. It isn’t possible, and it isn’t necessary. From the babe in arms to the centenarian looking forward to redrement, everyone has been there,

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and plans to go again next year, and the year after that. It is the va- cation land of the Solar System. It is square miles of undulating Amer- ican middle-west farm land, trans- figured by ingenious planning and relentless labor and incredible ex- pense. It is a monumental summary of man’s cultural achievements, and like a phoenix, it has emerged sud- denly, inexplicably, at the end of the twenty-fourth century, from the corroded ashes of a shocking cul- tural decay. The Center is colossal, spectacu- lar and magnificent. It is inspiring, edifying and amazing. It is awe- some, it is overpowering, it is — everything. And though few of its visitors know about this, or care, it is also haunted. You are standing in the observa- tion gallery of the towering Bach Monument. Off to the left, on the slope of a hill, you see the tense spectators who crowd the Grecian Theatre for Aristophanes. Sunlight plays on their brightly-colored clothing. They watch eagerly, de- lighted to see in person what mil- lions are watching on visiscope. Beyond the theatre, the tree- lined Frank Lloyd Wright Boule- vard curves off into the distance, past the Dante Monument and the Michelangelo Institute. The twin towers of a facsimile of the Rheims Cathedral rise above the horizon. Directly below, you see the curious landscaping of an eight- eenth century French jar din, and nearby, the Moliere Theatre. A hand clutches your sleeve, and 6 you turn suddenly, irritably, and find yourself face to face with an old man. The leathery face is scarred and wrinkled, the thin strands of hair glistening white. The hand on your arm is a gnarled claw. You stare, take in the slumping contortion of one crippled shoulder and the hide- ous scar of a missing ear, and back away in alarm. The sunken eyes follow you. The hand extends in a sweeping gesture that takes in the far horizon, and you notice that the fingers are maimed or missing. The voice is a harsh cackle. “Like it?” he says, and eyes you expectantly. Startled, you say, “Why, yes. Of course.” He takes a step forward, and his eyes are eager, pleading. “I say, do you like it?” In your perplexity, you can do no more than nod as you turn to hurry away. But your nod brings a strange response. A strident laugh, an innocent, childish smile of pleas- ure, a triumphant shout. “I did it! I did it all!” Or you stand in resplendent Plato Avenue, between the Wag- nerian Theatre, where the complete Der Ring des Nibelungen is per- formed daily without interruptions, and the reconstruction of the six- teenth century Globe Theatre, where Shakespearean Drama is present morning, afternoon and evening. A hand paws at you. “Like it?” If you respond with a torrent of ecstatic praise, the old man eyes you impatiently, and only waits un- til you have finished to ask again, LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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“I say, do you like it?” But a smile and a nod is met with beaming pride, a gesture, a shout “I did it!” In the lobby of one of the thou- sand spacious hotels, in the waiting room of the remarkable library where a copy of any book you re- quest is reproduced for you free of charge, in the eleventh balcony of Beethoven Hall, a ghost shuffles haltingly, clutches an arm, asks a question. And shouts proudly, “I did it!” ERLIN BAQUE sensed her pres- ence behind him, but he did not turn. He leaned forward, his left hand tearing a rumbling bass figure from the multichord while his right hand fingered a solemn melody. With a lightning flip of his hand he touched a button, and the thin treble tones were suddenly fuller, more resonant, almost clari- net-like. (“But God, how unlike a clarinet!” he thought.) “Must we go through all that again, Val?” he said. “The landlord was here this morning.” He hesitated, touched a button, touched several buttons, and wove weird harmonies out of the boom- ing tones of a brass choir. (But what a feeble, distorted brass choir!) “How long does he give us this time?” “Two days. And the food syn- thesizer’s broken down again.” “Good. Run down and buy some fresh meat.” “With what?” THE TUNESMITH . He slammed his fists down on the keyboard, and shouted above the shattering dissonance. “I will not rent a harmonizer. I will not turn my arranging over to hacks. If a Com goes out with my name on it, it’s going to be composed . It may be idiotic, and it may be sickening, but it’s going to be done right. It isn’t much, God knows, but it’s all I have left.” He turned slowly and glared at her, this pale, drooping, worn-out woman who had been his wife for twenty-five years. Then he looked away, telling himself stubbornly that he was no more to be blamed than she. When sponsors paid the same rates for good Corns that they paid for hackwork . . . “Is Hulsey coming today?” she asked. “He told me he was coming.” “If we could get some money for the landlord . . .” “And the food synthesizer. And a new visiscope. And new clothes. There’s a limit to what can be done with one Com.” He heard her move away, heard the door open, and waited. It did not close. “Walter- Walter called,” she said. “You’re the featured tune- smith on today’s Show Case.” “So? There’s no money in that.” “I thought you wouldn’t want to watch, so I told Mrs. Rennik I’d watch with her.” “Sure. Go ahead. Have fun.” The door closed. Baque got to his feet, and stood looking down at his chaos-strewn worktable. Music paper, Com-lyric releases, pencils, sketches, half-fin- ished manuscripts were cluttered 7

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together in untidy heaps and over- flowed onto the floor. Baque cleared a comer for himself and sat down wearily, stretching his long legs out under the table. “Damn Hulsey,” he muttered. “Damn sponsors. Damn visiscope. Damn Corns.” Compose something. You’re not a hack, like the other tunesmiths. You don’t punch your melodies out on a harmonizer’s keyboard and let a machine harmonize them for you. You’re a musician, not a melody monger. Write some music. Write a — a sonata, for multichord. Take the time now, and compose some- thing. His eyes fell on the first lines of a Com-lyric release. “If your flyer jerks and clowns, if it has its ups and downs . . .” “Damn landlords,” he muttered, reaching for a pencil. The tiny wall clock tinkled the hour, and Baque leaned over to turn on the visiscope. A cherub- faced master of ceremonies smiled out at him ingratiatingly. “Waiter- Waiter again, ladies and gentlemen. It’s Com time on today’s Show Case. Thirty minutes of Com- mercials by one of today’s most tal- ented tunesmiths. Our Com spot- light is on — ” A noisy brass fanfare rang out, the tainted brass tones of a multi- chord. “Erlin Baque!” The multichord swung into an odd, dipsey melody Baque had done five years before, for Tamper Cheese, and a scattering of ap- plause sounded in the background. A nasal soprano voice mouthed the 8 words, and Baque groaned unhap- pily. “We age our cheese, and age it, age it, age it, the old-fashioned way . . .” Walter- Walter cavorted about the stage, moving in time with the melody, darting down into the audi- ence to kiss some sedate housewife- on-a-holiday, and beaming at the howls of laughter. The multichord sounded another fanfare, and Walter- Walter leaped back onto the stage, both arms ex- tended over his head. “Now listen to this, all you beautiful people. Here’s your Walter- Walter exclu- sive on Erlin Baque.” He glanced secretively over his shoulder, tip- toed a few steps closer to the audi- ence, placed his finger on his lips, and then called out loudly, “Once upon a time there was another composer named Baque, spelled B-A-C-H, but pronounced Baque. He was a real atomic propelled tunesmith, the boy with the go, ac- cording to them that know. He lived some four or five or six hun- dred years ago, so we can’t exactly say that that Baque and our Baque were Baque to Baque. But we don’t have to go Baque to hear Baque. We like the Baque we’ve got. Are you with me?” Cheers. Applause. Baque turned away, hands trembling, a choking disgust nauseating him. “We start off our Corns by Baque with that little masterpiece Baque did for Foam Soap. Art work by Bruce Combs. Stop, look — and lis- ten!” Baque managed to turn off the visiscope just as the first bar of soap jet propelled itself across the screen. LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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He picked up the Com lyric again, and his mind began to shape the thread of a melody. “If your flyer jerks and clowns, if it has its ups and downs, ups and downs, ups and downs, you need a WARING!” He hummed softly to himself, sketching a musical line that swooped and jerked like an erratic flyer. Word painting, it was called, back when words and tones meant something. Back when the B-A-C-H Baque was underscoring such gran- diose concepts as heaven and hell. Baque worked slowly, now and then checking a harmonic progres- sion at the multichord and reject- ing it, straining his mind for some fluttering accompaniment pattern that would simulate the sound of a flyer. But then — no. The Waring people wouldn’t like that. They ad- vertised that their flyers were noise- less. He was suddenly aware of ur- gently-sounding door chimes. He walked over to flip on the scanner, and Hulsey’s pudgy face grinned out at him. “Come on up,” Baque told him. Hulsey nodded, and disappeared. Five minutes later he waddled through the door, sank into a chair that sagged dangerously under his bulky figure, plunked his briefcase on the floor, and mopped his face. “Whew ! Wish you’d get yourself on a lower level. Or into a building with some modern conveniences. Those elevators scare me to death!” “I’m thinking of moving,” Baque said. “Good. It’s about time.” “But it’ll probably be somewhere THE TUNESMITH higher up. The landlord has given me two days’ notice.” Hulsey winced, and shook his head sadly. “I see. Well, I won’t keep you in suspense, then. Here’s the check for the Sana-Soap Com.” Baque took the check, glanced at it, and scowled. “You were behind in your guild dues,” Hulsey said. “Have to de- duct them, you know.” “Yes. I’d forgotten.” “I like to do business with Sana- Soap. Cash right on the line. Too many companies wait until the end of the month. Sana-Soap wants a couple of changes, but they paid anyway.” He snapped open the briefcase, and pulled out a folder. “You’ve got some sly bits in this, Erlin my boy. They like it. Par- ticularly this ‘sudsey, sudsey, sudsey’ thing in the bass. They kicked on the number of singers, at first, but not after they heard it. Now right here they want a break for a straight announcement.” Baque glanced, and nodded. “How about keeping the ‘sudsey, sudsey’ ostinato going as a back- ground to the announcement?” “Sounds good. That’s a sly bit, that — what’d you call it?” “Ostinato.” “Ah — yes. Wonder why the other tunesmiths don’t work in bits like that.” “A harmonizer doesn’t produce effects,” Baque said dryly. “It just — harmonizes.” “You give them about thirty sec- onds of that ‘sudsey’ for back- ground. They can cut it if they don’t like it.” Baque nodded, and scribbled a 9

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note on the manuscript. “And the arrangement,” Hulsey weht on. “Sorry, Erlin, but we can’t get a French horn player. You’ll have to do something else with that part.” “No horn player? What’s wrong with Rankin?” “Blacklisted. The Performers’ Guild has him blacklisted. He went out to the west coast to play. Played for nothing, and even paid his own expenses, so they blacklisted him.” “I remember,” Baque said soft- ly. “The Monuments of Art So- ciety. He played a Mozart Horn Concerto for them. Their last con- cert, too. Wish I could have heard it, even if it Was with multichord.” “He can play it all he wants to, now, but he’ll never get paid for playing again. You can work that horn part into the multichord line, or I might be able to get you a trumpet player. He could use a converter.” “It’ll ruin the effect.” Hulsey chuckled. “Sounds the same to everyone but you, my boy. I can’t tell the difference. We got your violins, and a cello player. What more do you want?” “Doesn’t the London Guild have a horn player?” “You want me to bring him over for one three-minute Com? Be rea- sonable, Erlin! Can I pick this up tomorrow?” “Yes. I’ll have it ready in the morning.” Hulsey reached for his briefcase, dropped it again, and leaned for- ward. “Erlin, I’m worried about you. I have twenty-seven tune- smiths in my agency. You make the 10 least money of any of them. Your net last year was twenty-two hun- dred. The next-highest netted eleven thousand.” “That isn’t news to me,” Baque said. “This may be. You have as many accounts as any of the others. Did you know that?” “No,” Baque said. “No, I didn’t know that.” “That’s right. You have as many accounts, but you don’t make any money. Want to know why? Two reasons. You spend too much time on a Com, and you write it too well. Sponsors can use one of your Corns for months — or sometimes even years, like that Tamper Cheese thing. People like to hear them. Now if you just didn’t write so damned well, you could work faster, and the sponsors would have to use more of your Corns, and you could turn out more.” “I’ve thought about that. Even if I didn’t, Val would keep reminding me. But it’s no use. That’s the way I have to work. If there was some way to get the sponsors to pay more for a good Com . . .” “There isn’t. The guild wouldn’t stand for it, because good Corns mean less work, and most tune- smiths couldn’t write a really good Com. Now don’t think Pm con- cerned about my agency. Of course I make more money when you make more, but I’m doing well enough with my other tunesmiths. I just hate to see my best man mak- ing so little money. You’re a throw- back, Erlin. You waste time and money collecting those antique — what do you call them?” LLOYD BIGGLE, JR,

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“Phonograph records.51 “Yes. And those moldy old books about music. I don’t doubt that you know more about music than any living man, and what does it get you? Not money, certainly. You’re the best there is, and you keep try- ing to be better, and the better you get the less money you make. Your income drops lower every year. Couldn’t you manage to be medi- ocre now and then?” “No,” Baque said. “I couldn’t manage it.” “Think it over.” “These accounts I have. Some of the sponsors really like my work. They’d pay more, if the guild would let them. Supposing I left the guild?” “You can’t, my boy. I couldn’t handle your stuff — not and stay in business long. The Tunesmiths’ Guild would put on the pressure, and the Performers’ and Lyric Writers’ Guilds would blacklist you. Jimmy Denton plays along with the guilds, and he’d bar your stuff from visiscope. You’d lose all your ac- counts— fast. No sponsor is big enough to fight all that trouble, and none of them would want to bother. So just try to be mediocre now and then. Think about it.” Baque sat staring at the floor. “I’ll think about it.” Hulsey struggled to his feet, clasped Baque’ s hand briefly, and waddled out. Baque got up slowly, and opened the drawer where he kept his meager collection of old phonograph records. Strange and wonderful music. Three times in his career, Baque had written Corns that were a full THE TUNESMITH half-hour in length. On rare occa- sions he got an order for fifteen minutes. Usually he was limited to five, or less. But composers like the B-A-C-H Baque wrote things that lasted an hour or more — even wrote them without lyrics. And they wrote for real instru- ments, even some amazing-sound- ing instruments that no one played any more, like bassoons, and pic- colos and pianos. “Damn Denton. Damn visiscope. Damn the guilds.” Baque rummaged tenderly among the discs until he found one bearing Bach’s name. Magnificat . Then, because he felt too despond- ent to listen, he pushed it away. Six months before the Perform- ers’ Guild had blacklisted its last oboe player. Now its last horn play- er, and there just weren’t any young people learning to play instruments. Why should they, where there were so many marvelous contraptions that ground out the Corns without any effort on the part of the per- former? Even multichord players were becoming scarce, and the multichord could, if one desired, practically play itself. Baque stood looking uncertainly about the room, from multichord to worktable to the battered plas- tic bookcase that held his old books on music. The door jerked open, and Val hurried in. “Did Hulsey . . .” Baque handed her the check. She took it eagerly, glanced at it, and looked up in dismay. “My guild dues,” he said. “I was behind.” “Oh. Well, it’s a help, anyway.” 11

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Her voice was flat, emotionless, as if one more disappointment really didn’t matter. Tney stood facing each other awkwardly. “I watched part of Morning with Marigold ” Val said. “She talked about your Corns.” “I should hear soon on that SIo- Smoke Com,” Baque said. “Maybe we can hold the landlord off for an- other week. Right now — I’m going to walk around a little.” “You should get out more . . .” He closed the door behind him, slicing her sentence off neatly. He knew what followed. Get a job somewhere. Be good for your health to get out of the apartment a few hours a day. Write Corns in your spare time — they don’t bring in more than a part-time income, anyway. At least do it until we get caught up. All right. If you won’t, I will. But she never did. A prospective employer never wanted more than one look at her slight body and her worn, sullen face. And Baque doubted that he would receive any better treatment. He could get work as a multicord player, and make a good income. But then he’d have to join the Per- formers’ Guild, which meant he’d have to resign from the Tune- smiths’ Guild. So if he did that he could no longer write Corns. “Damn Corns!” When he reached the street, he stood for a moment watching the crowds shooting by on the swiftly- moving conveyer. A few people glanced at him, and saw a tall, gawky, balding man in a frayed, badly-fitting suit. Baque hunched 12 up his shoulders, and walked awk- wardly along the stationary side- walk. They would consider him just another derelict from a shabby neighborhood, he knew, and they would quickly look the other way while they hummed a snatch from one of his Corns. He turned in at a crowded res- taurant, found a table at one side, and ordered a beer. On the rear wall was an enormous visiscope screen, where the Corns followed each other without interruption. Baque listened to the Corns for a time, first curious to see what the other tunesmiths were doing, and then disgusted. Around him, the customers watched and listened while they ate. Some of them nodded their heads jerkily in time with the music. A few young couples were dancing on the small dance floor, skillfully changing steps as the music shifted from one Com to another. Baque watched them sadly, and thought about the way things had changed. At one time, he knew, there had been special music for dancing, and special groups of in- struments to play it. And people had gone to concerts by the thou- sands, sitting in seats with nothing to look at but the performers. All of it was gone. Not only the music, but art, and literature, and poetry. The plays he had read in his grandfather’s school books were forgotten. James Denton’s Visiscope Inter- national decreed that people must look and listen at the same time. James Denton’s Visiscope Inter- national decreed that the public LLOYD BtGGLE, JR.

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attention span wouldn’t tolerate long programs. So there were Corns. . Damn Corns! When Val returned to the apart- ment an hour later, Baque was sit- ting in the comer staring at the crumbly volumes he had collected from the days when books were still printed on paper — a scattering of biographies, books on music history, and technical books on music theory and composition. Val looked twice around the room before she noticed him, and then she con- fronted him anxiously, stark tragedy written on her face. “The man’s coming to fix the food synthesizer.” “Good,” Baque said. “But the landlord won’t wait. If we don’t pay him day after to- morrow— pay him everything — we’re out.” “So we’re out.” “Where will we go? We can’t get in anywhere without paying some- thing in advance.” “So we won’t get in anywhere.” She fled sobbing into the bed- room. THE NEXT morning Baque re- signed from the Tunesmiths’ Guild and joined the Performers’ Guild. Hulsey’s round face drooped mournfully when he heard the news. He loaned Baque enough money to pay his guild registra- tion fee and quiet the landlord, and expressed his sorrow in elo- quent terms as he hurried Baque out of his office. He would, Baque knew, waste no time in assigning Baque’s clients to his other tune- THE TUNESMITH smiths — to men who worked faster and not so well. Baque went to the guild hall, where he sat for five hours waiting for a multichord assignment. He was finally escorted into the secre- tary’s office, and brusquely mo- tioned into a chair. The secretary eyed him suspiciously. “You belonged to the Perform- ers’ Guild twenty years ago, and you left it to become a tunesmith. Right?” “Right,” Baque said. “You lost your seniority after three years. You knew that, didn’t you?” “I didn’t, but I didn’t think it mattered. There aren’t many good multichord players around.” “There aren’t many good jobs around, either. You’ll have to start at the bottom.” He scribbled on a slip of paper, and thrust it at Baque. “This one pays well, but we have a hard time keeping a man there. Lankey isn’t easy to work for. If you don’t irritate him too much — well, then we’ll see.” Baque found himself outside the door, staring hard at the slip of paper. He rode the conveyer out to the New Jersey Space Port, floundered about through a rattle-trap slum area getting his directions hopeless- ly confused, and finally found the place almost within radiation dis- tance of the port. The sprawling building had burned at some time in the remote past. Stubby rem- nants of walls rose out of the weed- choked rubble. A walk curved back from the street towards a dimly lit 13

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cavity at one corner of the build- ing. Steps led uncertainly down- wards. Overhead, an enormous sign pointed its flowing colors in the direction of the port. The Lankey - Pank Out . Baque stepped through the door, and faltered at the onslaught of extraterrestrial odors. Lavender- tinted Venusian tobacco smoke hung like a limp blanket midway between floor and ceiling. The re- volting, cutting fumes of Martian Whiskey staggered him. He had a glimpse of a scattered gathering of tough spacers and tougher prosti- tutes before the doorman planted his bulky figure and scarred cari- cature of a face in front of him. “You looking for someone?” “Mr. Lankey.” The doorman jerked a thumb to- wards the bar, and noisily stumbled back into the shadows. Baque walked towards the bar. He had no trouble picking out Lankey. The proprietor sat on a tall stool behind the bar, and thrust his bald head forward to watch him coldly as he approached. In the dim, smoke-streaked light his taut pale face had a spectral grimness. He planted one elbow on the bar, fingered his flattened stump of a nose with the two remaining fingers on one hairy hand, and stared at Baque with burning, bloodshot eyes. “I’m Erlin Baque,” Baque said. “Yeh. The multichord player. Can you play that multichord, fel- low?” “Why, yes, I can play . . .” “That’s what they all say. And I’ve had maybe two in the last five years that could really play. Most of them come out here figuring they’ll set the thing on automatic, and fuss around with one finger. I want that multichord played , fel- low, and I’ll tell you right now — if you can’t play you might as well jet for home base, because there isn’t any automatic on my multi- chord. I had it disconnected.” “I can play,” Baque told him. “All right. I’ll find out soon enough. The guild rates this place as Class Four, but I pay Class One rates if you can play. If you can really play, I’ll slip you some bo- nuses the guild won’t know about. Hours are from six P.M. to six A.M., but you get plenty of breaks, and if you get hungry or thirsty just ask for what you want. Only go easy on the hot stuff. I won’t do with a drunk multichord player, no mat- ter how good he is. Rose!” He bellowed a second time, and a woman stepped out of a door at the side of the room. She wore a faded dressing gown, and her tangled hair hung untidily about her shoulders. She turned a small, pretty face towards Baque, and studied him boldly. “Multichord,” Lankey said. “Show him.” Rose beckoned, and Baque fol- lowed her towards the rear of the room. Suddenly he stopped in amazement. “What’s the matter?” Rose said. “No visiscope!” “No. Lankey says the spacers want better things to look at than soap suds and air cars.” She gig- gled. “Something like me, for ex- ample.” 14 LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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“I never heard of a restaurant without visiscope.” “Neither did I, until I came here. But Lankey’s got three of us to sing the Corns, and you’re to do the multichord with us. I hope you make the grade. We haven’t had a multichord player for a week, and it’s hard singing without one.” ‘Til make out all right,” Baque said. A narrow platform stretched across the end of the room, where any other restaurant Baque had seen had its visiscope screen. There had been one here at one time, he noticed. He could see the un- patched scars in the wall where it had been torn out. “Lankey ran a joint on Venus back when they didn’t have visi- scope there,” Rose said. “He has his own ideas about how to entertain customers. Want to see your room?” Baque did not answer. He was examining the multichord. It was a battered old instrument, and it bore the marks of more than one brawl. He fingered the filter buttons, and swore softly to himself. Most of them were broken. Only the flute and violin filters clicked into place properly. So he would have to spend twelve hours a day with the twang- ing tones of an unfiltered multi- chord. “Want to see your room?” Rose said again. “It’s only five. Might as well relax before we have to go to work.” Rose showed him a cramped en- closure behind the bar. He stretched out on a hard cot and tried to relax, and then it was six THE TUNESMITH o’clock, and Lankey stood in the door beckoning at him. He took his place at the multi- chord, and sat fingering the keys. He felt no nervousness. There wasn’t anything he didn’t know about Corns, and he knew he wouldn’t have trouble with the music. But the atmosphere dis- turbed him. The haze of smoke was thicker, and he blinked his smarting eyes and felt the whiskey fumes tear at his nostrils when he took a deep breath. There was still only a scattering of customers — mechanics in grimy work suits, swaggering pilots, a few civilians who liked their liquor strong and didn’t mind the sur- roundings. And women. Two women, he guessed, for every man in the room. There was a sudden stirring, a yelp of approval, and an unre- strained stomping of feet. Lankey was crossing the platform with Rose, and the other singers. Baque’s first horrified impression was that the girls were nude, but as they came closer he made out their brief plastic costumes. Lankey was right, he thought. The spacers would much prefer looking at that to animated Corns on a visiscope screen. “You met Rose,” Lankey said. “This is Zanna and Mae. Let’s get going.” He walked away, and the girls gathered around the multichord. “What Corns do you know?” Rose said. “I know them all.” She looked at him doubtfully. “We sing together, and then we 15

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take turns. You’re — sure you know them all?” Baque flipped on the power, and sounded a chord. “You sing, and I’ll handle this.” “We’ll start out with a Tasty- Malt Com. It goes like this.” She hummed softly. “Know that one?” “I wrote it,” Baque said. They sang better than he had ex- pected. He followed them easily, and was able to keep his eyes on the customers. Heads were jerking in time with the music, and he quickly caught the mood and began to experiment. His fingers shaped a rolling rhythm in the bass, fum- bled with it tentatively, and then expanded it. He abandoned the melodic line, leaving the girls to carry on by themselves while he searched the entire keyboard to ornament the driving rhythm. Feet began to stomp. The girl’s bodies were swaying wildly, and Baque felt himself rocking back and forth as the music swept on reck- lessly. The girls finished their lyrics, and when he did not stop they started in again. Spacers were on their feet, now, clapping and sway- ing. Some seized their women and began dancing in the narrow spaces between the tables. Finally Baque forced a cadence and slumped for- ward, panting and mopping his forehead. One of the girls collapsed on the stage, and the others hauled her upright. They fled to a frenzy of applause. Baque felt a hand on his shoul- der. Lankey. His ugly, expression- less face eyed Baque, turned to study the wildly enthusiastic cus- tomers, turned back to Baque. He nodded, and walked away. Rose came back alone, still breathing heavily. “How about a Sally Ann Perfume Com?” “Tell me the words,” Baque said. . She recited them tonelessly. A tragic little story about the shat- tered romance of a girl who did not use Sally Ann. “Shall we make them cry?” Baque said. “Just con- centrate on that. It’s a sad story, and we’re going to make them cry.” She stood by the multichord, and sang plaintively. Baque fash- ioned a muted, tremulous accom- paniment, and when the second verse started he improvised a drooping countermelody. The spacers sat in hushed suspense. The men did not cry, but some of the women sniffed audibly, and when Rose finished there was a taut silence. “Quick,” Baque hissed. “We’ll brighten things up. Sing something — anything!” She launched into another Com, and Baque brought the spacers to their feet with the driving rhythm of his accompaniment. The other girls took their turns, and Baque watched the customers detachedly, bewildered at the power that surged in his fingers. He car- ried them from one emotional ex- treme to the other, and back again, improvising, experimenting. And his mind fumbled haltingly with an idea. “Time for a break,” Rose said finally. “Better get something to eat.” Seven-thirty. An hour and a half of continuous playing. Baque felt drained of strength and emo- LLOYD BIGGLE, JR. 16

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don, and he accepted his dinner tray indifferently and took it to the enclosure they called his room. He did not feel hungry. He sniffed doubtfully at the food, tasted it — and ate ravenously. Real food, after months of synthetics! He sat for awhile on the cot, wondering how much time the girls took between appearances. Then he went looking for Lankey. “I don’t like sitting around,” he said. “Any objection to my play- ing?” “Without the girls?” “Yes.” Lankey planted both elbows on the bar, cupped his chin in one fist, and sat looking absently at the far wall. “You going to sing yourself?” he said finally. “No. Just play.” “Without any singing? Without words?” “Yes.” “What will you play?” “Corns. Or I might improvise something.” A long silence. Then — “Think you could keep things moving while the girls are out?” “Of course I could.” Lankey continued to concentrate on the far wall. His eyebrows con- tracted, relaxed, and contracted again. “All right,” he said. “I was just wondering why I never thought of it.” Unnoticed, Baque took his place at the multichord. He began softly, making the music an unobtrusive background to the rollicking con- versation that filled the room. As he increased the volume, faces turned in his direction. He wondered what those people were thinking, hearing for the first time music that was not a Com, music without words. He watched intently, and satisfied himself that he was holding their attention. Now — could he bring them out of their seats with nothing more than the sterile tones of a multichord? He gave the melody a rhythmic snap, and the stomping began. As he increased the volume again, Rose came stumbling out of a doorway and hurried across the stage, perplexity written on her pert face. “It’s all right,” Baque told her. “I’m just playing to amuse myself. Don’t come back until you’re ready.” She nodded, and walked away. A red-faced spacer near the plat- form looked up at the revealed out- line of her young body, and leered. Fascinated, Baque studied the coarse, demanding lust in his face, and searched the keyboard to ex- press it. This? Or — this? Or — He had it. His body rocked as he felt himself caught up in the re- lentless rhythm. His foot tightened on the volume control, and he turned to watch the customers. Every pair of eyes stared hyp- notically at his comer of the room. A bartender stood at a half crouch, mouth agape. There was uneasiness, a strained shuffling of feet, a rest- less scraping of chairs. Baque’s foot dug harder at the volume con- trol. Terrified, he sat watching the scene that erupted below him. Lasciviousness twisted every face. Men were on their feet, reaching THE TUNESMITH 17

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for the women, clutching, pawing. A chair crashed to the floor, and a table, and no one seemed to notice. A woman’s dress fluttered crazily downwards, and the pursued were pursuers while Baque’s fingers raced onward, out of control. With a violent effort he wrenched his hands from the keys, and the moment of silence crashed into the room like thunder. Fingers trembling, he began to play softly, indifferently. Order was restored when he looked again, the chair and table were upright, and the customers were seated in apparent relaxation — except for one woman, struggling back into her dress in obvious embarrassment. Baque continued to play quietly until the girls returned. Six A.M. Body aching with weariness, hands aching, legs cramped, Baque climbed down from the multichord. Lankey stood waiting for him. “Class One rates,” he said. “You’ve got a job with me as long as you want it. But take it a little easy with that stuff, will you?” Baque thought about Val, cramped in the dreary apartment, eating synthetic food. “Would I be out of order to ask for an ad- vance?” “No,” Lankey said. “Not out of order. I told the cashier to give you a hundred on your way out. Call it a bonus.” Weary from his long conveyer ride, Baque walked quietly into his dim apartment and looked about. No sign of Val — she would still be sleeping. He sat down at his own multichord and touched the keys. 18 Unbelievable. Music without Corns, without words, could make people laugh and cry, and dance, and cavort madly. And it could turn them into lewd animals. Wonderingly he played the music that had incited such unconcealed lust, played it louder, and louder . . . And felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to look into Val’s pas- sion-twisted face. He asked Hulsey to come and hear him that night, and later Hulsey sat slumped on the cot in his room, and shuddered. “It isn’t right. No man should have that power over people. How do you do it?” “I don’t know,” Baque said. “I saw that young couple sitting there, and they were happy, and I felt their happiness. And as I played everyone in the room was happy. And then another couple came in, quarreling, and the next thing I knew I had everyone mad.” “Almost started a fight at the next table,” Hulsey said. “And what you did after that . . .” “Yes. But not as much as I did last night. You should have seen it last night.” Hulsey shuddered again. “I have a book about Greek music,” Baque said. “Ancient Greece — way back. They had some- thing they called ethos. They thought that the different musical scales affected people in different ways. Music could make men sad, or happy, or enthused — or drive them crazy. They even claimed that a musician named Orpheus could LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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move trees and soften rocks with his music. Now listen. I’ve had a chance to experiment, and I’ve noticed that my playing is most effective when I don’t use the fil- ters. There are only two filters that work on that multichord, anyway — flute and violin — but when I use either of them the people don’t re- act so strongly. I’m wondering if it wasn’t the Greek instruments, rather than the scales, that pro- duced those effects. I’m wondering if the tone of an unfiltered multi- chord doesn’t have something in common with the tone of the an- cient Greek kithara or aulos ” Hulsey grunted. “I don’t think it’s instruments, or scales, either. I think it’s Baque, and I don’t like it. You should have stayed a tune- smith.” “I want you to help me,” Baque said. “I want to find a place where we can put a lot of people — a thousand, at least — not to eat, or watch Corns, but just to listen to one man play on a multichord.” Hulsey got up abruptly. “Baque, you’re a dangerous man. I’m damned if I’ll trust any man who can make me feel the way you made me feel tonight. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I won’t have any part of it.” He stomped away in the manner of a man about to slam a door. But a male multichordist in the Lankey- Pank Out did not rate the luxury of a door on his room. Hulsey paused uncertainly in the doorway, and disappeared. Baque followed, and stood watching him weave his way impatiently past the tables to- wards the exit. From his place behind the bar, Lankey looked at Baque, and glanced after the disappearing Hul- sey. “Troubles?” he said. Baque turned away wearily. “I’ve known that man for twenty years. I never thought he was my friend. But then — I never thought he was my enemy, either.” “It works out that way, some- times,” Lankey said. Baque shook his head. “I’d like to try some Martian whiskey. I’ve never tasted the stuff.” TWO WEEKS made Baque an institution at the Lankey-Pank Out 9 and the place was jammed to capacity from the time he went to work until he left the next morning. When he performed alone, he for- got about the Corns, and played what he wanted. He’d even played some pieces by Bach for the cus- tomers, and received generous ap- plause— though nothing like the tumultuous enthusiasm that fol- lowed his improvisations. Sitting behind the bar, eating his evening meal and watching the customers, Baque felt vaguely hap- py. For the first time in years he had plenty of money. He enjoyed the work he was doing. And he had begun to wonder how he could go about eliminating the Corns altogether. As Baque pushed aside his tray, he saw Biff the doorman step for- ward to greet another pair of cus- tomers, halt suddenly, and back away in stupefied amazement. And no wonder — evening clothes at the Lankey-Pank Out! THE TUNESM1TH 19

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The couple strolled into the room, blinking in the dim, smoke- tinted light, and looking about curi- ously. The man was bronze and handsome, but no one noticed him. The woman’s striking beauty flashed like a meteor against the drab surroundings. She moved in an aura of shining loveliness. Her fragrance routed the foul tobacco and whiskey odors. Her hair gleamed golden, her shimmering, flowing gown clung seductively to her voluptuous figure. Baque stared, and suddenly rec- ognized her. Marigold, of Morning with Marigold. Worshiped around the Solar System by the millions of devotees to her visiscope program. Mistress, it was said, to James Den- ton, the czar of visiscope. Marigold Manning. She raised her hand to her mouth in mock horror, and the bright tones of her laughter dropped tan- talizingly among the spellbound spacers. “What an odd place,” she said. “Where did you ever hear about a place like this?” “I need some Martian whiskey, damn it,” the man muttered. “So stupid of the Port Bar to run out. With all those ships from Mars coming in, too. Are you sure we can get back in time? Jimmy’ll raise hell if we aren’t there when his ship lands.” Lankey touched Baque’s arm. “After six,” he said, without taking his eyes from Marigold Manning. “They’ll be getting impatient.” Baque nodded, and started for the multichord. And as soon as the customers saw him, the tumult be- 20 gan. He paused before taking his seat, and saw Marigold Manning and her escort staring open- mouthed. The sudden uproar had brought them up short, and they turned from the stomping, howling customers to examine this nonde- script man who inspired such un- dignified enthusiasm. Miss Manning’s exclamation rang out sharply above the noise. “What the hell!” Baque shrugged, and started to play. When Miss Manning finally left, after a brief conference with Lankey, her escort still hadn’t got- ten his Martian whiskey. The next evening Lankey greeted Baque with both fists full of tele- notes. “What a hell of a mess this is! You see this Marigold dame’s program this morning?” “Don’t think I’ve watched visi- scope since I came to work here.” “In case it interests you, you were — what does she call it? — a ‘Marigold Exclusive’ on visiscope this morning. Erlin Baque, the fa- mous tunesmith, is now playing the multichord in a queer little restau- rant called the Lankey-Pank Out . If you want to hear some amazing music, wander out by the New Jer- sey Space Port, and hear Baque. Don’t miss it. The experience of a lifetime.” Lankey swore, and waved the telenotes. “Queer, she calls us. Now I’ve got ten thousand requests for reservations, some from as far away as Budapest and Shanghai. And our capacity is five hundred, counting standing room. Damn that woman! We already had all the business we could handle.” LLOYD BIGGLE, Jfc.

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“You need a bigger place,” Baque said. “Yes. Well, confidentially, I’ve got my eye on a big warehouse. It’ll seat a thousand, at least. We’ll clean up. I’ll give you a contract to take charge of the music.” Baque shook his head. “How about opening a big place up town? Attract people that have more money to spend. You run it, and I’ll bring in the customers.” Lankey caressed his flattened nose solemnly. “How do we split.” “Fifty-fifty,” Baque said. “No,” Lankey said thoughtfully. “I play fair, Baque, but fifty-fifty wouldn’t be right on a deal like that. I’d have to put up all the money myself. I’ll give you one- third, and you’re to handle the music.” They had a lawyer draw up a contract. Baque’s lawyer. Lankey insisted on that. In the bleak grey of early morn- ing Baque sleepily rode the crowded conveyer towards his apartment. It was the rush hour, when com- muters jammed against each other and snarled grumpily when a neighbor shifted his feet. Was the crowd heavier than usual? Baque shrugged off the jostling and el- bowing, and lost himself in thought. It was time he found a better place to live. He hadn’t minded the dumpy apartment as long as he couldn’t afford a better place, but Val had been complaining for years. And now when they could move, when they could have a luxury apartment or even a small THE TUNESMITH home over in Pennsylvania, Val re- fused to go. Didn’t want to leave her friends, she said. Baque mulled over this problem of feminine contrariness, and real- ized suddenly that he was ap- proaching his own stop. He started to push his way towards a decelera- tion strip — he shoved firmly, he at- tempted to step between his fellow riders, he applied his elbows, gently, at first, and then viciously. The crowd about him did not yield. “I beg your pardon,” Baque said, making another attempt. “I get off here.” This time a pair of brawny arms barred his way. “Not this morning, Baque. You got an appointment up town.” Baque flung a glance at the cir- cle of faces about him. Hard faces, grim, grinning faces. With a sudden effort Baque hurled himself side- ways, fighting with all his strength — and was hauled back roughly. “Up town, Baque. If you want to go dead, that’s your affair.” “Up town,” Baque agreed. At a public air strip they left the conveyer. A flyer was waiting for them, a plush, private job that dis- played a high-priority X registra- tion number. They flew swiftly to- wards down-town Manhattan, cut- ting recklessly across the air lanes, and veered in for a landing on the towering Visiscope International Building. Baque was bundled down an anti-gravity shaft, led through a labyrinth of corridors, and prodded none too gently into an office. A huge office. It was sparsely furnished, with a desk, some chairs, a bar in the far comer, an enor- 21

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mous visiscope screen — and a multichord. It was crowded. Baque’s gaze swept the blur of faces and found one that was familiar. Hulsey. The plump agent took two steps forward, and stood glaring at Baque. “Day of reckoning, Erlin,” he said coldly. A hand rapped sharply on the desk. “I take care of any reckoning that’s done around here, Hulsey. Please sit down, Mr. Baque.” Baque arranged himself uncom- fortably on the chair that was thrust forward from somewhere. He waited, his eyes on the man be- hind the desk. “My name is James Denton. Does my fame extend to such out- of-the-way places as the Lankey- Pank Out? “No,” Baque said. “But I’ve heard of you.” James Denton. Czar of Visiscope International. Ruthless arbitrator of public taste. He was no more than forty, with a swarthy, hand- some face, flashing eyes, and a ready smile. He nodded slowly, tapped a cigar on the edge of his desk, and care- fully placed it in his mouth. Men on either side of him extended lighters. He chose one without glancing up, nodded again, and puffed deeply. “I won’t bore you with introduc- tions to this gathering, Baque. Some of these men are here for professional reasons. Some are here because they’re curious. I heard about you for the first /time yesterday, and what I heard made me think you might be a 22 problem. Mind you, I said ‘might be’ — that’s what I aim to find out. “When I have a problem, Baque, I do one of two things. I solve it, or I eliminate it, and I waste no time either way.” He chuckled. “As you can see from the fact that I had you brought in at the earliest mo- ment you were — shall we say — available?” “The man’s dangerous, Denton!” Hulsey blurted out. Denton flashed his smile. “I like dangerous men, Hulsey. They’re useful to have around. If I can use whatever it is Mr. Baque has, I’ll make him an attractive offer. I’m sure he’ll accept it gratefully. If I can’t use it, I aim to make damned certain that he won’t be inconven- iencing me. Do I make myself clear, Baque?” Baque stared at the floor, and said nothing. Denton leaned forward. His smile did not waver, but his eyes narrowed, and his voice was sud- denly icy. “Do I make myself clear, Baque?” “Yes,” Baque muttered weakly. Denton jerked a thumb towards the door, and half of those present, including Hulsey, solemnly filed out. The others waited, talking in whispers, while Denton puffed steadily on his cigar. Suddenly Den- ton’s intercom rasped out a single word. “Ready!” Denton pointed at the multi- chord. “We crave a demonstration of your skill, Mr. Baque. And take care that it’s a good demonstration. Hulsey is listening, and he can tell us if you try to stall.” Baque nodded, and took his place LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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at the multichord. He sat with fin- gers poised, and grinned at the cir- cle of staring faces. Overlords of business, they were, and never in their lives had they heard real music. As for Hulsey — yes, Hulsey would be listening, but over Den- ton’s intercom, over a communica- tion system designed to carry voices ! And Hulsey had a terrible ear for music. Still grinning, Baque touched the violin filter, touched it again, and faltered. Denton chuckled dryly. “I neg- lected to inform you, Mr. Baque. On Hulsey’s advice, we’ve had the filters disconnected. Now — ” Anger surged within Baque. He jammed his foot down hard on the volume control, insolently tapped out a visiscope fanfare, and started to play his Tamper Cheese Com. Face flushed, Denton leaned for- ward and snarled something. The men beside him stirred uneasily. Baque shifted to another Com, im- provised some variations, and be- gan to watch the faces around him. Overlords of the business world. It would be amusing, he thought, to make them dance and stomp their feet. His fingers shaped a compell- ing rhythm, and they began to sway restlessly. Suddenly he forgot his caution. Laughing silently to himself, he re- leased an overpowering torrent of sound that set the men dancing. He froze them in ridiculous postures with an outburst of surging emo- tion. He made them stomp reck- lessly, he brought tears to their eyes, and he finished off with the pound- THE TUNESMITH ing force that Lankey called the ‘Sex Music.’ Then he slumped over the key- board, terrified at what he had done. Denton was on his feet, face pale, hands clenching and unclenching. “My God!” he muttered. He snarled a word at his inter- com. “Reaction?” “Negative,” came the prompt answer. “Let’s wind it up.” Denton sat down, passed his hand across his face, and turned to Baque with a bland smile. “An im- pressive performance, Mr. Baque. We’ll know in a few minutes — ah, here they are.” Those who had left earlier filed back into the room, and several men huddled together in a whis- pered conference. Denton got up from his desk, and paced the floor. The other men in the room, includ- ing Hulsey, remained standing and waited awkwardly. Baque kept his place at the mul- tichord, glancing uneasily about the room. In shifting his position he accidently touched a key, and the single tone shattered the poise of the conferees, spun Denton around wildly, and startled Hulsey into two steps towards the door. “Mr. Baque is getting impa- tient,” Denton called. “Can’t we finish this?” “One moment, sir.” They returned, finally, and ar- ranged themselves in two lines in front of Denton’s desk. The spokes- man, a white-haired, scholarly look- ing man with a delicate pink com- plexion, cleared his throat self-con- 23

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sciously, and waited for Denton’s nod. “It is established,” he said, “that those in this room were power- fully affected by the music. Those listening on the intercom experi- enced no reaction except a mild boredom.” “Any fool could figure that out,” Denton snapped. “How does he do it?” “We can only offer a working hypothesis . . .” “So you’re guessing. Let’s have it.” “Erlin Baque has the ability to telepathically project his emotional experience. When the projection is subtly reinforced by the tones of the multichord, the experience of those in his immediate presence is intense. It has no effect upon those listen- ing to his music at a distance.” “And — visiscope?” “Baque’s playing would have no effect upon visiscope listeners.” “I see,” Denton said. He scowled thoughtfully. “What about his long- term success?” “It is difficult to predict . . .” “Predict, damn it!” “The novelty of his playing would attract attention, at first. In time he might develop a group of followers who would use the emo- tional experience of his playing as a kind of narcotic.” “Thank you, gentlemen,” Den- ton said. “That will be all.” The room emptied quickly. Hulsey paused in the doorway, glared hatefully at Baque, and then walked out meekly. “So I can’t use you, Baque,” Denton said. “But it seems you are no problem. I know what you and Lankey are up to. If I say the word, you would never, in this lifetime, find a place for your new restau- rant. I could have the Lankey-Pank Out closed down by evening. But it would hardly be worth the trouble. I won’t even insist on a visiscope screen in your new restaurant. If you can develop a cult for yourself, why — perhaps it will keep the members out of worse mischief. You see I feel generous this morn- ing, Baque. Now you’d better leave before I change my mind.” Baque nodded, and got to his feet. At that moment Marigold Manning swept into the room, radi- antly lovely, exotically perfumed, her glistening blonde hair swept up into the latest Martian hair style. “Jimmy, darling — oh!” She stared at Baque, stared at the multichord, and stammered, “Why, you’re — you’re — Erlin Baque! Jim- my, why didn’t you tell me?” “Mr. Baque has been favoring me with ^ private performance,” Denton said brusquely. “I think we understand each other, Baque. Good morning!” “You’re going to use him on visiscope!” Miss Manning ex- claimed. “Jimmy, that’s wonderful. May I have him first? I can work him in this morning.” Denton shook his head slowly. “Sorry, darling. We’ve decided that Mr. Baque’s talent is — not quite suitable for visiscope.” “At least I can have him for a guest. You’ll be my guest, won’t you, Mr. Baque? There’s nothing wrong with giving him a guest spot, is there Jimmy?” 24 LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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Denton chuckled. “No. After all the fuss you stirred up, it might be a good idea for you to guest him. It’ll serve you right when he flops.” “He won’t flop. He’ll be wonder- ful on visiscope. Will you come in this morning, Mr. Baque?” “Well . . .” Baque began. Denton nodded emphatically. “We’ll be opening a new restaurant soon,” Baque went on. “I wouldn’t mind being your guest on opening day.” “A new restaurant? That’s won- derful! Does anyone know? I’ll give it out this morning as an exclu- sive!” “It isn’t exactly settled, yet,” Baque said apologetically. “We haven’t found a place . . .” “Lankey found a place yester- day,” Denton said. “He’ll be sign- ing a lease this morning. Just let Miss Manning know your opening date, Baque, and she’ll arrange a spot for you. Now if you don’t mind . . .” It took Baque half an hour to find his way out of the building, but he plodded aimlessly along the cor- ridors and disdained asking direc- tions. He hummed happily to him- self, and now and then he broke into a laugh. The overlords of the business world — and their scientists — knew nothing about overtones. “So that’s the way it is,” Lankey said. “I think we were lucky, Baque. Denton should have made his move when he had a chance — when I wasn’t expecting it. When he wises up, I’ll see that it’s too late.” “What can we do if he really de- THE TUNESMITH cides to put us out of business?” “I have some connections myself, Baque. They don’t run in high so- ciety, like Denton, but they’re every bit as dishonest. And Denton has a lot of enemies who’ll be glad to back us up. Said he could close me down by evening, eh? It’s a funny deal. There’s not much we can do that would hurt Denton, but there’s plenty we can do to keep him from hurting us.” “I think we’re going to hurt Den- ton,” Baque said. Lankey moved over to the bar, and came back with a tall glass of pink, foaming liquid. “Drink it,” he said. “You’ve had a long day, and you’re getting delirious. How could we hurt Denton?” “Corns. Visiscope depends on Corns. We’ll show the people they can have entertainment without them. We’ll make our motto NO COMS AT LANKEY’S!” “Great,” Lankey drawled. “I just invest a thousand in fancy new cos- tumes for the girls — they can’t wear those plastic things in our new place, you know — and you decide not to let them sing.” “Certainly they’re going to sing.” Lankey leaned forward, caressing his nose. “And no Corns. Then what are they going to sing?” “I took some lyrics out of an old school book my grandfather had. They’re called poems, and I’m writing music for them. I was going to try them out here, but Denton might hear about it, and there’s no use starting trouble before it’s nec- essary.” “No. Save them for the new place. And you’ll be on Morning 25

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with Marigold the day we open. Are you certain about this over- tones stuff, Baque? You really could be projecting emotions, you know. Not that it will make any difference in the restaurant, but on visi- scope . . “I’m certain. How soon can we open?” “I’ve got three shifts remodeling the place. We’ll seat twelve hun- dred, and have room for a nice dance floor. Should be ready in two weeks. But I’m not sure this visi- scope deal is wise, Baque.” “I want to do it.” Lankey went back to the bar, and got a drink for himself. “All right. You do it. If your stuff comes over, all hell is going to break loose, and I might as well start getting ready for it.” He grinned. “Damned if it won’t be good for business!” ARIGOLD MANNING had changed her hair styling to the latest creation of Zann of Hong Kong, and she dallied for ten min- utes in deciding which profile she would present to the cameras. Baque waited patiently, a bit un- comfortable in the most expensive dress suit he had ever owned. He was wondering if perhaps he really did project emotions. “I’ll have it this way,” Miss Man- ning said finally, waving a pilot screen in front of her face for a last, searching look. “And you, Mr. Baque? What will we do with you?” “Just put me at the multichord,” Baque said. “But you can’t just play. You’ll 26 have to say something. I’ve been announcing this every day for a week, and we’ll have the biggest audience in years, and you’ll just have to say something.” “Gladly,” Baque said. “If I can talk about Lankey9 s ” “But of course, you silly man. That’s why you’re here. You talk about Lankey* s, and I’ll talk about Erlin Baque.” “Five minutes,” a voice an- nounced crisply. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I’m al- ways so nervous just before.” “Be happy you’re not nervous during,” Baque said. “That’s so right. Jimmy just makes fun of me, but it takes an artist to understand another artist. Do you get nervous?” “When I’m playing, I’m much too busy.” “That’s just the way it is with me. Once my program starts, I’m much too busy . . .” “Four minutes . . .” “Oh, bother!” She seized the pilot screen again. “Maybe I would have been better the other way.” Baque seated himself at the mul- tichord. “You’re perfect the way you are.” “Do you really think so? It’s a nice thing to say, anyway. I wonder if Jimmy will take the time to watch.” “I’m sure he will.” “Three minutes . . .” Baque threw on the power, and sounded a chord. Now he was nerv- ous. He had no idea what he was going to play. He’d intentionally re- frained from preparing something, because it was his improvisations LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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that affected people so strangely. Only one thing was certain — there would be no Sex Music. Lankey had warned him about that. He lost himself in thought, failed to hear the final warning, and looked up startled at Miss Man- ning’s cheerful, “Good morning, everyone. It’s Morning with Mari- gold!” Her bright voice wandered on and on. Erlin Baque. His career as a tunesmith. Her amazing discovery of him playing in the Lankey-Pank Out . She ran the Tamper Cheese Com. Finally she finished her re- marks, and risked the distortion of her lovely profile to glance in his direction. “Ladies and gentlemen, with admiration, with pride, with pleasure, I give you a Marigold Ex- clusive, Erlin Baque!” Baque grinned nervously, and coyly tapped out a scale with one finger. “This is my first speech,” he said. “Probably it’ll be my last. The new restaurant opens tonight. Lankey’ s, on Broadway. Unfortu- nately I can’t invite you to join us, because thanks to Miss Manning’s generous comments this past week all space is reserved for the next two months. After that we’ll be setting aside a limited number of reservations for visitors from dis- tant places. Jet over and see us! “You’ll find something different at Lankey’ s. There is n& visiscope screen. Maybe you’ve heard about that. We have attractive young ladies to sing for you. I play the multichord. We know you’ll enjoy our music. We know you’ll enjoy it because you’ll hear no Corns at Lankey’ s. Remember that — No THE TUNESMITH Corns at Lankey’s. No soap with your soup. No air cars with your steaks. No shirts with your desserts. No Corns! Just good music played for your enjoyment — like this.” He brought his hands down on the keyboard. It was a strange experience, play- ing with no audience, or practically no audience. There was only Miss Manning, and the visiscope engi- neers, and Baque was suddenly ap- prehensive that his audiences were responsible for his success. He’d al- ways had a throng of faces to watch, and he had paced his play- ing according to their reactions. People were listening all over the Western Hemisphere. And later it would be all over Earth, and all over the Solar System. Would they be clapping and stomping? Would they be thinking awesomely, “So that’s how music sounds without words, without Corns?” Or would they be listening in mild boredom? Baque caught a glimpse of Miss Manning’s pale face, of the engi- neers watching with mouths agape, and thought maybe everything was all right. He lost himself in the music, and played fervently. He continued to play after he knew that something had gone wrong. Miss Manning leaped to her feet and hurried towards him, the engineers were moving about con- fusedly, and the distant pilot screen was blank. Baque slowed down, and brought his playing to a halt. “We were cut off,” Miss Man- ning said tearfully. “Who would do such a thing to me? Never, never, in all the time I’ve been on visiscope — George, who cut us off?” 27

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“Orders.” “Whose orders?” “My orders!” James Denton strode towards them, and he was not smiling. His lips were tight, his face pale, his eyes gleaming vio- lence and sudden death. “Pretty bright boy, aren’t you?” he said to Baque. “I don’t know how you worked that trick, but no man fools James Denton more than once. Now you’ve made yourself a problem, and I’m not going to bother solving it. Consider yourself eliminated.” “Jimmy!” Miss Manning wailed. “My program — cut off. How could you?” “Shut up, damn it! I’ll give you any odds you want, Baque, that Lankey’s doesn’t open tonight. Not that it’s going to make any differ- ence to you.” Baque smiled gently. “I think you’ve lost, Denton. I think enough music got over to beat you. I’ll give you any odds you want that you’ll have several thousand complaints by tomorrow. So will the govern- ment. And then you’ll find out who really runs Visiscope Interna- tional” “ I run Visiscope International” “No, Denton. It belongs to the people. They’ve let things slide for a long time, and taken anything you’d give them. But if they know what they want, they’ll get it. I know I gave them at least three minutes of what they want. That was more than I’d hoped for.” “How did you work that trick in my office?” “You tricked yourself, Denton — because you didn’t know about 28 overtones. Your intercom wasn’t built to carry music. It doesn’t carry the upper frequencies at all, so the multichord sounded dead to the men in the other room. But visi- scope has the frequency range of live sound.” Denton nodded. “Clever. I’ll have the heads of some scientists, for that. And I’ll have your head, Baque.” He stalked away, and as the automatic door closed behind him, Marigold Manning clutched Baque’s arm. “Quick! Follow me!” As Baque hesitated, she hissed, “Don’t stand there like an idiot! He’ll have you killed.” She led him through a control room, and out into a small corridor. They raced down it, darted through a reception room past a startled secretary, and out a rear door into another corridor. She jerked him after her into an anti-grav lift, and they shot upwards. At the top of the building she hurried him to the air car landing strip, and left him standing in a doorway. “When I give you a signal, you walk out,” she said. “Don’t run, just walk.” She walked out calmly, and Baque heard an attendant’s sur- prised greeting. “Through early this morning, Miss Manning?” “We’re running a lot of Corns,” she said. “I want the big Waring.” “Coming right up.” Peering around the comer, Baque saw her step into the flyer. As soon as the attendant’s back was turned, she waved frantically. Baque walked carefully towards her, keep- ing the Waring between the attend- LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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ant and himself. A moment later they were shooting upwards, and below them a siren sounded faintly. “We did it!” she gasped. “If you hadn’t gotten out before that alarm sounded, you wouldn’t have gotten out at all.” Baque took a deep breath, and looked back at the Visiscope Inter- national Building. “Well, thanks,” he said. “But surely that wasn’t necessary. This is a civilized planet.” “Visiscope International is not civilized!” she snapped. He looked at her wonderingly. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with fear, and for the first time Baque saw her as a human being, a woman, a lovely woman. As he looked, she turned away and burst into tears. “Now Jimmy’ll have me killed, too. And where will we go?” “Lankey’ s” Baque said. “Look — you can see it from here.” She pointed the air car at the freshly painted letters on the strip above the new restaurant, and Baque, looking backwards, saw a crowd forming in the street by Visi- scope International . Lankey floated his desk over to the wall, and leaned back comfort- ably. He wore a trim dress suit, and he had carefully groomed him- self for the role of a jovial host, but in his office he was the same ungainly Lankey Baque had first seen leaning over a bar. “I told you all hell would break loose,” he said flatly. “There are five thousand people over by Visi- scope International , screaming for THE TUNESMITH Erlin Baque. And the crowd is growing.” “I didn’t play for more than three minutes,” Baque said. “I thought a lot of people might write in to complain about their cutting me off, but I didn’t expect any- thing like that.” “You didn’t, eh? Five thousand people. Probably ten thousand, by now, and nobody knows where it will stop. And Miss Manning, here, risks her neck to get you out of the place — ask her why, Baque.” “Yes,” Baque said. “Why go to all that trouble for me?” She shuddered. “Your music does things to me.” “It sure does,” Lankey said. “Baque, you fool, you gave a quarter of Earth’s population three minutes of Sex Music!” LANKEY’S OPENED on sched- ule that evening, with crowds filling the street outside, and strug- gling in as long as there was stand- ing room. The shrewd Lankey had instituted an admission charge. The standees bought no food, and Lankey couldn’t see the point in furnishing free music, even if people were willing to stand to hear it. There was one last-minute change. Lankey decided that the customers would prefer a glamorous hostess to a flat-nosed old host, and he hired Marigold Manning. She moved about gracefully, the deep blue of her flowing gown offsetting her golden hair. When Baque took his place at the multichord, the frenzied ova- 29

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tion lasted for twenty minutes. Midway through the evening, Baque sought out Lankey. “Has Denton tried anything ?” “Not a thing. Everything is run- ning smoothly.” “It seems odd. He swore we wouldn’t open tonight.” Lankey chuckled. “He’s had troubles of his own to worry about. The authorities are on his neck about that rioting this afternoon. I was afraid they would blame you, but they didn’t. Denton put you on, and then he cut you off, and they figure he’s responsible. And according to my last report, Visi- scope International has had more than ten million complaints. Don’t worry, Baque. We’ll hear from Denton soon enough — and the guilds, too.” “The guilds? Why the guilds?” “The Tunesmiths’ Guild will be damned furious about your cutting out the Corns. The Lyric Writers’ Guild will go along with them, on account of the Corns, and on ac- count of your using music without words. The Performers’ Guild won’t like you because not many of its members can play worth a damn. By tomorrow morning, Baque, you’ll be the most popular man in the Solar System, and the sponsors, and the visiscope people, and the guilds are going to hate your guts. I’m giving you a twenty- four hour bodyguard, and Miss Manning, too. I want you to come out of this alive.” “Do you really think Denton would . . .” “Denton would.” The next morning the Perform- ers’ Guild blacklisted Lankey’s , and ordered all the musicians, includ- ing Baque, to sever relations. The musicians respectfully declined, and found themselves blacklisted before noon. Lankey called in a lawyer, the most sinister, furtive, disrepu- table-looking individual Baque had ever seen. “They’re supposed to give us a week’s notice,” Lankey said, “and another week if we decide to ap- peal. I’ll sue them for five million.” The Commissioner of Public Safety called, and a little later, the Liquor Commissioner. Both con- ferred briefly with Lankey, and departed grim-faced. “Denton’s moving too late,” Lankey said gleefully. “I got to both of them a week ago, and re- corded our conversations. They don’t dare take any action.” A riot broke out in front of Lankey’s that night. Lankey had his own riot squad ready for action, and the customers never noticed the disturbance. Lankey’s inform- ants estimated that more than fifty million complaints had been received by Visiscope Internation- al. An anti-Com demonstration erupted spontaneously, and five hundred visiscope screens were smashed in Manhattan restaurants. Lankey9 s finished its first week unmolested, entertaining capacity crowds daily. Reservations were pouring in from as far away as Venus and Mars. Baque sent to Berlin for a multichordist to under- study him, and Lankey hoped by the end of the month to have the restaurant open twenty-four hours a day. 30 LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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At the beginning of the second week, Lankey told Baque, “We’ve got Denton licked. I’ve countered every move he’s made, and now we’re going to make a few moves. You’re going on visiscope again. I’m making application today. We’re legitimate business, and we’ve got as much right to buy time as anyone else. If he won’t give it to us, I’ll sue. He won’t dare refuse.” “Where do you get the money for all this?” Baque said. Lankey grinned. “I saved it up. And I’ve had a little help from peo- ple who don’t like Denton.” Denton didn’t refuse. Baque did an Earth-wide program direct from Lankey’s, with Marigold Manning introducing him. He omitted only the Sex Music. Quitting time at Lankey* s . Baque was in his dressing room, wearily changing. Lankey had already left for an early-morning conference with his lawyer. They were spec- ulating on Denton’s next move. Baque was uneasy. He was, he told himself, only a dumb musician. He didn’t understand legal prob- lems, or the tangled web of connec- tions and influence that Lankey negotiated so easily. He knew James Denton was the incarnation of evil. He also knew that Denton had enough money to buy Lankey a thousand times over. Or pay for the murder of anyone who got in his way. What was he waiting for? With enough time, Baque might deliver a death-blow to the whole institution of Corns. Denton would know that. So what was he waiting for? THE TUNESMITH The door burst open, and Mari- gold Manning stumbled in half un- dressed, her pale face the bleached whiteness of her plastic breast cups. She slammed the door and leaned against it, sobs shaking her body. “Jimmy,” she gasped. “I got a note from Carol — that’s his secre- tary. She was a good friend of mine. She says Jimmy’s bribed our guards, and they’re going to kill us on the way home this morning. Or let Jimmy’s men kill us.” “I’ll call Lankey,” Baque said. “There’s nothing to worry about.” “No! If they suspect anything they won’t wait. We won’t have a chance.” “Then we’ll just wait until Lankey gets back.” “Do you think it’s safe to wait? They know we’re getting ready to leave.” Baque sat down heavily. It was the sort of move he expected Den- ton to make. Lankey picked his men carefully, he knew, but then — Denton had enough money to buy any man. And yet . . . “Maybe it’s a trap,” he said. “Maybe that note’s a fake.” “No. I saw that fat little man Hulsey talking with one of your guards last night, and I knew Jim- my was up to something.” So that was it. Hulsey. “What do you want to do?” Baque said. “Could we get out the back way?” “I don’t know. We’d have to get past at least one guard.” “Couldn’t we try?” Baque hesitated. She was fright- ened. She was sick with fright. But she knew far more about this sort 31

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of thing than he did. And she knew James Denton. He’d never have gotten out of Visiscope Internation - al without her help. “If you think that’s the thing to do, we’ll try it.” “I’ll have to finish changing.” “Go ahead, then. Let me know when you’re ready.” She looked cautiously out the door, and turned back, fear over- coming modesty. “No. You come with me.” Baque and Miss Manning walked leisurely along the corridor at the back of the building, nodded to the two guards that sat there alertly, and with a sudden movement were through the door. Running. A shout of surprise came from behind them, nothing more. They dashed frantically down an alley, turned off, reached another intersection, and hesitated. “The conveyer is that way,” she gasped. “If we can reach the con- veyer . . .” “Let’s go!” They ran on, hand in hand. Far ahead of them the alley opened onto a street. Baque glanced anx- iously upwards for air cars, and saw none. Exactly where they were he did not know. “Are we — being followed?” “I don’t think so. There aren’t any air cars, and I didn’t see any- one behind us when we stopped.” “Then we got away!” Thirty feet ahead of them, a man stepped abruptly out of the dawn shadows. As they halted, stricken dumb with panic, he walked to- wards them. A hat was pulled low over his face, but there was no mis- 32 taking the smile. James Denton. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said. “ Visiscope International hasn’t been the same without your lovely presence. And a good morn- ing to you, Mr. Baque.” They stood silently, Miss Man- ning’s hand clutching Baque’s arm, her nails cutting through his shirt and into his flesh. He did not move. “I thought you’d fall for that lit- tle gag, beautiful. I thought you’d be just frightened enough, by now, to fall for it. I have every exit blocked, but I’m grateful to you for picking this one. Very grateful. I like to settle in person for a dou- ble cross.” Suddenly he whirled on Baque, his voice an angry snarl. “Get go- ing, Baque. It isn’t your turn, yet. I have other plans for you.” Baque stood rooted to the damp pavement. “Move, Baque, before I change my mind.” Miss Manning released his arm. Her voice was a choking whisper. “Go!” she said. “Baque!” “Go, quickly,” she whispered again. Baque took two hesitant steps. “Run!” Denton shouted. Baque ran. Behind him there was the evil crack of a gun, a scream, and silence. Baque faltered, saw Denton looking after him, and ran on. “So I’m a coward,” Baque said. “No, Baque.” Lankey shook his head slowly. “You’re a brave man, or you wouldn’t have gotten into this. It wouldn’t have been bravery, LLOYD BIGGLE, JR.

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to try something there. It would have been foolishness. It’s my fault, for thinking he’d move first against the restaurant. I owe Denton some- thing for this, Baque, and I’m a man who pays his debts.” A troubled frown creased Lankey’s ugly face. He looked oddly at Baque, and scratched his bald head. “She was a brave and beauti- ful woman, Baque. But I wonder why Denton let you go.” The air of tragedy that hung heavily over Lankey’s that night did not affect the customers. They gave Baque a thunderous ovation as he moved towards the multi- chord. As he paused for a half- hearted bow, three policemen closed in on him. “Erlin Baque?” “That’s right.” “You’re under arrest.” Baque grinned. Denton wasn’t long in making his next move. “What’s the charge?” he said. “Murder.” The murder of Marigold Man- ning. ANKEY PRESSED his mourn- ful face against the bars, and talked unhurriedly. “They have some witnesses,” he said, “honest witnesses, who saw you run out of that alley. They have several dis- honest witnesses, who saw you fire the shot. One of them is your friend Hulsey, who just happened to be taking an early-morning stroll along that alley — or so he’ll testify. Den- ton would probably spend a million to convict you, but he won’t have to. He won’t even have to bribe the jury. The case against you is that good.” “What about the gun,” Baque said. “They found it. No fingerprints, of course. But someone will claim you were wearing gloves, or some- one will have seen you wipe it off.” Baque nodded. Things were out of his hands, now. He’d worked for a cause that no one understood — perhaps he didn’t understand him- self what he was trying to do. And he’d lost. “What happens next?” Lankey shook his head. “I’m not one to hold back bad news. It means life. They’re going to send you to the Ganymede rock pits for life.” “I see,” Baque said. He added anxiously, “You’re going to carry on?” “Just what were you trying to do, Baque? You weren’t only working for Lankey’s. I couldn’t figure it out, but I went along with you be- cause I like you. And I like your music. What was it?” “I don’t know.” A concert? A thousand people gathered together to hear music? Was that what he wanted? “Music, I suppose,” he said. “Get rid of the Corns — or some of them.” “Yes. Yes, I think I understand. Lankey’s will carry on, Baque, as long as I have any breath left. That new multichord player isn’t bad. He’s nothing like you were, but then — there’ll never be another one like you were. We’re still turning people away. Several other restau- rants are doing away with visiscope and trying to imitate us, but we THE TUNESM1TH 33

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have a big head start. We’ll carry on the way you had things set up, and your one-third still stands. I’ll have it put in trust for you. You’ll be a wealthy man when you get back.” “When I get back!” “Well — a life sentence doesn’t necessarily mean life. See that you behave yourself.” “Val?” “She’ll be taken care of. I’ll give her a job of some kind, to keep her occupied.” “Maybe I can send you music for the restaurant,” Baque said. “I should have plenty of time.” “I’m afraid not. It’s music they want to keep you away from. So — no writing of music. And they won’t let you near a multichord. They think you could hypnotize the guards, and turn all the prisoners loose.” “Would they — let me have my record collection?” “I’m afraid not.” “I see. Well, if that’s the way it is . . .” “It is. Now I owe Denton two debts.” The unemotional Lankey had tears in his eyes as he turned away. The jury deliberated for eight minutes, and brought in a verdict of guilty. Baque was sentenced to life imprisonment. There was some editorial grumbling on visiscope, because life in the Ganymede rock pits was frequently a very short life. And there was a swelling under- tone of whispering among the little people that the verdict was bought and paid for by the sponsors, by visiscope. Erlin Baque was framed, it was said, because he gave the people music. And on the day Baque left for Ganymede, announcement was made of a public exhibition, by H. Vail, multichordist, and B. John- son, violinist. Admission one dollar. Lankey collected evidence with painstaking care, rebribed one of the bribed witnesses, and petitioned for a new trial. The petition was denied, and the long years limped past. The New York Symphony Or- chestra was organized, with twenty members. One of James Denton’s plush air cars crashed, and he was instantly killed. An unfortunate ac- cident. A millionaire who once heard Erlin Baque play on visiscope endowed a dozen conservatories of music. They were to be called the Baque Conservatories, but a musi- cal historian who had never heard of Baque got the name changed to Bach. Lankey died, and a son-in-law carried on his efforts as a family trust. A subscription was launched to build a new hall for the New York Symphony, which now num- bered forty members. Interest spread like an avalanche, and a site was finally picked in Ohio, to be within easier commuting dis- tance of all parts of the North American continent. Beethoven Hall was erected, to seat forty thou- sand people. The first series of con- certs was fully subscribed forty- eight hours after tickets went on sale. Opera was given on visiscope for the first time in two hundred years. LLOYD BIGGLE, JR. 34

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An opera house was built on the Ohio site, and then an art institute. The Center grew, first by private subscription, and then under gov- ernment sponsorship. Lankey’s son- in-law died, and a nephew took over the management of Lankey’s — and the campaign to free Erlin Baque. Thirty years passed, and then forty. And forty-nine years, seven months and nineteen days after Baque received his life sentence, he was paroled. He still owned a third interest in Manhattan’s most pros- perous restaurant, and the profits that had piled up over the years made him a wealthy man. He was ninety-six years old. Another capacity crowd at Bee- thoven Hall. Vacationists from all parts of the Solar System, music lovers who commuted for the con- certs, old people who had retired to the Center, forty-thousand of them, stirred restlessly and searched the wings for the conductor. Applause thundered down from the twelve balconies as he strode forward. Erlin Baque sat in his permanent seat at the rear of the main floor. He adjusted his binoculars and peered at the orchestra, wondering again what a contrabassoon sound- ed like. His bitterness he had left behind on Ganymede. His life at the Center was an unending reve- lation of miracles. Of course no one remembered Erling Baque, tunesmith and mur- derer. Whole generations of people could not even remember the Corns. And yet Baque felt that he had ac- complished all this, just as surely as if he had built this building — built the Center — with his own hands. He spread his hands before him, hands deformed by the years in the rock pits, fingers and tips of fingers crushed off, his body maimed by cascading rocks. He had no regrets. He had done his work well. Two ushers stood in the aisle be- hind him. One jerked a thumb in his direction, and whispered, “Now there’s a character for you. Comes to every concert. Never misses one. And he just sits there in the back row watching people. They say he was one of the old tunesmiths, years and years ago.” “Maybe he likes music,” the other said. “Naw. Those old tunesmiths never knew anything about music. Besides — he’s deaf.” END FIRST EDITIONS OF IF! A LIMITED number of copies of the first issue of IF, Volume 1, No. 1, dated March 1952, are still available. Other back issues available are: May and July 1953; March, April, July, October and November 1954; January, March and April 1955; February, April, June, August, October, December 1956, February, April, June 1957. Only 35^ each postpaid. Address Circulation Dept., IF Magazine, Kingston, New York. THE TUNESMITH 35

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THE LAST He had only two aims in life: first, to get what he wanted; and after that to enjoy it. But to achieve the one he’d have to give up the other . . . or would he? BY TOM GODWIN

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Illustrated by Virgil Finlay VICTORY The transport ship, bound for Capella with Outlander colonists from Earth and Frontier Guards from Arcturus, struck the hyperspace vortex without warning. It seized her, wrenching and twisting her, and flung her across its gigantic rim at thousands of times the speed of light. She emerged into normal space in an unknown region of the galaxy, broken and driveless, but near enough a planet that she could descend by means of her antigravity plates before the last of her air was gone. It was sunset when she settled heavily to earth on a grassy slope beside a forest, leaning at a dangerous angle with only her failing antigravity plates to hold her from falling. The dead had been disposed of in space and the living filed out of her: fifty Outlander men, women and children, eighteen ship's crewmen, and ten Frontier Guards. The Guard officer and ship's captain came last, of equal rank and already appraising each other with cold specula- tion. 37

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THE HOWLING things in the dark forest were coming closer. Thane listened as he watched Gurry, the ship’s captain, approach across the strip of land that separated the two camps ; standing back from his fire as he waited, where he would make an uncertain target for an assassin’s blaster. No one could be seen near any of the fires in the two camps on the hill. Only the unarmed Outlanders, at their fires in the swale below, moved about without wariness. And it was not yet three hours from the landing of the ship. Curry stopped before him, re- strained anger on his arrogantly handsome face. “You failed to report to me and turn your Frontier Guards over to my command as you were ordered,” he said. “Since your rank is no higher than mine I saw no reason to do so,” Thane answered. Gurry smiled, very thinly. “Per- haps I can show you a reason.” “Perhaps. Let’s have it” “First, I want to remind you of our circumstances,” Curry said. “The ship will never lift again and we’re marooned here for centuries to come. You know what the re- action of the Outlanders will be.” The Outlanders were the outcasts of a society that could not tolerate individuality. Two hundred years before the complexities of civiliza- tion had combined technocracy with integration and produced , Technogration. Technogration had abolished race, creed and color, nations and borders, had welded all into a common mass and prohibited all individual pursuits that did not contribute to the Common Good. The Outlanders, refusing to come under Technograte domination, lived as best they could in the deserts, plateaus and jungles that Technogration could not use. The ones on the ship had been bound for Capella Five where men accus- tomed to wrestling a living from hostile environments were needed. Under such circumstances Out- landers were given certain rights and freedoms. Until they were no longer needed. Then, again, they became a people without a world . . . “For two hundred years the Out- landers have hated Technogration and wanted a world where they could set up their own archaic form of society,” Curry said. “Now, those down there will think their millenium has arrived and they can refuse to recognize Techno- grate authority.” “I see,” Thane said. “And you want my cooperation so that Tech- nogration won’t fall by the way- side?” “Your willingness to accept a subordinate position would give me an intact force of both crew- men and Guardsmen.” Curry’s lips thinned. “But there will be Technogration, with or without your support. There will be no retrogression back into the Out- landers’ hallowed Dark Ages.” “There is no argument — we both want Technogration,” Thane said. “We only disagree over who should be in command.” “There is a slight difference in TOM (GODWIN 38

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our qualifications. Your present rank was gained by your ability to kill and not by loyalty to Techno- gration.” “Yes, of course,” Thane agreed. “We’ll say that I’m a materialistic opportunist while you’re a noble idealist. But it’s still the same iden- tical whip that we’re both going to reach for.” “As I said, I would prefer a peaceful transfer of your Guards- men to my command. But my crew- men outnumber them almost two to one and they are expendable if necessary.” The thin smile came back, almost mocking in its con- fidence. “You haven’t much choice but to cooperate and accept a sub- ordinate role, have you?” The subordinate role would be very brief; it would end with a blaster beam in the back as soon as the Guardsmen were transferred to Curry’s command . . • “Try again, Curry. I can’t bite on that one.” The smile faded from Curry’s face, leaving it icily cold. “That was the only opportunity you’ll ever get.” The howling sounded again in the forest and Thane said: “We understand each other, now. But the Outlanders are un- armed and it may require our full forces to hold off whatever is out there. I suggest a truce until morn- The iciness remained on Curry’s face and he did not reply at once. “Perhaps you are right. You will order your men to observe a truce for the rest of the night.” He turned back to his camp. THE LAST VICTORY Thane made the rounds where his guards patrolled with their searchlights probing out into the darkness. All of Curry’s men but two had been added to reinforce the guard ring around the Out- lander camp; most of the crew- men along the east and south lines, leaving the more experienced Guardsmen to patrol the two lines facing the forest. Guardsmen and crewmen pa- trolled in silence, watching one an- other with the calculating regard of men who knew they might soon be ordered to kill one another. Ap- parently it was obvious to all of them that two officers of equal rank was a situation that could not for long exist. His return to his camp took him through the scattered camp fires of the Outlanders. There were not many men to be seen; most of the survivors were women and chil- dren whom the Outlander leader had ordered into the safer inner compartments when the ship began breaking up. Thane met him at the second fire; a gaunt old man with a jut- ting gray beard and sharp blue eyes under bristling gray brows. He stepped out from the fire and spoke : “Captain Thane — I’d like to ask a question.” Thane stopped. “What is it?” “My name is Paul Kennedy and I speak for all of us,” the old man said. “Captain Curry has locked up all arms from us — he’s already starting the regimentation for a permanent Technograte colony here and making sure we 39

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can’t object. For two hundred years Technogration has failed on Earth except to turn men into ro- bots. Here we could have a new chance and live like humans again.” ^ “The question,” Thane reminded him. “You were in the Frontier Guards, where men still have to think for themselves to survive, and we were hoping you would understand why we don’t want to start another ant hill here.” He could understand — but now, after thirty years of planning and fighting, he was only one step from the top. “There will be Technogration,” he said. “We thought you would say that.” Kennedy’s expression did not change. “We hoped we would be wrong.” An ecstatic yelping sounded sud- denly from nearby and something brown and white raced across the firelit ground with a laughing boy in pursuit. Thane stared. It was a dog. He had not seen one for thirty years. Technogration prohibited the owning of pets as an unneces- sary drain upon the planned econ- omy and as non-contributive to the Common Good. “We knew about the regula- tions,” Kennedy said, “but children need pets to love and be loved by. She’s going to have pups — only she and Lornie’s kitten were left.” The old man’s eyes watched him closely, questioningly. “Surely, no one will object to them?” The dog circled back and a dark haired young woman beyond an- other fire called to it: “Binkie — come here!” The dog obeyed, its tail drooping a little, and the woman looked un- certainly in Thane’s direction be- fore she disappeared back in the shadows, the dog close behind her. The boy followed, asking, “Why did you stop us, Blanche?” Thane watched them go, the sight of the boy and dog bringing back with unwanted vividness the memory of another Outlander boy who had played with his dog, long ago; bringing back the past that necessity had forced him to for- get .. . He put the dangerous weakness from his mind and spoke to Ken- nedy: “You Outlanders were bound for a Technograte world when you left Earth. You now stand on a Technograte world. You will do as you are ordered to do. As for your pets — you may have as many as you want so far as I’m con- cerned.” He stepped past Kennedy and continued on through the camp. The conversation of the Outlanders froze as he drew near, letting him walk in a little sea of silence that moved along with him. It was the usual reaction to the presence of a Technograte officer. A little girl was out beyond the last fire; her back turned to him as she knelt in the grass and worked at something. He came closer and saw she was trying to tie a white cord around the neck of a half grown kitten. It sat with resigned patience as she struggled with ear- TOM GODWIN 40

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nest, inexperienced fingers to tie a knot that would not fall apart. She was talking to it as she worked: “ — and maybe the things in the forest kill cats. So you’ll have to stay tied up, Tommy, and close to me because you’re the only kitten on this whole world — ” His shadow fell across her and she looked up. Black curls framed a startled little face and gray eyes went wide at the sight of his uni- form. She seized the surprised kit- ten and held it protectively in her arms, the knot falling apart again on the ground. “Please — Tommy won’t ever hurt anything — ” Two women and a man were watching him from beyond the fire with frozen-faced hatred. Techno- grate regulations required the im- mediate killing of any animals found smuggled aboard a ship . . . “I won’t harm your kitten,” he said He smiled sardonically at the Outlanders beyond the fire. “My horns aren’t quite that long yet.” HE MET Curry when he was al- most back to his camp. Curry had two bodyguards with him and passed without speaking. The hours went by and the night was like a cold October night on Earth but for the strange constella- tions that crept across the sky. The Outlander fires burned lower and the things in the forest became si- lent, as though massing for a sur- prise attack. Twice the wind shifted, to bring the scents from the forest, and each time he heard THE LAST VICTORY the dog growl uneasily while the woman tried to quiet her. He was going down the south guard line, the western horizon touched with the light of coming moonrise, when the monsters at- tacked the north line. They broke suddenly from the forest with a demoniac howl of command from their leader, a boil- ing wave of them. They were green, hard to see against the green grass, racing low to the ground like giant tigers, their long, serpentine necks thrust forward and eyes blazing yel- low in hyena faces. The blaster fire of the Guards- men met them, pale blue beams that blossomed into brief incan- descence when they struck. Curry’s guards added their fire, their reac- tions slower than those of the Guardsmen. The guards along the other three lines turned to help halt the attack, the south line guards firing across the Outlander camp. The front rank of monsters went down, with them the leader. For an instant the onslaught slowed, leaderless and uncertain, then the monster that had been behind the leader gave the commanding howl and the others surged ahead again. At that moment, when the at- tention of every guard in every guard line was on the north perim- eter attack, the Outlander dog broke loose from whoever had been holding her. She ignored the attack from the north and was a blur as she went through the south guard line, screaming a snarl of warning and her leash whipping in the air behind her. She vanished behind 41

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the guard line and Thane swung his searchlight. Five monsters were almost upon the backs of the unsuspecting guards, charging without sound. His blaster beam raked at them and two went down. The others struck three guards with their bodies, knocking them to the ground before they could fire. Then the monsters passed on, to . lurch a dozen steps and fall limply to the ground. They did not even twitch after they fell. He saw, when he reached the first one, that it was dead. So were the other two. Yet there was not a blaster mark on them. Then he saw another thing. One of the monsters had fallen with its jaws slackly open and its teeth were visible. They were blunt and even. Despite their ferocious appear- ance, the monsters were only her- bivores. The three fallen guards were getting to their feet, apparently unharmed. Along the north perim- eter the attack was over as sud- denly as it had begun; the leader of the monsters lying dead against the guard line and all the others still alive fleeing wildly back into the forest. Quiet came, broken only by the growling of the dog out near the two monsters Thane had killed. He turned his light on her, then went closer to make sure he had seen rightly. She was fighting something on the ground, green-eyed with fury as she ripped and tore at it. But there was nothing there. Nothing. ctBinkier The dark haired woman was coming toward them, wraithlike in a white sleeping garment. The dog turned away, with a last rip at the nothing it fought, and saw the three guards the monsters had knocked down. She froze, like as though she saw something she could not believe. Then, deadly with menace, a growl vibrated in her throat and she crouched to attack them. “Binkie — don’t!” The voice of the girl was shrill with urgency. “Come here — come here!” The dog hesitated, then obeyed; going past the guards in a swift lope, her head turned to watch them and her teeth bared in a snarl. The girl seized the leash and girl and dog disappeared back into the Outlander camp, both of them running. Curry loomed out of the dark- ness, his two bodyguards with him, and flashed his light over the fall- en monsters. “So you let three get through?” he said. He glanced to the north guard line where the searchlights of the guards showed only the dark, lifeless edge of the forest. “But no one was harmed and there’s no indication that they are going to attack again.” He regarded Thane with cold thoughtfulness. “Apparently the camp is in no danger, after all.” To Thane the implication of his words was obvious : if the monsters were not a menace his cooperation was no longer needed by Curry. The three guards were Curry TOM GODWIN 42

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men and Curry had two with him. He was outnumbered six to one . . . “Sir—” It was one of the three guards; Bellam, the ship’s pharmacist. He hurried up to Curry, the other two close behind him. Curry swung on him, impatient- ly. “What is it?” “We must combine our forces to fight a new danger. This camp is infected with rabies.” “Rabies?” “Yes, sir,” Bellam answered. “The Outlander’s dog had a con- vulsion beyond the guard line and then almost attacked the three of us. That dog is mad.” “How do you know it was a con- vulsion?” Thane asked. “You saw it, yourself,” Bellam answered. He turned his head to face Thane as he spoke and Thane saw his eyes for the first time. They were the lifeless, staring eyes of a dead man. He flicked his light over the faces of the other two guards. They were the same; all three were like walking dead. “Did the monsters harm you?” he asked Bellam. Bellam hesitated, seeming to tense with suspicion. “No.” The dead eyes stared into his. “What makes you ask?” He saw that Curry had noticed nothing different about the three guards. It was typical of Curry; to him subordinates were only auto- matons to carry out his orders. “We were discussing a mad dog, Thane,” Curry said. “Not the health of my men.” He spoke to THE LAST VICTORY Bellam. “As I recall, rabies was a pre-Technogration plague, often fatal.” “The bite of a rabid animal is invariably fatal, the death pro- longed and painful,” Bellam said. “There is no preventative or cure among the medical supplies on the ship. The dog must be killed at once, together with all other ani- mals in the Outlander camp.” “If the dog was mad, why hasn’t it bitten any of the Outlanders,” Thane asked Curry. “I suggest we keep it on a leash until until we know for sure.” “The dog was smuggled aboard the ship in defiance of regulations,” Curry said. “It would have been destroyed before had I known about it.” He turned to Bellam, ignoring Thane. “The three of you will search the Outlander camp from end to end. Kill all animals and re- port to me the names of the owners.” The three departed, to begin the search at the nearer end of the camp. Thane made no further ob- jection. He knew the Outlanders well enough to know that they would have overheard the discus- sion on the hill and slipped the dog out through the guard lines be- fore that discussion ended. Out- landers could be very clever in such matters — the searchers would find no dog. There was satisfaction on Curry’s face as he turned and with his two bodyguards started back up the hill to his camp. Thane watched him go, smiling a little. Curry was making the mistake that had been 43

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fatal for so many before him; he was taking it for granted too soon that he had won. A man came hurrying from the north guard line before Gurry had gone far. He called to Curry: “Sir, there is something you ought to know — 55 Thane saw, with almost disbelief, that it was one of his own men: Gorman. Curry waited and when Gorman reached him he said: “When I was helping inspect the Outlander section of the ship for hidden weapons this evening I saw some small animals in storage compartment Thirteen. I think they were very young kittens. I would like to volunteer to go and kill them.” Curry said something that a va- grant breeze made inaudible then his words came clear: “ — I’ll send a detail to the ship as soon as the camp is searched. You will report to my guards now for orders and help them hunt for the dog.” Gorman started back to meet the guards and Curry stood for a little while before he went on his way. Thane could imagine his feeling of pleased surprise and triumph. Thane called to Gorman as he passed some distance in front of him. “Were you injured in the at- tack?” he asked. “No,” Gorman said. Then, with the same tense suspicion that Bel- lam had had he asked the same question: “Why do you ask?” “Why did you report to Curry instead of me?” 44 The answer came quickly, me- chanically, “The animals are in his ship and they must be killed. They may be mad.” “Go help Curry’s men,” he said and watched Gorman go, trying to fit together the incidents that did not make sense. Herbivores had attacked with- out reason. There had fallen dead, without a blaster mark on them. The Outlander dog had fought nothing and almost attacked the guards. One of his own men had gone over to the other side. And there was a sudden strange urgency to kill all animals in camp. There was nothing he could do for the time being but wait for further developments so he waited. The moon came up, so swift in its retrograde orbit that its speed was visible and so near that it had the brilliance of a dozen Earth moons. When it had lifted clear of the hori- zon it flooded the land with a cold silver light that made the search- lights of the guards unnecessary and revealed the camp with metal- lic light-and-shadow clarity. The search party was halfway through the camp, Gorman with them and Bellam in command. They were ransacking the posses- sions and temporary shelters of the Outlanders with swift efficiency, ignoring the protests of the women and their blasters leveled warningly on the men. They found the little girl. She was carrying her kitten ahead of them, a small, silent shadow in the moonlight, when Gorman saw her. He spoke to Bel- lam and Bellam’s head jerked up. TOM GODWIN

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Then the two of them advanced on her. She tried to run when she re- alized they had seen the kitten, hugging it in her arms with the white cord trailing behind her. Bel- larn overtook her and caught her by the shoulder, jerking her to a halt. He tore the kitten from her arms and flung it hard to the ground. It made a thin little scream of pain and the girl fought to reach it, her cry sobbing and frantic : “Don’t hurt him — ” Gorman’s blaster hissed and blue flame leaped from it. Incandescence enveloped the kitten and then there was nothing where it had been but a small black hole in the ground. Bellam and Gorman wheeled back, like mechanical men, to re- sume the search. The girl stood a moment, staring before her, saying something very low that sounded like, “Tommy . . . Tommy . . .” Then she stumbled to the little black hole and dropped to her knees beside it as though she hoped that somehow she might still find her kitten there. He looked away, strangely dis- turbed. He drummed his fingers restlessly on the butt of his hol- stered blaster then he turned again to go down into the Outlander camp. The moon was up and it was time he found the dog. Something had come out of the night with the monsters and perhaps she could tell him what it was. He could not yet believe she was mad. The dark haired woman stood by the fire, watching the little girl THE LAST VICTORY and the searchers with bitter, smouldering hatred. She faced him, her breath coming fast in her anger. “Her parents and her brother — when the ship broke up — she lost them all. Only her kitten was left to her.” “Where is the dog?” he asked. “Find her!” “The dog — where is she?” “Find her,” she challenged again. “Find her and kill her — if you can!” He stepped past her and went on his way. She had told him what he wanted to know: despite her attempts not to do so she had been unable to keep from glancing toward the ship. HIS ROUTE took him by the little girl. She was standing by the hole, small and bare- footed in the grass, her hands hold- ing the white cord that was black and charred on one end. She was crying, silently, as though too proud to let him see her break. After he had passed her the vision went with him for a little way; the terrible, helpless hatred and hurt in her eyes and the moon- light gleaming coldly on her tears. He looked back when he reached the ship. Gorman was coming, running, and the other three were turning back from the far end of the camp to hurry after Gorman. He looked toward Curry’s camp and saw Curry watching him. Cur- ry and his men moved toward him and there were six to make a rendezvous with him. 45

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The truce was over. He found the dog behind the farthest tail fin, leashed to a thorny bush and almost invisible in the shadows. She watched him as he stopped before her, her ears forward ques- tioningly and her tail moving a little with tentative friendliness. He spoke to her and her reply was a low bark, her tail whipping with delight. She thought he had come to release her . . . He had known dogs well as a boy and he knew the one before him was not mad. He heard Gorman’s feet plod- ding fast through the grass and he waited with his blaster in his hand. Gorman came around the tail fin, panting, his own blaster in his hand. The dog went rigid at the sight of him, the growl in her throat, and Gorman’s blaster swung toward her. “Hold it !” he ordered. Gorman paused, and the dead eyes looked into his. “There the mad dog is — we must kill it.” “We can kill it later if it’s mad. We’ll watch it a while, first.” The suspicion became like some- thing almost tangible about Gor- man and his blaster started the first movement toward Thane. “Why?” “I think it can see something — ” Gorman fired, so swiftly that he felt the heat of the beam even though he had been expecting it. He shot for the heart and Gorman collapsed before he could fire again. He lay still on the ground, the eyes that stared up into the sky no deader than when he had been alive. The dog was lunging against her leash, trying to get to him. Thane stepped closer and watched the grass beside Gorman’s head. A patch of it the size of his hand sud- denly bent down, as from an un- seen weight, and then something struck his knee. He slapped at it as it darted up his leg and knocked it off; some- thing that felt like a mass of cold, rubbery tentacles. He knew, then. He stepped back, his blaster swinging aimlessly. The thing would leap again, to reach his head as it had done with Gorman, and it was invisible. There was nothing but the moonlit grass to be seen. Perhaps it was behind him, already preparing to spring . . . The dog’s snarling was a frenzied scream as she fought against her leash. He swung his blaster and its blue beam cut the leash in two. She flashed toward him, then up, her ears laid back, her eyes blazing slits and her teeth slashing at his throat. His blaster was in line with her chest and for a brief instant he had only to press the firing stud. He did something he had not done for thirty years ; he trusted his life to another being and did not fire. Cold tentacles whipped against his face and her teeth closed to- gether beside his cheek with a vicious snap and gust of hot breath. She rebounded and held the thing on the ground between her paws as she tore at it; gagging a little, whining and snarling in fury and triumph. 46 TOM GODWIN

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He squatted beside her and laid his hand on her, speaking to her soothingly. She calmed a little, though her chest still pounded with the beating of her heart, and he saw the thing she had killed. It was dead and slowly becoming visible as it changed to a color like pale milk. It resembled a huge, hairless spider. It was a parasite; a highly intel- ligent parasite that could take over the mind of its host as well as the body. The parasites had had only the forest monsters as hosts, before, but with the coming of the humans they had the opportunity for hosts of a far higher order. They pos- sessed a means of locomotion but apparently it was limited in its duration or else they would not have needed to control the leaders of the monster bands and stage the attack that would carry them to the guard lines. The dog, with the acute sixth sense of some animals, could sense the hostile alienness of the things. She could see them — apparently the vision range of dogs went a lit- tle farther beyond that of humans. So also would that of cats but the kitten had had no chance to show by its actions what it had seen. The dog had hated the changed men because they were alien things, no longer human. The thing that had been Bellam had used the knowledge stored in Bellam’s mind to claim there was rabies in the camp and thereby enlist the support of the humans in killing their only means of detecting the parasites. There was a pounding of feet be- THE LAST VICTORY yond the ship as the zombies came. On the slope above him Curry was striding toward him, his bodyguards flanking him and the moonlight bright on his face. He stood with the dog beside him and watched them come to kill him. Only he and the dog knew of the parasites; if they were killed the way would be open for the parasites to infiltrate the camp. In the end the new world would hold only the walking dead, down to the last Outlander child. “Curry, ” he called. He did not have to speak loudly in the still night air for Curry to hear him but Curry came on, his face hard, arrogant metal in the moonlight. “Give me one minute, Curry, to tell you what I found.” Curry’s reply was the order to his men. “The dog is with him. Kill them both.” His blaster swung up as he spoke. Thane dropped, firing as he went down. Curry’s arrogant face dis- solved into nothing and his blaster flamed aimlessly into the ground at his feet. The blaster of the swiftest guard sent its beam hissing like a snake over Thane’s head, then he went down as Curry had done, the other guard falling beside him with his first and only shot licking off into the moonlight. Then the zombies came around the tail fin, in a quick rush with their dead eyes staring and their blasters making a curtain of blue fire before them. The dog lunged at them and a blaster beam dipped down to meet 47

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her, Bellam — his headless body was falling forward as Thane killed the zombie beside him. The blaster of the third one ripped its beam like a white-hot iron along Thane’s ribs as he died. Then, within two heart- beats, it was over and the night was quiet again. He returned his blaster to its hol- ster. The dog was limping from one zombie to the other, searching for parasites, her shoulder red with blood and staining the grass. She found none and he called her to him to look at her shoulder. It was not a serious wound but it was painful and bleeding fast and should be cared for. He took her around the ship, where the Out- lander camp lay in view below. He looked again at the wound and she whimpered a little from the pain, gentle though his touch had been, then licked his hand in quick apology. “Your job is over for now,” he said. He motioned toward the camp below, where the dark haired wom- an was waiting. “Home, girl — go home.” She left him and went running and limping down the hill where her hurts would be cared for. His side was burning and blood was like a warm, wet sheet down it. He made a temporary bandage of his shirt and then leaned wearily against the tail fin. It was all over. The nature of the parasites was known and everyone could be fitted with a thin metal helmet until they were completely eliminated. They did not seem to be numerous — apparently there had been no more than ten or twelve among the scores of monsters. The dog would watch, and warn them if any more were in the vicinity. It was all over, with Gurry a mo- tionless spot on the hillside above him and no one left to challenge him. He had come a long way from the Outlander boy on the high, cold prairie who had hated Technogra- tion. He had been nineteen before he finally realized the futility of hating the unassailable power of Technogration and realized he must accept it and adapt to it. And then carve out a niche for himself with a ruthlessness greater than any of those around him. So he had fought his way up, trampling those who would have trampled him had they been a little stronger, each step an- other victory in his conquest of the system that had condemned him. And now — the last victory. There was no one to challenge him; there could be no one under the rigid dis- cipline of Technogration. The last victory. The security of Power to the end of his life. That was Technogration. Dawn touched the sky, softening the moon’s hard light. As though the coming of day was a signal, the ship trembled and there was the whisper of dislodged soil as the tail fin lifted a fraction of an inch. The antigravity plates were almost exhausted — the ship would fall within minutes. Down in the Outlander camp the children were gathering around the dog as the dark haired woman bandaged her shoulder. A voice 48 TOM GODWIN

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came to him, treble and joyous, “Binkie is back — Binkie is back . . .” The little girl sat to one side, so small and alone that he almost failed to see her. She watched the children crowd up to pet their dog but she did not move to join them. Only her hands moved, caressing the white cord that was charred on one end. He felt the triumph and satisfac- tion become like something turned bitter around the edges and drain- ing away. Technogration was planning and fighting and killing until at last a man reached the top and no one dared oppose him; Technogration was control of a world and the seeds of an empire. And Technogration was a child crying in the cold moonlight, was a little black hole where a kitten had screamed out with pain, with a lit- tle girl’s heart that had nothing left to hold but harsh and poignant memories and a piece of burnt cord. He ran to the boarding ramp, feeling the fiery lash of pain and hot flow of blood as the wound re- opened, telling himself he was a fool who would probably die in the falling ship and would deserve it. He stood by the gray ashes of his fire, the Guardsman’s combat hel- met under his arm, and watched the little girl come alone up the hill. Someone had washed the tear- stains from her face and she stopped before him with her head held high and defiant, trying not to let him see she was afraid of him and almost succeeding. “I sent for you, Lomie, to tell THE LAST VICTORY you I’m sorry about last night.” He saw she did not believe him. Her face was like a little carving of cold, unforgiving stone and she did not answer him. He set the helmet down in the grass before her. Six tiny kittens lay inside it, red and white and gray fluffs of fur, their pink mouths questing hungrily. Her eyes widened with incredul- ous wonder. “Oh!” Then the suspicion came back and she stopped the quick forward step she had taken. “They haven’t any mother and they’re hungry,” he said. She did not move. “They’re yours, Lornie. To keep.” “They’re — mine?” Then the doubt fled from her and she ran forward to gather them in her arms. He left her with her head bent down over the kittens in her lap, making soft little sounds of endear- ment to them, her face so radiant that there was no room left for hurt or hatred on it. Kennedy was coming, not yet knowing why he had been sum- moned nor that Technogration had died at dawn. He would not relin- quish all his authority, of course. And he would have to remember to tell Kennedy that they were go- ing to give him one of Binkie’s pups. The companionship of an under- standing dog might be comforting in the years to come, whenever he recalled the morning he had owned a world and a bare-footed girl had taken it away from him. END 49

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What Is Your Science I. Q.? HERE’S a regular hodge-podge of everything. Let’s see how you fare. Score 5 points for each correct answer; 70 is good, 80 very good, 90 and you’re a genius. Answers are on page 57. 1. A diatom is a form of . 2. The rate of the diffusion of gases with the tem- perature. 3. What form of reproduction was characteristic of dinosaurs? 4. One dyne acting through a distance of one centimeter is called an . 5. The ratio of the number of solar eclipses to lunar eclipses is about . 6. Does zinc or brass undergo a greater expansion in a one degree rise of temperature? 7. Charles’ Law states that the of a gas is directly pro- portional to its absolute temperature. 8. Any object whose shadow is used to determine time is called a . 9. Which of the following terms or concepts does not apply to lichens?— fungus, perennial, seeds, symbiosis. 10. Hyperon is a term used to refer to which of the follow- ing?— subatomic particles, hormones, unit of measurement. 11. What is the correct chemical name for marsh gas? 12. What body gland secretes ACTH? 13. What is the color of seaweeds found at the greatest ocean depths? 14. Ozone is — times heavier than oxygen. 15. The pupa is the stage in the life of an insect which undergoes complete metamorphosis. 16. What is the correct chemical name for saltpeter? 17. The four elements, oxygen, hydrogen, carbon and nitrogen make up per cent of protoplasm. 18. Mach one is equal to how many miles per hour? 19. What is the term used to describe the common center of gravity of two revolving masses such as Earth and the moon? 20. Electromagnetic waves of any wave length travel at a rate which is roughly equal to .

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This article , by an authority on the subject , reveals the folly of a recent proposal made by the United States to the United Nations. Read it carefully — and with concern for the future. WHY GUIDED MISSILES CAN NOT DE CONTROLLED BY “Y” N JANUARY 12th, 1957 the United Nations General As- sembly released a four-page memo- randum which had been presented to its Eleventh Session. The docu- ment bore the code number of A/C. 1/783, and was marked Agen- da Item 22 of the Eleventh Session, First Committee. On those four pages were contained proposals which called for “the prohibition of atomic, hydrogen, and other weapons of mass destruction . . .” Submitted to the General Assem- bly by the United States of Amer- ica, this memorandum achieved distinction through its reference to weapons other than atomic and thermonuclear bombs. For the first time the United Nations was brought face to face with the ques- tion of intercontinental ballistic missiles and military satellites which were to orbit about the earth in ex- traterrestrial space. The specific wording of that proposal is vital to 51

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every American citizen. If it is adopted and an attempt is made to carry it out, it may well be the in- vitation to future sudden disaster of a magnitude difficult to con- ceive. Here, verbatim, is the weap- ons-control proposal now under study by the United Nations: “Scientists in many nations are now proceeding with efforts to pro- pel objects through outer space and to travel in the distant areas beyond the earth’s atmospheric envelope. The scope of these programmes is variously indicated in the terms: ‘earth satellites’, ‘intercontinental missiles’, ‘long-range unmanned weapons’, and ‘space platforms’. No one can now predict with certainty what will develop from man’s ex- cursion in this new field. But it is clear that if this advance into the unknown is to be a blessing rather than a curse the efforts of all na- tions in this field need to be brought within the purview of a reliable armaments control system. The United States proposes that the first step toward the objective of assur- ing that future developments in outer space would be devoted ex- clusively to peaceful and scientific purposes would be to bring the test- ing of such objects under interna- tional inspection and participa- tion” The sentiments expressed in this proposal are highly appealing. At first glance they appear to contain the seeds of an international inspec- tion program which would guaran- tee us a freedom from sudden inter- continental missile attack. In one full swoop, it seems, we have dis- covered the panacea to rid us of the recurring nightmare of an unex- pected and a devastating ballistic missile bombardment. It’s a pretty sentiment, but it won’t work. It has a fallacious premise which might well escape the attention of the diplomat, but which is obvious immediately to the missile engineer. For the substance of the disarmament proposal — and the crux of its practicality — is that there exists a real and distinct dif- ference between a military missile and a scientific missile. This is not at all true. Funda- mentally, the rocket which carries 1,000 pounds of instruments at a speed of 8,000 miles per hour to 500 miles above the earth is the same as the rocket moving in a bal- listic trajectory which carries a 1,000-pound atomic bomb at a speed of 8,000 miles per hour to a target 2,000 or 3,000 miles away. In the interest of scientific re- search, the rocket carries instru- ments along a vertical trajectory. In the interests of transforming a large city into a hideous radioactive wasteland, the instruments are re- placed with a bomb, and the rocket tilts from a vertical climb into a ballistic arc. This is the first, but not at aU the only glaring weakness in a proposal based upon “international inspec- tion”. I need not call upon future developments to prove this point: the familiar rockets of the past and of the present will suffice. The most obvious example, of course, is the German V-2 rocket. This was, from the start, a military 52

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program which had as its ultimate goal a rocket to carry a ton of high explosives into cities 200 miles dis- tant. While this weapon degen- erated into an appalling military failure, it represented sheer tech- nological genius. With the war over and done with, the same military V-2 rocket had its warhead replaced with in- struments, and was used as a vehi- cle to further the cause of science. Now, let us turn the tables and consider a rocket designed from the outset as a research vehicle — the fa- miliar Viking. With only 37% of the power generated by the V-2’s motor, the slender Navy research rocket has carried nearly a thou- sand pounds of instruments 158 miles into space, reaching a maxi- mum velocity of 4,300 miles per hour. Note that this speed is fully 700 miles per hour greater than that achieved by the V-2, although the power available is far less than found in the former German mili- tary weapon. The Viking is a highly sophisti- cated vehicle. Its delicate control system which utilizes a three-axis gyroscope, a magnetic amplifier autopilot (robot brain), and a gim- baled motor, endows it with phe- nomenal control during its flight. It is stablized in pitch and yaw move- ments, and its tendency to roll can be fully controlled. Most important, its attitude in flight can be con- trolled after the rocket motor has ceased to fire. This is indispensable to any ballistic rocket of high ac- curracy for it means that the entire rocket (after fuel is exhausted), or a separated warhead, may be di- GUIDED MISSILES rected accurately to a target. Con- trol of the rocket, or warhead, is maintained during the descent from the peak of the trajectory above the atmosphere, and to a much finer degree as the rocket or warhead plunges through the thickening air toward its objective. Compared to the Viking, then, the V-2 was a crude Chinese fire arrow. The Viking has constant, full-time control. Once the V-2’s motor ceased firing it was an un- controllable empty shell tumbling haphazardly above the atmosphere. By replacing the instruments with an atomic bomb, the Viking rocket could be fired with devastat- ing accuracy into targets up to 300 miles distant. But — isn’t it a research vehicle? A rocket dedicated to peaceful pur- suits? Of course it is ! It is also a highly effective military weapon, if we choose to use it as such. A parallel to the Viking may be found in the Army’s latest tactical weapon, the Redstone, developed by Dr. Wernher von Braun and his staff — the same people who de- veloped the V-2. It is most interest- ing to note that, like the Viking, the 70-foot Redstone is controllable in movements of pitch, yaw, and roll. Even more pertinent is the fact that the warhead separates from the rocket shortly after the end of pow- ered flight and that, through the use of small jet reactors which bleed off compressed air (exacdy as in Viking) the warhead may be di- rected to a target with impressive accuracy. You can replace the Viking’s in- 53

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struments with an atomic bomb warhead. You can replace the Redstone’s atomic bomb warhead with instru- ments. Both will perform the same mission — military or scientific. Let us discuss some other exam- ples. The Project Vanguard satellite rocket has barely eleven tons total weight, and is a highly-sophisticated vehicle which carries an instrument payload of some 22 pounds. With this payload, Vanguard will reach velocities in excess of 18,000 miles per hour. This is far greater — al- most twice as much — as that needed for a ballistic missile of in- tercontinental range. Note, however, that Vanguard is a minimum satellite effort. We could reduce its speed to 14,000 miles per hour, and increase the payload (eliminating its role as a satellite, of course), or, we could eliminate the third stage altogether, and replace the weight of the third- stage solid-propellant rocket and the instrumented satellite with an atomic bomb equal to 250,000 tons high explosive force. And Van- guard enjoys a high degree of in- flight control. Yet, Vanguard is a purely scien- tific venture. It is also an intercon- tinental missile carrying a minimal atomic bomb. There can be no distinction be- tween the two — military and scien- tific— in respect to rockets. The only difference a missile enjoys is de- termined by the man who decides what its payload shall be — bomb or instruments. THE NAVY’S secret Project Orbiter — which in 1954 called for a small satellite to be shot into an orbit at a speed between 17,000 and 18,000 miles per hour, was a pure research effort, to be con- ducted by the Office of Naval Re- search. The first-stage booster rocket was the giant Redstone, a military weapon. The second stage was a cluster of Loki rockets — an- other military weapon. The third stage was a single Loki rocket — a military weapon. What was the distinction? Abso- lutely none — only the choice of payload distinguished the destroyer of a city from the scientific prober of outer space. The gist of the United States pro- posal to the United Nations is that a system of close inspection of the manufacture, testing, and firing of these large rockets, and of satellites which will lift hundreds and even thousands of pounds into orbits about the earth, will prevent the use of such rockets as weapons, by an intimate knowledge of their number, payload, and firing loca- tions. Let us examine the first premise — the manufacture and the number available of these rockets. It is obvi- ous that in nations so large and di- verse as the United States and the Soviet Union, large factories and even a complex of factories may be hidden from the eye of the public or, for that matter, from interna- tional inspection groups. No better example, of this is provided than in the monumental effort of the Man- hattan Project during World War II. //\/// 54

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Further, a factory to produce rocket motors and shells is not the immense undertaking which charac- terized the development and manu- facture of the first crude atomic weapons. Motors may be produced in small plants, rocket shells and fuel tanks by any automotive or marine industry, instruments by any one of thousands of factories. The static testing of these devices may be accomplished far from civilized centers in the strictest secrecv. Indeed, an entire rocket in- dustry may be spread throughout the industrial nation which is the United States, and never be re- vealed. The same applies, of course, to the Soviet Union. But even this subterfuge is totally unnecessary! For the research rocket to lift 500 pounds into an orbit is an intercontinental ballistic missile! The rocket to carry 2,000 pounds to a height of 800 miles is an intermediate range ballistic mis- sile! The problem of payload substitu- tion is no barrier. No inspection team can possibly keep track of every large rocket, or even of the thousands of rockets scattered around the land. It’s simply too easy to keep the rockets from the sight of even an inspection team. What about launching sites? The long-range missiles may be fired from virtually anywhere . Moun- tains, deserts, open fields, deep for- ests, ships at sea, submarines — any location will do. The United States is incredibly large; many parts of our country to this day have never been explored. The trackless ex- panse of Canada can swallow vast missile facilities — “research rockets,” if you will. In essence, then, any inspection program can be reduced to useless- ness by any nation which chooses not to reveal its intentions to em- ploy large rockets for military pur- poses. The latest advances in solid-pro- pellant rockets only makes more critical the problem of discovering a well-planned move to blanket an enemy country within the span of a few hours with hydrogen bomb-car- rying missiles. Any massive attack which uses the liquid-propellant rocket suffers a logistical problem of sorts in supplying the vast quantities of unstable fuel to fire those rockets. Of course, the production of these elements can be (and has been) established at remote locations, but it still presents a major inconven- ience to a firing program. What of solid-propellant rockets — great canisters of plastics and chemicals? Obviously these sources of power in their latest form more than suffice to meet the needs of in- termediate and intercontinental range bombardment. The Navy’s latest missile weapon, the Polaris , is nothing more than an oversized booster rocket using a solid-propel- lant fuel! And Polaris has a range greater than 1,500 miles — which can be increased at any time simply by increasing the size of the chem- ical/plastic firing charge. The power and versatility of the new solid-propellant charges are in- credible. They represent a major break-through in missile tech- nology. The giant Redstone is pow- GUIDED MISSILES 55

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ered with a 75,000 lb. thrust liquid- propellant motor which bums for 90 seconds. Today, however, there are solid-propellant charges which generate 1,000,000 lbs. thrust — more than the combined power of 13 Redstone rockets! Moreover, the new solid-propel- lant charges are insensitive to tem- peratures; they may be fired in ex- treme heat or in extreme cold. They can generate their fantastic thrust for as great a duration as 300 sec- onds— compare this to the Red- stone’s firing time of 90 seconds! They can be stored for long pe- riods of time. They can be fired from the simplest of launchers, any- where. They can be disguised with the greatest of ease. Their simplic- ity of manufacture, shipment, and storage; their ease of firing; their newly-acquired high degree of con- trollability; and their enormous performance and high payloads — render an inspection program vir- tually worthless. No number of inspection teams, with all their probing and prying, could uncover a well-concealed and determined plan to fire hundreds, or even thousands, of these missiles. They could destroy a nation over- night. (Another factor, which is ig- nored, involves the human being. How extensive a prying search would our people voluntarily sub- mit themselves to? How long would they suffer the indignity of repre- sentatives from, let us say, Russia, Pakistan, Poland, New Zealand, Argentina, probing into their af- fairs? For such inspection to be re- liable, thousands of men would have to swarm about the nation looking into every conceivable facet of our industrial and personal lives! I know I wouldn’t like it!) The fallacies of the inspection program are evident. Imagine, then, the precarious — the fatal — position in which our nation would be placed, were we to rely for our very existence upon the effective- ness of such an inspection scheme. Mutual arms inspection in this day and age, with the new heights of missile and weapons science already reached, is a premise which bodes only disaster. It contains not the slightest as- surance of safety. Would you base the lives of your family and friends upon an assurance that our inspec- tion teams had been able to search every nook and cranny of the vast land of the U.S.S.R., its satellites, the Siberian wastes, the Polar re- gions? How could any of us place ourselves in so untenable a posi- tion! Such inspection affords us no protection from the placement by saboteurs of atomic bombs in all our critical cities and industries. Nuclear weapons are small gadgets nowadays; they will fit into an overnight bag, into a typewriter case, into a bowling ball container. Sealed tight by the lightest of metal shields, they no longer emit pene- trating radiation which can be de- tected by radiological instruments. They can be placed anywhere — and only a screwdriver to pry open the carrying container, which can be disguised in any imaginable form, will divulge the nature of the contents. 56

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In preparing this report for IF magazine, I discussed this matter with several of my engineering col- leagues. We deal in rockets. We know them intimately. There is no situation which we would rather see than an effective program in being to protect us, and the entire world, from the threat of mass at- tack with rockets carrying atomic and hydrogen bombs. But we must, above all, be real- istic. If we are to rest our security upon the fallacious premise that an inspection and control program for rockets is effective, then we do no more than to openly court national suicide. This is bitter, inescapable truth. You cannot hide from the facts. Scientific rockets are inter- continental weapons. Long steel containers, disguised in a hundred ways, are intercontinental weapons. It is impossible to guarantee freedom from world violence through inspection teams prying into each other’s national cup- boards, by the same token that it is simple to use — upon short notice — the tools of science for the tools of war. I personally have no magic pan- acea for this dilemma which con- fronts us. I do not know the an- swer to world peace, and freedom from the appalling spectre of a savage hydrogen bomb war. But I do know that the hopes for peace which rest upon the inspection of facilities in each other’s lands is suicidal. In closing, I am reminded to leave you with the words I heard at the dedication of the Mount Palo- mar Observatory. These words ring with truth; they should never be forgotten: “There is no segment of knowl- edge, whether in the physical or the social sciences , whether in medicine or economics or astrophysics or an- thropology, which cannot ulti- mately he employed to the deter- rent of mankind if that is what we deliberately elect to do with it. “ Indeed , if the social sciences were developed as the physical sciences have been, we might have a weapon which, in unscrupulous hands, would be as deadly as the atomic bomb” .... and how do you control and inspect that? END WHAT IS YOUR SCIENCE IQ.? ANSWERS: 1 — Algae. 2 — Increases. 3 — Egg laying. 4 — Erg. 5 — 4 to 3. 6 — Zinc. 7 — Volume. 8 — Gnomen. 9 — Seeds. 10 — Subatomic particles. 11 — Methane. 12 — Pituitary. 13 — Red. 14 — 1J4. 15 — Third. 16 — Potas- sium nitrate. 17 — 99. 18 — 761. 19 — Barycenter. 20 — The speed of light. Don't miss THE FIRST WORLD OF IF! At your newsstand, or direct from IF Magazine GUIDED MISSILES 57

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Illustrated by Paul Orban The Birds and the Bees Which goes to prove that , in some instances , being heroic is easy! BY DAVE E. FISHER 81 1WAS WANDERING among the tall grass of the slopes, listening to the soft whistling of the wind; al- lowing the grass to caress my toga and thighs. It was a day soft and clear; a day accepted by the young, cherished by we old. Across the gently undulating hills stood the magnificent Melopolis, encradling the Oracle of Delni. I do not, of course, believe in the gods per se; still there is a grandeur in the very stones that transcends their human

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sculptors, and it is no wonder to me that many cling tenaciously, and ig- norantly, to the old religion. Cling to the gods of old, who drew man upward from wherever he began. In whose names Man killed and plundered, while struggling up. In whose names Man finally left this earth, to seek his cousins among the stars. But of course there were no cousins. There was nothing. And Man returned, and settled down to live. Saddened, but resigned and content to live in peace with his knowledge and his power. Gone now are all the ancient evils, wars, emergencies. “Sias! Sias — 55 And they were upon me. That is, Xeon was upon me. But I knew that where Xeon is, Melia must soon appear. And indeed it was but a moment before Melia slipped through the high grass to stand at his side. Their youthful voices were babbling in excitement. Melia was a She, with the swell- ing breasts that were, so tradition states, quite prevalent among mem- bers of the race long ago, and are seldom seen today. Indeed, Melia was on this account made the butt of many jokes and, I fear, would have had a lonely life of it had it not been for the friendship of Xeon. “Sias,55 they were saying, “the Maternite’s gone.55 I stared in amazement. “Gone? It cannot be gone. It has always been — 55 “Oh my gods!” Xeon shouted. “I tell you it’s gone! Will you — 55 Melia interrupted him quietly. 82 “Xeon, will you lose all respect for the Elder?55 Then turned to me, and said calmly, “The watcher at the Maternite Machine, it appears, has been drunk. The heat rose above the warning, continued to rise, and then — poof. Everything has evaporated in Maternite. All the Prelife is gone.55 “All of it?55 I asked. “There is nothing left,55 Melia insisted. “Can more be made? And if not, what will happen with no more children?55 “That is for the priests to say, not I,55 I replied. In moments of emergency, it is wise to speak with caution. That is, I suppose so. I have never before been in a real emergency. A man my age does not hurry in the heat of the midday sun — mad- dugs nenglishmin go out in the midday sun, as the ancients say, al- though I often wonder why — but Xeon and Melia ran all the way down to the city. They are of an age to enter manhood, and have all the energy such young men do. As we entered the city, we were surrounded by confusion and con- sternation. And can the simple peo- ple be blamed? They were aware that they stood in the midst of an unprecedented happening; indeed, an emergency. For a machine had failed! Not in the memory of the eldest among us has a machine failed. They were created so long ago, in- deed, that the ignorant believe them to have been constructed by the gods themselves. And never, so far as I know, has one failed. Small DAVE E. FISHER

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wonder that the watcher had been negligent. Indeed, the watcher is more a tradition than a necessity. Besides, had he been sober, he would not have known what to do. For who knows the mysterious workings of the machines? I hastened to the City Hall and found the Conclave assembled, waiting for me to bring them to or- der. Xeon and Melia stopped as I mounted the steps, but I smiled and motioned them in. They accom- panied me past the marble pillars into the cool recesses of the Hall, then seated themselves on the floor as I took my place by the great table. Well, you know how these things are. At such a time, many men feel impelled to make speeches, and one must not be disrespectful. Prayers and supplications were offered to the gods, priests were sent to sacri- fice, and finally, as the light of the sun was falling between the pillars, the High Priest of the Maternite Machine was heard. He rambled through the cus- tomary opening remarks and then, continually smoothing his white beard — of which he is excessively proud — approached the crux of the matter and the Conclave finally heard the facts it had assembled to hear. By this time, unfortunately, many of the Conclave had departed for home and supper. Yet perhaps it is for the best, for those left were the most earnest and intelligent. “I would not bore you,” he said, “with details of which only the gods are sure. Know, then, that once granted a few cells of Prelife, it is THE BIRDS AND THE BEES an easy matter for the Maternite Machine to add more and more; thus assuring us, as has always been, a continuous source of Prelife to be bom by the Generating Machine as children. The machines bear the exact number of children each year to balance the number of us whom the gods claim. Such it has always been from time immemorial.” A murmur of assent and approval of these virtuous words whispered around the Hall. “But now,” he continued, how- ever, with less assurance and indeed with even a stutter here and there, “an unprecedented situation has arisen. Indeed, I might call it an emergency. For the M-Matemite Machine has actually failed.” Cries of “Treason” sprang up, and I fear it might have gone hard for the priest had I not been able to insure order. “That is not the worst,” he cried, as if in defiance. “All the Prelife has been dried up. It will not func- tion. There is no more. And there will be no more children!” At this I feared the Conclave was about to riot. It is at such times that I most revere the wisdom of the ancients, who decreed seventy years the minimum age for a mem- ber of the Conclave. They shouted and began to beat their fists, but for how long can a man of seventy years roar like a youngster? They quieted, breathing heavily, and I asked, “Is there no way, then, to pro- duce more Prelife in order that the machines may produce more chil- dren for us? “As I have said,” he replied, 83

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“give the machines but a bit of Pre- life and they will produce more. But take away that least bit, and they are helpless.” Such heresy could have brought a sad end to the priest had not the Conclave been so exhausted by the events of the day. We leaned back to think. Rocsates leaned forward and asked, “Must there not — must there not have been a beginning to Pre- life? For the Machine, it seems, cannot make it; and yet it came from somewhere.” “Riddles are not called for,” I answered severely. “Are not riddles often the begin- ning of knowledge?” he asked, in that irritating dumber-than-thou attitude of his. “Must there not, long ago, have been a source of Prelife: a source now forgotten? And may it not even now — should we discover it — be available to us? I am reminded of the story of the animals of old — ” “I fear your mind is wandering, Rocsates,” I was forced to inter- rupt. “I know well the legend of the animals, but what does it have to do — ” The heads of the Con- clave were turning to me, quizzical- ly. I hastened to explain the legend of the animals. “It is said that many thousands of years ago, time with- out reckoning, there existed on the earth creatures who were alive like us, and yet not like us. It is said they had four legs or more, and no arms, were covered with hair, and although not mute, they could not speak.” Rocsate’s voice made itself heard. “It is true. Such creatures did in- deed exist. It is recorded most scientifically in the films.” “If it be so,” I said, quieting the hub-bub that followed, “and I would not doubt your word, Roc- sates, for all know you are the wisest of men — if it were so, then, what of it?” “May it not be,” Rocsates put in, “that these animals had no ma- chines to reproduce their kind? For surely the gods would not grant machines to such creatures. And indeed, if they had Maternite Ma- chines, why then we would yet have these animals among us.” “And how, then, did these ani- mals reproduce?” I asked. “How, indeed? And is there not a legend — admitted only a legend — that says there was a time before the machines, and before the Ma- ternite Machine, and that at such a time both the animals and Men reproduced from within their own bodies?” At this two members of the Con- clave fell immediately into a faint, and I would gladly have joined them. I hoped that the youngsters, Xeon and Melia, had not heard, but as I turned they were listening most attentively to Rocsates, who, amid cries of “Heresy” and “Treason”, went on: “I should like to ask the Con- clave for permission to search the ancient records, in the hope of find- ing some such knowledge that would prove or disprove my words.” “You wish to search the films — •” I began. “Not the films, Sias, but the books.” 84 DAVE E. FISHER

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Gods, this Rocsates! The books, as well he knows, are so ancient, and so delicate, that they are kept in an air-tight tomb; lest, being handled, they be destroyed and all knowledge within them lost. There- fore, they have not been read in the known history of our race. And Rocsates has been anxious for an excuse — “Sias,” he went on, “if there ex- ists such knowledge as I seek, is it not indeed lost to the memory of Man? And if so, are not the books the only place where it may be found?” Rocsates, it is suspected, will never ask a question unless he knows the answer beforehand. And so I acquiesced, and agreed, and granted permission. And with much misgiving and foreboding of evil, the Conclave adjourned. SEVERAL WEEKS elapsed be- fore Rocsates requested that the Conclave meet. I called the meet- ing at dawn and so it was yet early in the afternoon when formalities were concluded and Rocsates granted leave to speak. “Some of those among you are She’s” he began. “And you know you are different from the rest of us. To the advantage, your skin is fairer and your features more often handsomer than ours. To the disad- vantage, your excretory system is not so mechanically dextrous as ours. And, you may say, why should this not be so? There is, indeed, no reason why we should all be iden- tical. Perforce you have the advan- tage, perforce we do. Yet there is THE BIRDS AND THE BEES one other distinction. “Some among you She’s have the swelling of the breasts. And does there exist no reason for this? Was there not, perhaps in ancient times, a cause for this? Do you not won- der, She’s, whence you come and for what reason?” “Rocsates,” I interrupted. “All this is fascinating, of course. But if you could be quick — ” “Of course,” he replied. “In the course of my reading I have read many books, and while they are all vague on the subject, this I have discovered : “That there was indeed a time before the machines, in fact the books were created in that time, for not one of them mentions the ma- chines. Then reproduction was car- ried on by individuals, without help of the then nonexistent machines. The She’s are not wanderers from another land, but they have lived with us for all time; they are not another race, but we are all types of one race. And the fact of repro- duction is somehow intimately re- lated to the physical distinctions of the She’s!” These last sentences were shouted to be heard above the roar of the crowd. Yet when Rocsates stopped, so also did the noise, so shocked and amazed at his words were they. And I confess, myself also. “In fact,” Rocsates added, sitting down, “this process of reproduction seems to have been so simple that there was once a problem of over- population.” Order was lost among the Con- clave as each man turned to speak to his neighbor, and for some time 85

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I could not restore order. I realized that something had to be done to save Rocsates before the outrage of the assembled overwhelmed him. “It seems,” I shouted, “that there is a flaw in your logic.” For if such there was, I was hopeful of dismiss- ing the entire affair with no harm done. “For if people reproduced too often, why then this reproduc- tion must have been a pleasant thing to do; otherwise they would not have done so to excess. And if it was a pleasant thing to do, where is the necessity for the machines, and why were they created?” Rocsates seemed perplexed by this problem, whereupon Xeon, who together with Melia were at the Conclave without permission, shouted, “Perhaps the process of reproduction was of such a pleas- ure that the Conclave ruled it to be a sin? And therefore the ma- chines were necessary!” At this impudence the Conclave dissolved in an uproar, and I was beyond power to restrain them from placing Xeon under arrest. Privately, however, I had to admit that his supposition was a possibil- ity, and thus I authorized Rocsates to continue his search. Now indeed I was sorely worried concerning Xeon, for he must lan- guish in the dungeon until the Con- clave is satisfied to release him, and this they cannot do until they meet again. I needed a sufficient excuse to call a meeting of the Conclave, whereupon I might argue for the lad. When I heard that Rocsates again desired audience, I immedi- 86 ately proclaimed a meeting of the Conclave to be held the next day at dawn, and so that night slept well. The Conclave had come to order and formalities had been initiated when Rocsates entered and took his place. He clutched under one shoulder a thin, rectangular object, but that is not what impressed me. His appearance — he looked as if he had not slept of late, nor eaten either. His eyes were sunken, and his features had doubled in age. He was bent and tired. But it was his eyes. There was a horror in them. I was shocked, and could not help staring at him. And then the formalities were over. I intended to speak for Xeon, but Rocsates was on his feet and I gave way. “I have indeed discovered the secret of reproduction,” he began. “After many searchings, I came upon this — ” and he held forth the object he had carried in. “It is a book. It is entitled, ‘Living a Nor- mal Sex Life.’ It seems to be some sort of a do-it-yourself pamphlet.” He dropped the book on the table and rubbed his hands over his eyes. There was something in the man’s behavior that commanded everyone’s attention. He went on, speaking low. “The word ‘Sex’ is not defined, but it seems to mean ...” His words trailed off. He was obviously unsure of how to con- tinue. “I had better start at the be- ginning, I suppose,” he said. “You see, once upon a time the$e were birds and bees . . When he finished the Conclave sat in horrified silence. His words, DAVE E. FISHER

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with all their horror, had the ring of truth and there were no cries of ‘Heresy’. There was only stunned disbelief and the beginnings of nausea. It is the mark of honor that a leader shall carry on when others fear to move. I cleared my throat. “Shall not these organs which you mention have atrophied by now? With no use throughout all these generations, will they not have evolved into nothingness?” “I do not think so,” Rocsates re- plied after a while. “What to us is an eon, to evolution is but an in- stant. And then the swelling of the breasts, I believe, proves that there is still reproductive activity in some, at least, of the She’s.” We sat shaking our heads, bowed under terrible reality. “Then we must experiment,” I said. “But whom could we ask to submit to such horror?” “I have already taken the liberty of asking for volunteers,” Rocsates replied. “The She, of course, must be one with the swelling of the breasts. Melia has volunteered, on condition that Xeon be released from dungeon. Are there any objec- tions?” There were none, of course. Who would refuse a boon to one who would undergo such an ordeal for the City? “And who will be the partner?” I asked. “In all honor, could Xeon allow Melia to surpass him in courage? It shall be he,” Rocsates said. And with his word the two entered the Hall and stood, noble and naked. Rocsates gestured to the table, THE BIRDS AND THE BEES and Melia started to climb upon it, but Xeon stepped forward. “My lords,” he said, “would not better results be obtained were we to conduct the experiment in the fields before the Oracle of Delni, that the gods may help us?” His glance reached into my soul, and I was proud of Xeon. A true friend, he thought even now of the comfort of Melia. The marble table was indeed hard, and from Roc- sate’s description it seemed that Melia’s position would be as un- comfortable as it would be undig- nified. The soft fields might be some slight help. I voiced my assent, and the entire Conclave adjourned to the fields. IT WAS nearly dark when we walked home, Rocsates and I, arm in arm. It had been a horrible day. The inhuman indignity, the cries — We tarried before my home, leaned on the stone, stared at the first stars. “They seemed finally to accom- plish all the book described,” I muttered. “They may indeed have suc- ceeded,” Rocsates replied. “There is mentioned a time lapse which is necessary. The child does not ap- pear immediately.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said dis- consolately. “Who could ask them to go through such an ordeal again?” And then I looked down to earth again, and saw them standing be- fore me. Melia cast her eyes down, ( Continued on page 115) 87

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BRAMBLE BUSH There was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise; He jumped into a bramble bush and scratched out both his eyes. And when he saw what he had done, with all his might and main He jumped into another bush and scratched them in again. MOTHER OOOSE DR. DAVID LESSING found Jack Dorffman and the boy waiting in his office when he arrived at the Hoffman Center that morning. Dorffman looked as though he’d been running all night. There were dark pouches under his eyes; his heavy unshaven face seemed to sag at every crease. Lessing glanced sharply at his Field Director and sank down behind his desk with a sigh. “All right, Jack — what’s wrong?” “This kid is driving me nuts,” said Dorffman through clenched teeth. “He’s gone completely hay- BY ALAN E. NOURSE 88

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Illustrated by Paul Orban

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wire. Nobody’s been able to get near him for three weeks, and now at six o’clock this morning he decides he’s leaving the Farm. I talk to him, I sweat him down, I do everything but tie him to the bed, and I waste my time. He’s leaving the Farm. Period.” “So you bring him down here,” said Lessing sourly. “The worst place he could be, if something’s really wrong.” He looked across at the boy. “Tommy? Come over and sit down.” There was nothing singular about the boy’s appearance. He was thin, with a pale freckled face and the guileless expression of any normal eight-year-old as he blinked across the desk at Lessing. The awkward grey monitor-helmet concealed a shock of sandy hair. He sat with a mute appeal in his large grey eyes as Lessing flipped the reader-switch and blinked in alarm at the wildly thrashing pattern on the tape. The boy was terrorized. He was literally pulsating with fear. Lessing sat back slowly. “Tell me about it, Tommy,” he said gently. “I don’t want to go back to the ' Farm,” said the boy. “Why?” “I just don’t. I hate it there.” “Are you frightened?” The boy bit his lip and nodded slowly. “Of me? Of Dr. Dorffman?” “No. Oh, no!” “Then what?” Again the mute appeal in the boy’s eyes. He groped for words, and none came. Finally he said, “If I could only take this off — ” He fingered the grey plastic helmet. 90 “You think that would make you feel better?” “It would, I know it would.” Lessing shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tommy. You know what the monitor is for, don’t you?” “It stops things from going out.” “That’s right. And it stops things from going in. It’s an insulator. You need it badly. It would hurt you a great deal if you took it off, away from the Farm.” The boy fought back tears. “But I don’t want to go back there — ” The fear-pattern was alive again on the tape. “I don’t feel good there. I never want to go back.” “Well, we’ll see. You can stay here for a while.” Lessing nodded at Dorffman and stepped into an adjoining room with him. “You say this has been going on for three weeks?33 “I’m afraid so. We thought it was just a temporary pattern — we see so much of that up there.” “I know, I know.” Lessing chewed his lip. “I don’t like it. We’d better set up a battery on him and try to spot the trouble. And I’m afraid you’ll have to set it up. I’ve got that young Melrose from Chi- cago to deal with this morning — the one who’s threatening to upset the whole Conference next month with some crazy theories he’s been play- ing with. I’ll probably have to take him out to the Farm to shut him up.” Lessing ran a hand through sparse grey hair. “See what you can do for the boy downstairs.” “Full psi precautions?” asked Dorffman. “Certainly! And Jack — in this case, be sure of it. If Tommy’s in ALAN E. NOURSE

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the trouble I think he’s in, we don’t dare risk a chance of Adult Con- tact now. We could end up with a dead boy on our hands.” Two letters were waiting on Less- ing’s desk that morning. The first was from Roberts Bros., announc- ing another shift of deadline on the book, and demanding the galley proofs two weeks earlier than sched- uled. Lessing groaned. As director of psionic research at the Hoffman Medical Center, he had long since learned how administrative detail could suck up daytime hours. He knew that his real work was at the Farm — yet he hadn’t even been to the Farm in over six weeks. And pow, as the book approached pub- lication date, Lessing wondered if he would ever really get back to work again. The other letter cheered him a bit more. It bore the letterhead of the International Psionics Confer- ence: Dear Dr. Lessing: In recognition of your position as an authority on human Psionic be- havior patterns, we would be grati- fied to schedule you as principle speaker at the Conference in Chi- cago on October 12th. A few re- marks in discussion of your forth- coming book would be entirely in order — They were waiting for it, then! He ran the galley proofs into the scanner excitedly. They knew he had something up his sleeve. His earlier papers had only hinted at the direction he was going — but the BRAMBLE BUSH book would clear away the fog. He scanned the title page proudly. “A Theory of Psionic Influence on In- fant and Child Development.” A good title — concise, commanding, yet modest. They would read it, all right. And they would find it a light shining brightly in the darkness, a guide to the men who were floun- dering in the jungle of a strange and baffling new science. For they were floundering. When they were finally forced to recognize that this great and powerful force did indeed exist in human minds, with unimaginable potential if it could only be unlocked, they had plunged eagerly into the search, and found themselves in a madden- ing bramble bush of contradictions and chaos. Nothing worked, and everything worked too well. They were trying to study phenomena which made no sense, observing things that defied logic. Natural laws came crashing down about their ears as they stood sadly by and watched things happen which nat- ural law said could never happen. They had never been in this jungle before, nor in any jungle remotely like it. The old rules didn’t work here, the old methods of study failed. And the more they struggled, the thicker and more impenetrable the bramble bush became — But now David Lessing had dis- covered a pathway through that jungle, a theory to work by — At his elbow the intercom buzzed. “A gentleman to see you,” the girl said. “A Dr. Melrose. He’s very impatient, sir.” He shut off the scanner and said, “Send him in, please.” 91

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R. PETER MELROSE was tall and thin, with jet black hair and dark mocking eyes. He wore a threadbare sport coat and a slouch. He offered Lessing a bony hand, then flung himself into a chair as he stared about the office in awe. “Pm really overwhelmed,” he said after a moment. “Within the stronghold of psionic research at last. And face to face with the Master in the trembling flesh!” Lessing frowned. “Dr. Melrose, I don’t quite understand — ” “Oh, it’s just that I’m im- pressed,” the young man said airily. “Of course, I’ve seen old dried-up Authorities before — but never be- fore a brand spanking new one, just fresh out of the pupa, so to speak!” He touched his forehead in a ges- ture of reverence. “I bow before the Oracle. Speak, oh Motah, live for- ever! Cast a pearl at my feet!” “If you’ve come here to be in- sulting,” Lessing said coldly, “you’re just wasting time.” He reached for the intercom switch. “I think you’d better wait before you do that,” Melrose said sharp- ly, “because I’m planning to take you apart at the Conference next month unless I like everything I see and hear down here today. And if you don’t think I can do it, you’re in for quite a dumping.” Lessing sat back slowly. “Tell me — just what, exactly, do you want?” “I want to hear this fairy tale you’re about to publish in the name of ‘Theory’,” Melrose said. “I want to see this famous Farm of yours up in Connecticut and see for myself how much pressure these experi- mental controls you keep talking about will actually bear. But most- ly, I want to see just what in psionic hell you’re so busy making yourself an Authority about.” There was no laughter in the man’s sharp brown eyes. “You couldn’t touch me with a ten foot pole at this conference,” snapped Lessing. The other man grinned. “Try me! We shook you up a little bit last year, but you didn’t seem to get the idea.” “Last year was different.” Less- ing scowled. “As for our ‘fairy tale’, we happen to have a staggering body of evidence that says that it’s true.” “If the papers you’ve already published are a preview, we think it’s false as Satan.” “And our controls are above sus- picion.” “So far, we haven’t found any way to set up logical controls,” said Melrose. “We’ve done a lot of work on it, too.” “Oh, yes — I’ve heard about your work. Not bad, really. A little mis- directed, is all.” “According to your Theory, that is.” “Wildly unorthodox approach to psionics — but at least you’re ener- getic enough.” “We haven’t been energetic enough to find an orthodox ap- proach that got us anywhere. We doubt if you have, either. But may- be we’re all wrong.” Melrose grinned unpleasantly. “We’re not unreasonable, your Majesty. We just ask to be shown. If you dare, that is.” 92 ALAN E. NOURSE

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Lessing slammed his fist down on the desk angrily. “Have you got the day to take a trip?” ‘Tve got ’til New Year.” Lessing shouted for his girl. “Get Dorffman up here. We’re going to the Farm this afternoon.” The girl nodded, then hesitated. “But what about your lunch?” “Bother lunch.” He gave Melrose a sidelong glare. “We’ve got a guest here who’s got a lot of words he’s going to eat for us . . .” Ten minutes later they rode the elevator down to the transit levels and boarded the little shuttle car in the terminal below the Hoffman Center. They sat in silence as the car dipped down into the rapid- transit channels beneath the great city, swinging northward in the ex- press circuit through Philadelphia and Camden sectors, surfacing briefly in Trenton sector, then dropping underground once again for the long pull beneath Newark, Manhattan and Westchester sec- tors. In less than twenty minutes the car surfaced on a Parkway channel and buzzed north and east through the verdant Connecticut countryside. “What about Tommy?” Lessing asked Dorffman as the car sped along through the afternoon sun. “I just finished the prelims. He’s not cooperating.” Lessing ground his teeth. “I should be running him now instead of beating the bushes with this — ” He broke off to glare at young Mel- rose. Melrose grinned. “I’ve heard you have quite a place up here.” BRAMBLE BUSH “It’s — unconventional, at any rate,” Lessing snapped. “Well, that depends on your standards. Sounds like a country day school, from what I’ve heard. According to your papers, you’ve even used conventional statistical analysis on your data from up here.” “Until we had to throw it out. We discovered that what we were trying to measure didn’t make sense in a statistical analysis.” “Of course, you’re sure you were measuring something .” “Oh, yes. We certainly were.” “Yet you said that you didn’t know what.” “That’s right,” said Lessing. “We don’t.” “And you don’t know why your instruments measure whatever they’re measuring.” The Chicago man’s face was thoughtful. “In fact, you can’t really be certain that your instruments are measuring the children at all. It’s not inconceiv- able that the children might be measuring the instruments , eh?” Lessing blinked. “It’s conceiv- able.” “Mmmm,” said Melrose. “Sounds like a real firm foundation to build a theory on.” “Why not?” Lessing growled. “It wouldn’t be the first time the tail wagged the dog. The psychiatrists never would have gotten out of their rut if somebody hadn’t gotten smart and realized that one of their new drugs worked better in com- batting schizophrenia when the doctor took the medicine instead of the patient. That was quite a wall to climb.” 93

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“Yes, wasn’t it,” mused Melrose, scratching his bony jaw. “Only took them seventy years to climb it, thanks to a certain man’s theories. I wonder how long it’ll take psionics to crawl out of the pit you’re dig- ging for it?” “We’re not digging any pit,” Lessing exploded angrily. “We’re exploring — nothing more. A phe- nomenon exists. We’ve known that, one way or another, for centuries. The fact that it doesn’t seem to be bound by the same sort of natural law we’ve observed elsewhere doesn’t mean that it isn’t governed by natural law. But how can we de- fine the law? How can we define the limits of the phenomenon, for that matter? We can’t work in the dark forever — we’ve got to have a working hypothesis to guide us.” “So you dreamed up this ‘tad- pole’ idea,” said Melrose sourly. “For a working hypothesis — yes. We’ve known for a long time that every human being has extra- sensory potential to one degree or another. Not just a few here and there — every single one. It’s a dif- ferentiating quality of the human mind. Just as the ability to think logically in a crisis instead of giv- ing way to panic is a differentiating quality.” “Fine,” said Melrose. “Great. We can’t prove that, of course, but I’ll play along.” Lessing glared at him. “When we began studying this psi-poten- tial, we found out some curious things. For one thing, it seemed to be immensely more powerful and active in infants and children than in adults. Somewhere along the 94 line as a child grows up, something happens. We don’t know what. We do know that the child’s psi-poten- tial gradually withdraws deeper and deeper into his mind, burying itself farther and farther out of reach, just the way a tadpole’s tail is absorbed deeper and deeper into the growing frog until there just isn’t any tail any more.” Lessing paused, packing tobacco into his pipe. “That’s why we have the Farm — to try to discover why. What forces that potential under- ground? What buries it so deeply that adult human beings can’t get at it any more?” “And you think you have an answer,” said Melrose. “We think we might be near an answer. We have a theory that ex- plains the available data.” The shuttle car bounced sharply as it left the highway automatics. Dorffman took the controls. In a few moments they were skimming through the high white gates of the Farm, slowing down at the en- trance to a long, low building. “All right, young man — come along,” said Lessing. “I think we can show you our answer.” rN THE main office building they donned the close-fitting psionic monitors required of all personnel at the Farm. They were of a hard grey plastic material, with a net- work of wiring buried in the sub- stance, connected to a simple pocket-sized power source. “The major problem,” Lessing said, “has been to shield the chil- dren from any external psionic ALAN E. NOURSE

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stimuli, except those we wished to expose them to. Our goal is a per- fectly controlled psi environment. The monitors are quite effective — a simple Renwick scrambler screen.” “It blocks off all types of psi ac- tivity?” asked Melrose. “As far as we can measure, yes.” “Which may not be very far.” Jack Dorffman burst in: “What Dr. Lessing is saying is that they seem effective for our purposes.” “But you don’t know why,” added Melrose. “All right, we don’t know why. Nobody knows why a Renwick screen works — why blame us?” They were walking down the main corridor and out through an open areaway. Behind the buildings was a broad playground. A baseball game was in progress in one corner; across the field a group of swings, slides, ring bars and other play- ground paraphernalia was in heavy use. The place was teeming with youngsters, all shouting in a fury of busy activity. Occasionally a hel- meted supervisor hurried by; one waved to them as she rescued a four-year-old from the parallel bars. They crossed into the next build- ing, where classes were in progress. “Some of our children are here only briefly,” Lessing explained as they walked along, “and some have been here for years. “We maintain a top- ranking curriculum — your idea of a ‘country day school’ wasn’t so far afield at that — with scholarships supported by Hoffman Center funds. Other children come to us — foundlings, desertees, children from broken homes, children of all ages BRAMBLE BUSH from infancy on. Sometimes they stay until they have reached college age, or go on to jobs. As far as psionics research is concerned, we are not trying to be teachers. We are strictly observers. We try to place the youngsters in positions where they can develope what po- tential they have — without the pres- ence of external psionic influences they would normally be subject to. The results have been remarkable.” He led them into a long, narrow room with chairs and ash trays, fac- ing a wide grey glass wall. The room fell into darkness, and through the grey glass they could see three children, about four years old, playing in a large room. “They’re perfectly insulated from us,” said Lessing. “A variety of re- cording instruments are working. And before you ask, Dr. Melrose, they are all empirical instruments, and they would all defy any engi- neer’s attempts to determine what makes them go. We don’t know what makes them go, and we don’t care — they go. That’s all we need. Like that one, for instance — ” In the corner a flat screen was flickering, emitting a pale green fluorescent light. It hung from the wall by two plastic rods which penetrated into the children’s room. There was no sign of a switch, nor a power source. As the children moved about, the screen flickered. Below it, a recording-tape clicked along in little spurts and starts of activity. “What are they doing?” Melrose asked after watching the children a few moments. “Those three seem to work as a 95

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team, somehow. Each one, individ- ually, had a fairly constant record- able psi potential of about seven- teen on the arbitrary scale we find useful here. Any two of them scale in at thirty-four to thirty-six. Put the three together and they oper- ate somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred on the same scale.” Lessing smiled. “This is an isolated phenomenon — it doesn’t hold for any other three children on the Farm. Nor did we make any effort to place them together — they drew each other like magnets. One of our workers spent two weeks trying to find out why the instruments weren’t right. It wasn’t the instru- ments, of course.” Lessing nodded to an attendant, and peered around at Melrose. “Now, I want you to watch this very closely.” He opened a door and walked into the room with the children. The fluorescent screen continued to flicker as the children ran to Les- sing. He inspected the block tower they were building, and stooped down to talk to them, his lips mov- ing soundlessly behind the observa- tion wall. The children laughed and jabbered, apparently intrigued by the game he was proposing. He walked to the table and tapped the bottom block in the tower with his thumb. The tower quivered, and the screen blazed out with green light, but the tower stood. Carefully Les- sing jogged all the foundation blocks Qut of place until the tower hung in midair, clearly unsupport- ed. The children watched it closely, and the foundation blocks inched 96 still further out of place . * . Then, quite casually, Lessing lifted off his monitor. The children continued staring at the tower as the screen gave three or four vio- lent bursts of green fire and went dark. The block tower fell with a crash. Moments later Lessing was back in the observation room, leaving the children busily putting the tower back together. There was a little smile on his lips as he saw Mel- rose’s face. “Perhaps you’re begin- ning to see what I’m driving at,” he said slowly. “Yes,” said Melrose. “I think I’m beginning to see.” He scratched his jaw. “You think that it’s adult psi- contact that drives the child’s po- tential underground — that some- how adult contact acts like a damper, a sort of colossal candle- snuffer.” “That’s what I think,” said Les- sing. “How do you know those chil- dren didn’t make you take off your monitor?” Lessing blinked. “Why should they?” “Maybe they enjoy the crash when the blocks fall down.” “But that wouldn’t make any dif- ference, would it? The blocks still fall down.” Melrose paced down the narrow room. “This is very good,” he said suddenly, his voice earnest. “You have fine facilities here, good work- ers. And in spite of my flippancy, Dr. Lessing, I have never imagined for a moment that you were not an acute observer and a careful, highly imaginative worker. But suppose ALAN E. NOURSE

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I told you, in perfect faith, that we have data that flatly contradicts everything you’ve told me today. Reproducible data, utterly incom- patable with yours. What would you say to that?” “I’d say you were wrong,” said Lessing. “You couldn’t have such data. According to the things I am certain are true, what you’re say- ing is sheer nonsense.” “And you’d express that opinion in a professional meeting?” “I would.” “And as an Authority on psionic behavior patterns,” said Melrose slowly, “you would kill us then and there. You would strangle us pro- fessionally, discredit anything we did, cut us off cold.” The tall man turned on him fiercely. “Are you blind, man? Can’t you see what danger you’re in? If you publish ydur book now, you will become an Authority in a field where the most devastating thing that could pos- sibly happen would be — the ap- pearance of an Authority .” Lessing and Dorffman rode back to the Hoffman Center in grim silence. At first Lessing pretended to work; finally he snapped off the tape recorder in disgust and stared out the shuttle-car window. Mel- rose had gone on to Idlewild to catch a jet back to Chicago. It was a relief to see him go, Lessing thought, and tried to force the thin, angry man firmly out of his mind. But somehow Melrose wouldn’t force. “Stop worrying about it,” Dorff- man urged. “He’s a crackpot. He’s crawled way out on a limb, and BRAMBLE BUSH now he’s afraid your theory is going to cut it off under him. Well, that’s his worry, not yours.” Dorff- man’s face was intense. “Scientific- ally, you’re on unshakeable ground. Every great researcher has people like Melrose sniping at him. You just have to throw them off and keep going.” Lessing shook his head. “Maybe. But this field of work is different from any other, Jack. It doesn’t follow the rules. Maybe scientific grounds aren’t right at all, in this case.” Dorffman snorted. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with theorizing — ” “He wasn’t objecting to the theo- ry. He’s afraid of what happens after the theory.” “So it seems. But why?” “Have you ever considered what makes a man an Authority?” “He knows more about his field than anybody else does.” “He seems to, you mean. And therefore, anything he says about it carries more weight than what anybody else says. Other workers follow his lead. He developes ideas, formulates theories — and then de- fends them for all he3s worth ” “But why shouldn’t he?” “Because a man can’t fight for his life and reputation and still keep his objectivity,” said Lessing. “And what if he just happens to be wrong? Once he’s an Authority the question of what’s right and what’s wrong gets lost in the shuf- fle. It’s what he says that counts.” “But we know you’re right,” Dorffman protested. “Do we?” “Of course we do! Look at our 97

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work! Look at what we’ve seen on the Farm.” “Yes, I know.” Lessing’s voice was weary. “But first I think we’d better look at Tommy Gilman, and the quicker we look, the better — ” A nurse greeted them as they stepped off the elevator. “We called you at the Farm, but you’d already left. The boy — ” She broke off help- lessly. “He’s sick, Doctor. He’s sicker than we ever imagined.” “What happened?” “Nothing exactly — happened. I don’t quite know how to describe it.” She hurried them down the corridor and opened a door into a large children’s playroom. “See what you think.” The boy sat stolidly in the comer of the room. He looked up as they came in, but there was no flicker of recognition or pleasure on his pale face. The monitor helmet was still on his head. He just sat there, gripping a toy fire engine tightly in his hands. Lessing crossed the room swiftly. “Tommy,” he said. The boy didn’t even look at him. He stared stupidly at the fire engine. “Tommy!” Lessing reached out for the toy. The boy drew back in terror, clutching it to his chest. “Go away,” he choked. “Go away, go away — ” When Lessing persisted the boy bent over swiftly and bit him hard on the hand. Lessing sat down on the table. “Tommy, listen to me.” His voice was gentle. “I won’t try to take it again. I promise.” “Go away.” “Do you know who I am?” 98 Tommy’s eyes shifted haltingly to Lessing’s face. He nodded. “Go away.” “Why are you afraid, Tommy?” “I hurt. My head hurts. I hurt all over. Go away.” “Why do you hurt?” “I — can’t get it — off,” the boy said. The monitor , Lessing thought suddenly. Something had suddenly gone horribly wrong — could the boy really be sensing the source of the trouble? Lessing felt a cold knot gather in the pit of his stom- ach. He knew what happened when adult psi-contact struck a psi- high youngster’s mind. He had seen it a hundred times at the Farm. But even more — he had felt it in his own mind, bursting from the child. Like a violent physical blow, the hate and fear and sus- picion and cruelty buried and re- pressed in the adult mind, crush- ing suddenly into the raw receptors of the child’s mind like a smother- ing fog — it was a fearful thing. A healthy youngster could survive it, even though the scar remained. But this youngster was sick — And yet an animal instictively seeks its own protection . With trem- bling fingers Lessing reached out and opened the baffle-snap on the monitor. “Take it off, Tommy,” he whispered. The boy blinked in amazement, and pulled the grey helmet from his head. Lessing felt the familiar prick- ly feeling run down his scalp as the boy stared at him. He could feel deep in his own mind the cold chill of terror radiating from the boy. Then, suddenly, it began to fade. ALAN E. NOURSE

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A sense of warmth — peace and se- curity and comfort — swept in as the fear faded from the boy’s face. The fire engine clattered to the floor. THEY ANALYZED the tapes later, punching the data cards with greatest care, filing them through the machines for the basic processing and classification that alf their data underwent. It was late that night when they had the report back in their hands. Dorffman stared at it angrily. “It’s obviously wrong,” he grated. “It doesn’t fit. Dave, it doesn’t agree with anything we’ve observed before. There must be an error.” “Of course,” said Lessing. “Ac- cording to the theory. The theory says that adult psi-contact is dead- ly to the growing child. It smothers their potential through repeated contact until it dries up completely. We’ve proved that, haven’t we? Time after time. Everything goes according to the theory — except Tommy. But Tommy’s psi-potential was drying up there on the Farm, until the distortion was threatening the balance of his mind. Then he made an adult contact, and we saw how he bloomed.” Lessing sank down to his desk wearily. “What are we going to do, Jack? Formu- late a separate theory for Tommy?” “Of course not,” said Dorffman. “The instruments were wrong. Somehow we misread the data — ” “Didn’t you see his face?” Les- sing burst out. “Didn’t you see how he acted?” What do you want with an instrument reading?” He shook BRAMBLE BUSH his head. “It’s no good, Jack. Some- thing different happened here, something we’d never counted on. It’s something the theory just doesn’t allow for.” They sat silently for a while. Then Dorffman said: “What are you going to do?’ “I don’t know,” said Lessing. “Maybe when we fell into this bramble bush we blinded ourselves with the urge to classify — to line everything up in neat rows like pins in a paper. Maybe we were so blind we missed the path alto- gether.” “But the book is due! The Con- ference speech — ” “I think we’ll make some changes in the book,” Lessing said slowly. “It’ll be costly — but it might even be fun. It’s a pretty dry, logical presentation of ideas, as it stands. Very austere and authoritarian. But a few revisions could change all that — ” He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “How about it, Jack? Do we have nerve enough to be laughed at? Do you think we could stand a little discredit, making silly asses of ourselves? Be- cause when I finish this book, we’ll be laughed out of existence. There won’t be any Authority in psionics for a while — and maybe that way one of the lads who’s really sniff- ing out the trail will get somebody to listen to him! “Get a pad, get a pencil! We’ve got work to do. And when we finish, I think we’ll send a carbon copy out Chicago way. Might even per- suade that puppy out there to come here and work for me — ” END 99

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BY G. G. REVELLE His orders were final. And how could these terrified souls know their fate was his own? THE BRIDGE i TWO LOW flying interceptor jets screamed overhead, climb- ing for much needed altitude as they headed out to sea. The Cap- tain took off his steel helmet and looked up at the thunderous roar just before he leaped from the still movjng jeep. When his feet touched the ground he moved quickly, shouting orders at the olive-drab truck convoy he had been leading. He pointed his finger at the side of Illustrated by Ed Emsh 100

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the road where he wanted the small stuff. The “duce and a half’s” he directed to the opposite side of the road. Then he put his helmet back on. He watched as the troops quickly dismounted and assembled. He lighted a cigarette while he waited for his three officers. Only then did he look at the Bridge. The massive steel structure span- ning the river was six lanes wide, cantilever style with curved upper and lower cords. The Bridge looked trim and new. It was the Captain’s responsibility to see that it stayed way. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and reached inside the rear of the jeep and checked his radio set. It was set on K channel, 29.2. He expected no messages, except in an emergency. While he had the time he took a yellow sheet of paper out of his pocket and read the words pasted on it for the fourth time. Somehow they never changed; they always read the same. And each time he got a sinking sensation in his stom- ach when he read them. Captain Alfred Lowary put the yellow paper away quickly when the three junior officers of the Bat- tery reported. He returned their salutes in a lazy sort of way. He took off his helmet again. “The orders are the same as briefing,” he said. “Lieutenant Kastner will take the third platoon across the river to the West side. The second platoon, Lieutenant Tudor, will move North of the en- trance on this side and take up posi- tion in reserve. Lieutenant Meyers 101 will set up defense on this side.” He inhaled on the cigarette and looked at Tudor. “Place your machine guns carefully. I want a cross-fire on that slight bend on the road down there.” Tudor nodded. The Captain pinpointed Meyers with his eyes. “You’ve got the ‘hot- spot’ . . . Just remember . . . No one gets on the Bridge!” “But — ” Meyers began. “No buts. I said no one. Under- stand?” Meyers’ “Yes, sir,” was barely audible. “Any questions?” the Captain asked. They shook their heads negative, except Meyers. He said, “Just one thing, Captain.” “What’s that, Lieutenant?” Lowary asked. “Are we supposed to shoot our own people?” Lowary’s face grew hard. “If we have to, Lieutenant,” he said. “If we have to.” The tone of his voice told them that he wanted to avoid any discussion on the subject. There was silence. Finally Lowary said, “That’s it, then. Let’s move.” The Officers saluted and began to move off. Tudor took two steps, then halted and returned. “How much time do you think is left, Cap- tain?” he asked. Lowary took in the man’s square face, the set of his jaw. Tudor was ex-combat, infantry during the last war. “Who knows, Lieutenant! Min- utes ... or hours. It all depends on how strong the enemy is, how fast

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they’re moving, if they are sending a boy to do a man’s job.” Tudor looked down the river in the direction of the City some thirty miles away. He seemed to have dif- ficulty finding words. Lowary knew what he was thinking and it made him feel weak and inadequate. Lowary said softly, “We knew it would come some day, didn’t we, Tudor?” Tudor faced him. “I guess we did . . .” he hesitated. “Well?” “I just didn’t think I would draw this kind of duty. I don’t mind fighting, I’ve had my share. But I guess I feel as Meyers does. This will be something new for me, shooting my own people.” “Perhaps we won’t have to,” Lowary said. Tudor stepped back a pace and gave him a salute. “You don’t be- lieve that any more than I do, Captain.” He began to walk away swiftly. Lowary watched him go and he wondered how many men in the Battery were thinking the same thing? It could create a serious psychological block. Damn it. It was bothering him too. But he could do it if he had to. He knew he could. He climbed into his jeep and ad- justed the radio squelch button, cut- ting down on the steady crackling noise. He found himself repeating under his breath. 1 can do it be - cause I know I have to. 1 can do it because . . . He jammed down on the starter and shoved the gearshift into first. He had to force the thoughts from his mind. He had 102 orders to follow; orders left no room for personal feelings. Yet he knew the yellow paper in his pocket was mocking him. The jeep was opposite the bridge entrance when he halted it momen- tarily. Lieutenant Meyers was busy talking to a machine-gunner named Morgan. As Lowary recalled, from what little he had seen during the three weeks he had been command- ing the outfit since his transfer from the middle west, Morgan was a conscientious type of soldier. Mey- ers was making a good choice for such a delicate position. He moved on. The tires made a low singing sound when he rolled on the bridge, heavy tread pounding on steel grat- ing. A sign attached to an upright girder caught his eye. He smiled sardonically and he wondered what the author had in mind when he phrased it. It said: IN EVENT OF AIR ATTACK— DRIVE OFF THE BRIDGE. The Captain shook his head. When he got to the center of the bridge he halted the jeep. He got out and crossed over the lanes to the south railing and looked down at the gray water. It looks muddy, he thought. A wide, muddy snake winding its way down to the City. He looked at the horizon. He couldn’t see the City but he knew it was there. He wondered for how long! It will light up like a torch, he thought. One huge sheet of red and orange flame a mile high, like the G. G. REVELLE

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gates of hell swinging open. Then there would be nothing but a tow- ering mushroom of black smoke to mark the spot of the largest City in the world. He found his hand clutching something in his pocket. He took it out and looked at it. Then, bit- terly, he put it away. It was the yellow sheet of paper again. To read it would be torture. Lowary ran the zipper up on his loose fitting green field jacket as a sudden chill took him. He blamed it on the nonexistent wind as he lighted another cigarette. The sound of a motor caused him to look up. He narrowed his eyes, looking at the far end of the bridge. It was Lieutenant Kastner; he could tell by the foot resting carelessly on the outside fender. Kastner drove as though he were resting in an easy chair with his feet nestled on a hassock. Kastner swung out of the jeep loosely, with the grace of a well co- ordinated athlete. A wide grin split his face. “Just on my way to report to you, Captain. Everything is set up on my side.” Lowary smiled. He had been on his way to check Kastner. Lowary took in the blond man’s well pro- portioned body. Kastner looked like the recruit ad on a “wild-blue- yonder” poster. Kastner’s eyes left Lowary’s face. The Captain followed the other’s gaze upward. Two long, white va- por trails were cutting across the blue sky. “They’re ours,” Kastner said. “They’re heading North by East, THE BRIDGE toward the ocean.” He looked at Lowary. “Maybe they can stop it before it starts!” “Maybe,” the Captain said soft- ly. In his heart he knew it was only a faint hope. The Air Force never tried to conceal the fact that some of the enemy could be expected to sneak through in the event of at- tack. “I don’t think we’ll have much trouble at our end of the bridge, Captain. I don’t think anyone will be fighting to go in that direction,” he nodded down the river, in the direction of the City. “I guess not,” Lowary said ab- sently. “This waiting can be murder,” Kastner said. “It just doesn’t seem right, waiting to be clobbered. Sit- ting here until they drop one down our throats before we can fight back.” Lowary smiled bitterly. “It’s al- ways been that way, Kastner. I sup- pose it always will be.” Lowary squashed the cigarette butt with his heel. “How’s Meyers taking all this?” Kastner asked. Lowary raised his eyebrows. “His sister works in the City,” Kastner went on. “They’re pretty close.” “I didn’t know,” Lowary replied. He thought, perhaps I should change assignments. Kastner wouldn’t picture every woman who might try to break through as his sister. It would make it easier on Meyers. “You’re from Dakota, aren’t you, Captain?” “I was stationed there for three years before this assignment. This 103

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is my first trip East.” “Married?” “Wife . . . son and daughter. The girl is eight, the boy twelve.” The picture of blond, thin, lovable lit- tle Susan came to his mind. And Ronnie, with the freshly found sense of humor, who wanted to be a writer when he grew up ... if he grew up. He hadn’t seen them or Dot since the transfer came unex- pectedly. He missed them, badly. He hadn’t realized how much until just this minute. “Did you bring your family with you?” Kastner asked. Lowary shook his head. “No. Dot stayed behind to sell some of the furniture, and to let the children finish school. It’s no good changing schools in the middle of a semes- ter.” “I guess it isn’t. I wouldn’t know though. I’m single.” The sound of rubber pounding on the steel grating caused them both to turn. The Captain expected to see an Army 2^4 ton truck. The truck wasn’t olive-drab, it was white. BAKERY was stenciled on the side of the closed cabin in red letters. Kastner moved to the opposite lane on a fast run. He waved his arms. “What are you doing on the bridge?” he shouted. “It’s closed to civilians.” The driver stuck his balding head out of the window. His face was dirty and tired. “The Lieutenant back there said it was O.K.” He looked at Lowary. “I’m only going to Kingston, Captain.” Lowary turned to Kastner. “Check this guy. I’ll be back.” He 104 jumped into his jeep and wheeled it around. This time he kept the ac- celerator to the floor. Meyers was a fool! He found the tall, thin officer leaning on the rail, looking down the river toward the City. He leaped from the jeep, reached Mey- ers with two strides. “If you have to do that, Lieu- tenant, do it where the troops can’t see you. It’s bad for morale,” he said bitterly. Meyers spun around quickly. “You had orders to keep this bridge closed, Lieutenant. Why didn’t you?” Meyers opened his mouth, then shut it without saying a word. “Speak up,” Lowary raised his voice. Meyers’ eyes met his. “You wouldn’t understand, Captain,” Meyers said evenly. “Try me,” Lowary fought to keep his voice down. “You seem to forget that these are our people . . . not the enemy. He was just a poor working slob who wanted to get home to be with his wife and kids. To him it might be his last day on earth. Who are we to deny that?” Lowary said nothing. Meyers said, “You’re not worry- ing, your family is safe out in the Middle West. We know people around here. They aren’t just shad- ows. We should be helping them.” The Captain took off his helmet He reached for another cigarette. Finally he said, “Do you realize how important this bridge is if there is an attack? It connects one of the routes designated for the re- lief of the City if it is hit. You were G. G. REVELLE

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too young for the last war so you probably don’t realize what hap- pens when wanderers, escapees hit the road. They can tie it up like a knot so that no one moves. They have other routes they can use. This one is closed. We’ve got to keep it for emergency use.” “What’s one truck?” Meyers said. “One truck, loaded with explo- sives could park in the middle of this huge erector set and blow it sky high. All the Reds aren’t in those planes the Coastal Defense sighted. We have some right here, waiting.” “But he wasn’t a Red. He lives in Kingston!” Meyers protested. “How do you know?” Lowary said simply. He didn’t wait for Meyers’ answer, he turned and be- gan to walk away. “Captain!” Lowary turned at the sound of Tudor’s heavy voice. The stocky officer was waving at him from up the road, pumping his arm with clenched fist up and down, the sig- nal for double time. Lowary took off on the run. He could hear Mey- ers’ feet pounding behind him. Tudor was standing beside a young corporal looking down the steep, rocky embankment at one of the concrete piers supporting the bridge. A small figure was making its way toward it. “It looks like one of our boy’s decided to go over the hill,” Tudor said tersely. Lowary faced the young cor- poral. “Unsling that rifle, son, and see if you can pick him off.” Lowary felt Tudor’s hand on his arm. “There’s no need for that. Captain. I’ll send a squad down to pick him up.” Lowary glanced down at the hand. Tudor removed it. He spoke directly to the corporal, “I said see if you can pick him off!” The sol- dier hesitated. Lowary knew why. The figure down there was in uni- form, probably a friend. The Captain snatched the rifle from the corporal’s frozen fingers. He slapped the stock against his own shoulder. “He’s probably just a scared, be- wildered kid,” Meyers cut in quick- ly- “If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize,” Lowary said as he sighted down the barrel. He planted his feet firmly and squeezed. The stock slammed him in the shoulder. He cursed, then he squeezed again. This time he remembered to hold his breath. The figure slumped, fell off the concrete, into the water. Lowary juggled the gun once by its balance, then he handed it back to the corporal who was staring dully at the small figure floating and bobbing in the water. “You can send that squad down to get him now, if you want, Lieutenant Tudor,” he said before he turned away. HE WALKED slowly. He could have explained, but there wasn’t time. Decisions had to be made quickly, right or wrong. Per- haps the kid down there was afraid, just running away. But he couldn’t take that chance. There was no reason to believe that the military didn’t have some subversive ele- THE BRIDGE 105

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ments within; the Reds had infil- tered everywhere else. And what better time for the rats to come out of their nests, then now, when the country was on their target list! One man could be as dangerous as a Red Division. Lowary climbed into his jeep conscious of how tired he felt. I’m getting old, he thought. He leaned back and took off his helmet and looked up at the clear blue sky, let- ting the breeze fan his face. A high, distant speck caught his eye. It was trailed by a four-forked stream of white. He felt his stomach grow cold, as he stared in fascination at the four vapor streams that could only be one thing; a multi-engine bomber. It was coming in from the Northwest, heading for the City. The enemy had slipped one through the defense. He tore his eyes from the sky. Perhaps no one else had seen it. It would be better if they never did. And so it comes, he thought. The end of an age . . . back to the sticks and stones for good. He drew in on a new cigarette, thinking of Doro- thy and Susan and Ronnie. He be- came conscious of Meyers standing beside him. He wished he would go away, there was so little time left to daydream. He wanted to be alone. “The guard down the road says there is a pile-up of civilian cars that demand to go across.” Lowary looked up. “Send some of the reserve platoon down and forcfc them back. You know the or- ders!” “Look, Captain. We’ve got may- be ten . . . fifteen minutes left. 106 What harm will it do?” Lowary felt weary. Meyers hadn’t failed to see the bomber, neither had the people in the cars. They knew it was the beginning of the end. Meyers and Tudor, and the others were wearing him down. He felt like giving them their damn bridge. It would be easy, so final. He took the yellow paper out of his pocket and glanced at the pasted letters again. When he was finished he knew what he had to do. He had no choice. Lowary handed the paper to Meyers. “I’ll take care of things down the road. Perhaps you might like to read this while I’m gone,” he said. The Lieutenant looked puzzled when Lowary drove away. The traffic was jammed just as Meyers said it was. The Sergeant in command of the squad had set up a small road block. A machine-gun- ner, Morgan, was sitting behind a .50 Cal. looking down the barrel. Lowary drove past them, up to the lead car. As he threw his legs out over the side of the jeep he looked up quick- ly. The single multi-engine bomber was overhead, still heading South. In the distance he could see new vapor streams, much smaller, much faster. The Interceptor Command was giving chase. Lowary could see that they would be too late to save the City. “Please let us through, Captain!” a woman near him asked. She was slender, she had been crying. Lowary felt so helpless. He said, “There is nothing I can do. This bridge must be kept open for relief G. G. REVELLE

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purposes. It is out of my hands.” “You’re a murderer. You’re keeping us here to be killed.” “There were other routes open. You should have taken — ” The woman flung herself at him, beat- ing at his chest with her thin hands. “I want to go home,” she screamed. Lowary took her by the wrists and held her off gently. God give me strength, he prayed. It would be so easy to let her through, along with the others. They would be safe, perhaps. But he would be run- ning the risk of losing the bridge. Everyone in the City wouldn’t die, some would survive the hell blast. They would need medical attention, supplies, food and water. They de- served that chance. A man’s heavy voice carried above the shouts. “We can get through if we all try it at the same time. He can’t shoot us . . . he’s in the line of fire.” Lowary hadn’t realized it, but it was true. The machine-gunners were sighting down his back. He shouted above the rising din, “It makes no difference, they’ll shoot if they have to.” “It’s a lie,” a woman shouted. Lowary heard the whine of a pow- erful motor start up. “Well, I’m for giving it a try,” he heard someone far back say. Lowary turned and faced the gunners. He could see Morgan’s strained face. The kid looked so young, yet he was the only one Lowary felt he could depend on. “If anything moves down here I want you to open fire,” he called to Morgan. “Understand?” Morgan’s helmet nodded slowly. THE BRIDGE Lowary turned around. The woman seemed undecided. Lowary spoke softly. “Why don’t you get down off the road, into that gully? You’ll be safe there.” The woman’s mouth worked up and down but no words came out. Her face was white and haggard. The radio in Lowary’s jeep began a familiar crackling sound as some- one on the same frequency pressed a button on a handset. Lowary was afraid to move. He could easily start a stampede if the civilians thought he was making the move just to get out of the line of sight of the machine gunners. Slowly, he raised his hand until it was near the .45 resting in the hol- ster clipped to his web belt. He waited. “LARGO ONE— THIS IS LARGO NINE— OVER.” Lowary edged backwards, still facing the crowd. The woman was crying now. Down the line of cars he could hear the high powered motor being gunned as it was being maneuvered out of the line. Soon it would make the attempt of running down Morgan and the others. It wouldn’t stand a chance, but the others might succeed in the con- fusion that would follow. He made the decision then. De- liberately, he turned his back on the crowd and walked to the jeep. “Don’t let him turn on that radio,” a man’s voice called. “He will warn the rest of the troops to be waiting for us.” Lowary picked up the hand-mike. “This is Largo One,” he said. “THIS IS LARGO NINE,” the (Continued on page 120) 107

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In youth Lauria was beautiful, proud, unattainable. But when autumn came, she changed her code and lowered her defense. LAURIA SWEPT down the spi- ral staircase in regal dignity, and wished there were someone there to witness her entrance. She walked across the parlor to the gun- rack and strapped a holstered pistol to her hip, just above the rustling flare of the full skirt of her evening dress. The green sun’s slanting rays in the parlor window told her it was late afternoon, nearly time to get started. She went to the full-length mirror. Beside the mirror hung the framed copy of the Constitution of Pamplin, hand-lettered on parch- ment. In bold red letters it pro- claimed : We, the people of Pamplin , hold that: 1. No government is the best government. THE LAST BRAVE INVADER BY CHARLES L. FONTENAY 2. A man's home is his castle . 3. A woman's rights are equal to a man's rights. 4. Only the brave deserve the fair. Lauria looked in the mirror, al- most fearfully. She saw with approval the breadth of her hips, the erectness of her shoulders. With more re- luctance, her eyes rose to her face. There was still beauty there, she told herself, to the discerning eye. That touch of slackness to the jaw, that faint hollowness of cheek: those were no doubt exaggerated 108

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by the dimness of the room. In a table drawer, Lauria found jars and tubes. From them she carefully filled in a fuller form for her mouth, dabbed heavily at her cheeks, touched up her eyes, smeared over her jawline. She fluffed out the thinning blond hair and donned a light scarf then she removed the heavy bars from the front door. She went out, and locked its triple locks behind her. She gazed around cautiously and stepped lightly down the gravelled path. Around the house, the grounds were a solid mass of blooming flowers. Lauria had plenty of time to spend in the garden. The baskets and other handicraft articles that were her means of income left her a good deal of leisure, and cooking and household chores were routine and brief. Farther from the house, the grounds looked better kept than they were. It was fortunate that the blue grass of the planet Pamplin grew short and neat, for Lauria never would have been able to keep the ten acres of her property trimmed. But the big trees that shaded the grounds had dropped twigs and leaves that she wouldn’t clear away until the big effort of the fall clean-up. The path curved down past a small cleared area in which a doz- en upright wooden markers were spaced in rows. This was the cem- etery. She paused to look out across the neat rows of markers. There were men buried there. Twelve young men. They had died by her hand, in accordance with the Con- stitution and the law. At one end of the cemetery stood a large wooden plaque on which she had carved the Constitution of Pamplin. Many times had her mother explained the meaning of the Constitution to Lauria, when Lauria was a little girl and still intruding on her mother’s privacy. “The people who colonized Pam- plin left Earth many years ago be- cause there they always had to sac- rifice some of their individual rights to some government,” her mother had said. “There are many kinds of governments, but all of them try to regulate people. And to regu- late people, they have to invade people’s privacy. “The people of Pamplin came to this world because we don’t want any government. We believe that every man and woman should have his individual right to do as he pleases, without other people bothering him.” “But what does No. 4 mean, Mother?” Lauria had asked. “ ‘ Only the brave deserve the fair?* ” “That means,” replied her moth- er, for Lauria was fourteen and deserved to know these things, “that a woman on Pamplin is not subservient to the whims of men. No man may approach her and take her in his arms unless he has fought his way through the de- fenses of her home. Then they may agree to share the home, if they wish, but no woman of any character will permit a man to do this until he has proved his valor by fighting his way to her.”

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“Then my father must have been a brave man, wasn’t he, Mother?” “Yes, he was, my dear,” said her mother, smiling tenderly. “He was very persuasive, too.” Lauria never saw her father, and no other man invaded the privacy of her mother’s home while she lived there. Two men tried, and Lauria remembered the tense stir- rings about the darkened house in the dead of night, the flash and roar of the guns, and her frightened glimpses of the men her mother had shot down as they tried to break in. Her father must have been very courageous, Lauria thought. She constructed a handsome picture of her father in her mind, and dreamed of the day a handsome man like he would conquer her, when she lived in her own home. Lauria’s mother had some prop- erty on which she wanted Lauria to build a house, but Lauria was impatient. Even though her mother would hire men from town, Lauria would have to do much of the work herself and it would take years. So at sixteen, Lauria got her a house, ready-built. She crept past the defenses of one of the best homes in the area. She broke into the house at night and killed the defender, a tired old man, in a blazing gun battle. The house became her home, and she improved its defenses. Her ownership of the house, and her manner of taking it, gave her an immediate social standing far above that of her mother. She knew that she was envied : the bright-haired, beautiful young 110 woman who held the ramparts of the big house and challenged all comers to conquer her. There were men who tried, and the first nearly succeeded. Even now, after many years, she could remember Poll’s youthful, arrogant face, his lazy smile. They had met in the market place. “An attractive spitfire, if ever I saw one,” he had said to her. “Would you surrender to my arms, pretty one?” “If you’re strong enough to come and take me,” she challenged, fire singing in her blood. And that night he had come. In the starlight she fired from her windows at the shadowy figure that flitted among the bushes and trees, and powder smoke hung heavy in the air. It was after several hours and a long silence, when she thought he had given up and gone away, that he almost surprised her. She was crouching in the par- lour, waiting for the dawn, when there was a slight noise behind her. She whirled, whipping up her gun, and he was coming toward her swiftly and silently from the hall, a smile of triumph on his handsome face. He was holding out his arms for her and there was no weapon in his hand when she shot him down. She wept for a long time over his fair body, and knew to her shame that she had wanted him to conquer. Then she took him out and buried him beneath the grass. His grave was the first one, and behind it later she erected the wooden plaque bearing the words of the Constitution of Pamplin. CHARLES L. FONTENAY

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Others had tried, and their graves were here, with Poll’s. And the years had passed, and no man had overrun the defenses of Lauria’s .house. The frost of autumn was in her veins now as she looked at the graves of twelve young men, who had been young and eager in the years when she had been young. Slowly she turned away, went out the barred front gate of her prop- erty and waited for the crowd of merrymakers she would accompany to the party in town. The music reverberated gaily amid the rafters of the huge com- munity hall. At one end a fire blazed merrily in a big fireplace. Young couples, and their elders, danced variations of the steps that had been brought from Earth gen- erations ago. No one wore weapons here, al- though every person in the hall had worn or carried a gun on the way here. The guns were checked at the entrance, and the doors were barred against any lawless raider. Here, as in the market daily, people congregated. Here they were people and not individuals. Outside, between here and their homes, they were individuals again, but still friendly, if wary. They car- ried their arms, they were careful of their language, they watched the people around them for signs of aggression. Outside was a code of conduct that was different from the sociable code inside, a code that condoned a duel over an insult, that recognized robbery, rape and even death if one were THE LAST BRAVE INVADER caught unarmed and alone. And in their homes . . . well, there was Cholli Rikkard. He was one-armed because of a wound he had suffered conquering Fanni in her home. Cholli had been a gay fellow who had stormed house after house of pretty women before, but after that he settled down with Fanni and they now had five children. They shared their privacy, but half a dozen times Cholli had stayed up all night fighting off those who would invade it. The strange thing was that one or more of those who had sought to invade Cholli’s home and take his wife and house from him might be dancing here tonight, perhaps chatting amiably with Cholli. Cholli might even know them for the attackers. Here they were all friends, suspending their cherished privacy for weekly companionship. Lauria was one of those who sat among the oldest, and talked un- happily with those on either side of her. It was not that she was that old, for she wasn’t. It was that Lauria’s home now had the reputa- tion of a deadly, unassailable for- tress, and few men cared even to dance with her. It was that they feared her, she told herself as she sat there after only two dances. “Care to dance this one, Miss Lauria?” She looked up, startled. It was Cholli Rikkard, smiling at her, holding out his one arm apologet- ically. She arose, gratefully, and took his hand. She and Cholli were old friends. Perhaps it was the sym- pathy of the handicapped for the 111

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handicapped: the man with only one arm for the woman with (perhaps?) too much stem pride. “Tell me something, Cholli,” said Lauria as they danced. “Is it true that many women deliberately allow men to invade their privacy?” He looked at her blandly. 4 ‘That would be a violation of the Constitution, Lauria,” he said. “I know it would,” she said im- patiently. “But do they?” “I’ve heard rumours.” “I’ve heard rumours, too, but I want the truth. You know the truth, Cholli. You conquered quite a few women before Fanni shot you in the arm.” He grinned. “Fanni always was a poor shot,” he said. “Or maybe she’s a better shot than I think. Yes, Lauria, it’s true. The Constitution is the law, and it’s right in principle, but you have to face facts. If men and women adhered to the letter of the law in . . . well, sex . . . Pamplin would be depopulated by now. I thought everybody knew that.” “I didn’t,” said Lauria miser- ably. “I suspected ... I’d heard a lot of talk. But . . . well, tell me, Cholli, how is it done? How do men know, I mean, when a woman is going to wink at the Constitution and let a man enter her home with- out fighting his way in?” “It depends, Lauria. I suppose most often a woman has an under- standing with a certain man and he gives some sort of signal when he comes to her house, so he won’t be shot. Some women — quite a few, it is — just sort of let it be known around that they won’t shoot if a 112 man comes around. That’s more dangerous, though, and they have to be on guard.” ‘ “I’d think so,” said Lauria in- dignantly. “Another woman could take advantage of something like that and make a good haul.” There was a silence. Then Cholli said slily: “Did you want to get a message to some man — or get the word around that . . . ?” “Certainly not!” she retorted firmly. “I abide by the Constitution, and I value my privacy.” “Okay, Lauria. I just thought I could get the word passed for you.” He grinned. “If it weren’t for this bum arm, I might have tried for you myself before now.” The music stopped and they parted. “Wait, Cholli!” cried Lauria in a low intense voice. He turned and came back to her, looking at her quizzically. “Cholli,” she said, almost in a whisper, “pass the word around to- night that no young man will find my home defended!” She turned her back quickly, her face flaming, and left the hall, pick- ing up her scarf and gun at the door. She walked home alone, swiftly, holding up the hem of her skirt with her left hand and hoping savagely that someone would try to waylay her. IT WAS MIDNIGHT when the alarm bell sounded. Lauria had been sitting in the parlor, with no light but that of the fire, a hot drink in her hand, CHARLES L. FONTENAY

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lost in turbulent thoughts. Her thoughts twisted slightly. Had she made it plain to Cholli that only young men would be welcome? But how could she toss aside everything in which she had be- lieved for so long, on an impulse? Would she not redeem herself by shooting down any invader? Shame was upon her now, for having told Cholli what she did. It was not the perverse shame that had run hot in her that night when she had fought Poll and wanted to be defeated, but the shame of hav- ing done what she scorned other women for doing. But Lauria was lonely now, and the fire was not as warm as it once had been. How many years had it been — ten? fifteen? — since the last young man had won her outer wall, only to fall beneath her bullets in the moon-shadows? Could she turn now to the ways of other women, to dissemble, to shoot wide of the mark and put up a false defense? Could she now betray the weapons that had served her so well and true? Or would there be a thirteenth grave in the little cemetery on the morrow? The bell chattered nervously. She arose and threw ashes on the fire. A weariness was in her bones. She took a gun from the rack and made the rounds of the house, checking the locks of doors and windows. All was secure. More lithely, like a pantheress, she went from win- dow to window, looking out, her gun ready. Some of the old wine of THE LAST BRAVE INVADER battle quickened in her blood. The moon was bright, and the trees stood in great pools of shadow on the grounds. The bushes stood like dark, bulky sentinels. At last she saw him, a moving shadow against the still shadows, creeping closer to the house. Her gun came up and she took aim, carefully, through the barred win- dow. Her hands were as cold as ice on the gunstock. For a moment he was still, and she lost him against the shadows. Then he moved again. Her gun blossomed roaring flame and its stock kicked against her shoulder. The shadow leaped, became a man as it fled across a path of moonlight. He was young, and he was smiling toward the window. Then he was swallowed up in the deeper shadows. For a moment she was aghast, unbelieving. She had missed! Then, like a frigid hand clutching her heart, came the realization : de- liberately, without conscious voli- tion, she had pulled the gun muzzle aside when she fired. She leaned against the wall, weak and perspiring. It was true, then. She yearned so deeply for a man, she so feared the age that crept up on her, that the principles of the Constitution no longer held real meaning for her. She did not seek to fire again. She knelt on the floor by the win- dow and waited, looking listlessly into the embers of the fire across the room. She felt suspended in a nightmare. ( Continued, on page 120) 113

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THE BIRDS AND on. “We are agreed that— Well, we THE BEES should like to be left alone, in pri- vate, to try.” (Continued from page 87) “Of course,” I replied. Anything and would not raise them. Xeon they might want they could have, held his arm about her shoulders, My relief and gratitude must have as if to protect her, but I know not showed, for Xeon took a deep from whom. breath and spoke again. “Sias,” he said. Then stopped, “We do not deserve praise, Sias,” embarrassed. he said. “The truth is, we ... we I waited, and Rocsates was silent, sort of enjoy it.” and he continued. I watched them turn and wander “Sias, we come to tell . . . We will off together under the stars. . . .” He raised his eyes to mine and My heart has a warmth in it, and said manfully, “We shall try again.” I no longer fear for the future of I am afraid that tears came to our race when our young people my eyes. Such sacrifice — can show such nobility and sacri- “We beg one favor,” Xeon went fice. 6 N D 115

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SCIENCE BRIEFS That trip abroad may some day be made aboard a submarine. Nuclear development, gas turbines and hy- drogen peroxide used as fuel have added up to a possible means of shipping that may be speedier than surface boats and surer than air traffic. What makes submarine transportation so alluring is the fact that it rarely, if ever, is affected by the weather. Unlike other modes of travel, a sub could adhere to a very tight schedule mindless of typhoons, storm warnings, snow, icebergs and other hazards. A seven-pound rifle that throws out lead at the rate of 750 shots per minute may become the basic U.S. infantry weapon. The new weapon is called Armalite by its developer, the Fairchild Engine and Airplane Corporation, and is the first such weapon to be produced by Ameri- can industry in more than a decade. Currently undergoing exhaustive tests, the lightweight, fast-firing rifle shows promise of replacing four weapons at once: the Browning Automatic, carbine, sub-machine gun, and .45 caliber pistol. The new rifle emphasizes strictly func- tional approach, light in weight and mechanical and manufacturing sim- plicity. It can be fired single-shot or full automatic, from shoulder or bipod. It is 40 inches long, includ- ing recoil compensator, weighs seven pounds. It takes rounds from an aluminum magazine that holds 20 short .30 caliber bullets. On full ' automatic, the 20-round clip can be emptied in 1.65 seconds. Gas operated, the Armalite is so de- signed that when it is loaded and locked the action is entirely closed against sand, dust, mud, rain and snow. A nylon artery, shaped like a “Y”, is proving to be a life prolonger for the future. The man-made artery is designed to replace tired, clogged or diseased arteries in the pelvic region or as a replacement for the human aorta. Called an “aortic bifurcation” graft, the nylon re- placement opens up new areas of surgery; permits “spare” artery stocks and can be used by military surgeons in field hospitals. Latest thing for homes of the future is a photo-electronic light switch. This is a light-sensitive mechanism that turns lights on when it grows dark outside, and off when it be- comes light again. Unlike clock- type switches, this gadget switches lights on at a different time each night. Simple to use too. Just plug the light to be controlled into a special plug, face the “eye” of the gadget toward the window, connect to any 110 volt 60 cycle outlet. Never needs setting or adjustment People who live in glass houses have a better chance of staying alive dur- 116 SCIENCE BRIEFS

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ing an atomic attack. Particularly if the glass house is buried in the back yard. Researchers think that a preformed fiberglass shell, which can be buried adjacent to a house, would provide people with a cheap, comfortable shelter offering pro- tection against blast, radioactivity and fires. The shelter measures 12 feet, eight inches high, four and one-half feet in diameter, with walls one-quarter inch thick. It sleeps four, has provisions for food, water and blankets. Air condition- ing is provided by hand-operated bellows. Harmful sludging of engines, most severe under today’s “stop-and-go” driving conditions, may soon be eliminated by a new motor oil addi- tive being introduced by the Du- Pont company. The new detergent will prevent sludge deposits at both high and low temperature driving. It is also unique because it works in the presence of water — and water is the foremost reason for sludge formation. The new product surrounds each individual particle of sludge in a chemical raincoat of its own. The packaged particles cannot join forces and settle, but remain suspended in oil. So small they are invisible, they easily pass through the oil screen and filter and are drained off when the oil is changed. Daily predictions of the position of the “jet stream”, fast moving cur- rent of air in the upper atmosphere, may soon become routine weather service. The core of this high, fast moving wind tunnel has been lo- SCIENCE BRIEFS cated and plotted on maps for the entire United States. Knowledge of the jet stream is becoming more and more important as more jet aircraft are coming into commercial and military use. Pilots use it for an added “lift” when headed east- ward, and try to avoid bucking its winds at other times. Exact knowl- edge of its height and location for a given area and time will be an immeasurable aid to tight sched- ules. An atomic tire, vulcanized by nu- clear radiation, has been made by scientists of the B. F. Goodrich company. This is the first time atomic energy has been used to treat rubber. The vulcanization was accomplished without use of heat, sulfur or other chemicals and re- sulted in a direct linkage of the car- bon atom chains of the rubber molecules. The tire, in a steel mold, was vulcanized by rotating it slowly over radioactive fuel elements taken from a nuclear reactor. Scientists predict that this “cold” method could be a vital element in the speeding of production. Boron, found in borax and boric acid, may soon become the parent of a new family of important com- pounds. Most provocative is the potential use of boron-hydrogen compounds as high-energy fuel. Pentobrane, for example, releases twice the energy of conventional hydrocarbon fuels on a pound for pound basis. Consequently, it might serve excellently in rocket or jet motors in missiles and supersonic aircraft. 117

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Marcia Burtt’s letter in the latest IF evokes much sympathy from me — who at 50, am a confirmed science fiction and fantasy reader in spite of (because of, too) my friend’s remarks. I was brought up on fairy tales, myths, ghost stories — and with every encouragement to seek out the imaginative wherever it might be — Jules Verne, Poe, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Talbot Mundy, H. G. Wells and LaFanu. When my daughter began her career of avid reading, I bought her science fiction. It seemed to me that even the poorest story had at least an idea ; the young mind could stretch given an idea. Space opera or gadget story, witch’s brew or faity drink, here was the field of writing most likely to encourage her imagination, her curiosity. Her brothers followed right along, to the profit of each mind. So, in defense of science fiction, I say it is one of the mind stretching crafts and to be valued for that reason if no other. All reading is escape. Even the text* book allows the student to escape from his immediate world into a hoped-for world. Science fiction en- courages curiosity, a resilience and balance of mind so essential in our present society. More and more science fiction is providing insight into human relations. And the “trashiest” piece of science fiction has more value than the comic book, the “true” love story, the Hollywood glamour fog that too many people mistake for reality. * — Grace Warren Danville, Cal. You printed a letter from Miss Burtt who said she had a problem concerning the accusation of the use of science fiction as an escape mechanism. Actually science fiction, like any novel, is an escape to a certain extent. But as most novels don’t do, science fiction broadens your mind in that it covers many areas. Science fiction has led me into many sidelights, among them semantics, which is my present in- terest. I am but a year older than Miss Burtt, in the eleventh grade, but I don’t run across the accusa- tion. In fact some people who start to criticize end up becoming in- terested themselves. After all T.V. is an escape. So is baseball (and look at all the people interested in that form of escape). Everyone has his own form of escaping and I guess it’s pretty hard to see another fellow’s point of view when your own is completely different from 8

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his* I don’t suppose an ardent wres- tling fan can see anything at all in a ballet, yet they are both escapisms ' in their way. I suppose the hardest part is being a girl; because girls / aren’t supposed to be interested in \such things. — Jim Stalker Louisville, Ky. Re the readiness of the human race for spaceflight, in connection with the equalities of said race in a peaceful society: Did it ever occur to you, Sir, that the cure is some- times derived from the very founda- ftions of the malady itself? Insulin was devised from the pancreas of /an unborn calf, and injected into the system of a human, it restores the blood sugar balance, which is in turn maintained by the human pancreas. Possibly you will wonder what this has to do with the readi- ness of Man for space flight. Gould it be that the remedy for Man’s unrest and distrust of his fellow men lies in this venture? Is it pos- sible that the energies consumed in aggression and protection could be channeled into one purpose? Per- haps a concentrated effort to ex- plore the universe? Possible you say, but not probable. Neither, my friend, was the airplane; nor the horseless carriage; nor the United Nations. But, of course, we take all these things for granted now. As for the baboon (who, by the way, is not nearly so intelligent as the Chimpanzee) how can you place an intelligent, thinking human be- ing on the same level with an ape? (Even though they are reportedly linked genetically) . And what makes you think an alien species would have “nothing to do with us”? If for no other reason, curiosity would do the trick. Why else would they undertake space travel? — Wayne L. Simpson Peoria, Illinois Jimmy Gunn’s “Green Thumb” startled me. Have we here another Socrates? All my life (in the sense of awareness) I have striven for all the knowledge I could get. Yet I have always gauged my life by the maxim that doing anything without knowing why was infinite stupidity and danger, and inevitable death to the active mind. If again we consider knowledge a means to an end (i.e. to furnish food to perpetuate body, mind and soul to a farther goal), why are we all now, and why have we since the caveman, centered on the means and ignored the ends? Will we learn love building bombs; spread hu- manity forming armies; or find out why we’re here looking into micro- scopes, spectroscopes, telescopes or periscopes? There is the scope of the mind, tempered with imagination; and the subject of observation — ourselves. The answer is within ourselves and we ponder our en- virons. Why? And lastly: Isn’t specialization preventing us from finding the answer? Aren’t we concentrating on a square inch of rock two feet from a vein of gold? I say let’s learn to use our learning as a guide to further learning, not stuff our heads with irrelevant facts! — Roger Leland Smith Upland, Gal. 119

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LAST BRAVE INVADER ( Continued, from page 113) She heard the crack as the lock was broken on a window in the rear of the house, and still she did not stir. But her heart began beating faster, a cold beating that did not warm her body. She began to shiver uncontrollably. She heard the soft, wary footsteps as he came through the house. In the dimness, she saw his bulk come through the parlor door. A black veil passed momentarily before her eyes, and her gun slipped from lax fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. He leaped to one side, and the glow of the dying fire glinted from his weapon. But she stood up against the win- dow, in the moonlight, and spread her hands so he could see she was no longer armed. “I am helpless,” she said in a voice that nearly choked her. “I cannot resist your taking me for your love.” His laugh boomed out in the rich darkness, and she could see that he did not lower his weapon. “Have no fear of that, old wom- an,” he said. ‘Tm only going to put you out and take your house.” END THE BRIDGE (Continued from page 107) voice on the radio said. “ALL CLEAR. REPEAT. ALL CLEAR. BOOGIES CLAIM THEY WERE ON A PEACEFUL TRAINING MANEUVER AND GOT OFF COURSE,” the sender’s low laugh contained no humor. “RESUME TRAFFIC ON THE BRIDGE.” Lowary’s hand trembled as he laid the 'mike’ on the seat. He looked up at the sky. The jet bomber had veered left, was head- ing out to sea, heavily escorted. Lowary took off his helmet and signaled Morgan to let the civilians through. He knew Meyers and the others had heard on their own sets. The enemy had been testing the defenses, he knew. Another calcu- fated move in the cold war. They were probing, hitting hard with psychology. While everyone was re- laxing, enjoying the reprieve, they could very well come back. That would be their way. Lowary was lighting another cig- arette when the soldier came up to him, saluted. “Lieutenant Meyers said to give this to you, sir, and to say that he was sorry if he didn’t understand before.” He handed Lowary the yellow sheet of paper. Lowary opened the wrinkled tele- gram and read it again for the tenth time since that morning. CHILDREN AND I ARRIVED CITY THIS MORNING— WILL SPEND DAY SHOPPING— SEE YOU TONIGHT DARLING- LOVE— DOT. Lowary put the telegram in his pocket carefully. “Hop in, son. I’ll give you a lift,” he said to the sol- dier. He looked over his shoulder, down the river. Then his eyes set- tled on the bridge. Finally, he said softly, “We’re going home.” His heart quickened when he said it. END 120

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TakeSATEI plus BEST-SELLERS OF THESE 00 WITH MEMBERSHIP IN THE Science-Fiction Book Club ■Continued from other side THE ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION ANTHOLOGY A story about the first A-Bomb . . . writ- ten before it was invented! Plus a score of other best tales from a dozen years of Astounding Science Fiction Magazine. (Publ. ed. $3.50) THE BEST FROM FANTASY AND SCIENCE-FICTION ( New edition) 17 thrilling stories selected from Fantasy and Science-Fiction Magazine. Adventure in other worlds . . . mystery, intrigue, suspense! (,Publ. ed. $3.50) DRAGON IN THE SEA by Frank Herbert You’re on a 21st-century undersea mission from which no human has ever returned. Now, 8000 feet down, you learn that an unknown crewman wants you DEAD1 (Publ. ed. $2.95) BEST SCIENCE-FICTION STORIES AND NOVELS: 1956 Ed. by T. E. Dikty 14 top-notch short stories and novelettes by such well known writers as Robert Bloch. Frank Robinson, Mark Clifton, many others. (Publ. ed. $3.95) IT’S TRUE! You get “SATEL- LITE” plus ANY 2 of these other exciting books — worth up to $11.40 in publishers’ editions— for only $1 if you join this new kind of book club NOW. They’re all by top-flight authors. And they’re loaded with rocket-fast reading that takes you soaring through time and space. All in handsomely bound library editions you’ll be proud to own ! Mail coupon below — without money — TODAY ! TREASURY OF SCIENCE- FICTION CLASSICS 4 fsynous novels; a complete play; scores of all-time great S-F stories, including H. G. Wells’ “Invasion from Mars,” made famous by Orson Welles' hoax news- cast. (publ. ed. $2.95) OMNIBUS OF SCIENCE-FICTION 43 classic stories by top authors. Wonders of Earth and Man, Amazing Inventions, Space travel and visitors from outer space. Adventures in dimension. Worlds of to- morrow. (Publ. ed. $3.50) SEND NO MONEY — Just Mail Coupon Indicate on coupon your choice of ANY 2 of these new science-fic- tion masterpieces which you want in addition to “Satellite !” One book will be considered your first selection for which you’ll be billed only $1 plus a few cents postage. The other 2 are FREE as a membership GIFT. Every month you will be offered the cream of the new $2.50 to $3.95 science-fiction books_for only $1 each. You take only those books you really want_as few as four a year. But this offer may be withdrawn at any time. So mail coupon RIGHT NOW to: SCIENCE-FICTION BOOK CLUB Dept. IF-8, Garden City, N. Y. SCIENCE-FICTION BOOK CLUB Dept. IF-8, Garden City, N. Y. Enroll me as a member, and rush me my full-length hand- somely bound copy of “SATELLITE!” plus the two books indi- cated below. Bill me only $1 (plus few cents shipping charges). Every month send me the Club’s free bulletin, “Things to Come,” so that I may decide whether or not I wish to receive the coming monthly selection described therein. For each book I accept, I will pay only $1 plus shipping. I do NOT have to take a book every month (only four during each year I am a member) — and I may resign at any time after accepting four selections. SPECIAL NO-RISK GUARANTEE: If not delighted. I may return all books in 7 days, pay nothing, and this membership will be cancelled. □ Astounding S-F Anthology □ Dragon in the Sea □ Best from Fantasy and S-F □ Omnibus of S-F □ Best S-F Stories and Novels □ Treasury of S-F Classics f. Narm (PLEASE PRINT) Zone State Selection price in Canada $1.10 plus shipping. Address Science-Fiction Book Club (Canada), 105 Bond St. Toronto 2. (Good only in Continental U. S. and Canada)

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