Worlds of IF (September 1962)

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SEPTEMBER 1962 • 35c - WORLDS OF TION THE WINNING OF THE MOON BY KRIS NEVILLE CULTURAL EXCHANGE BY KEITH LAUMER GORDON DICKSON • VANCE AANDAHL THE SNOWBANK ORBIT DRAMATIC ADVENTURE AT THE ENDS OF THE SOLAR SYSTEM -

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Ito nr iXamr ©rrc 'AA-12 by Cullen Rapp Your Name Here No. GX-57 by Lynd Ward FINAGLE SAYS — The umpteenth corollary of Finagle's General Law of Dynamic Negatives says: "No books are ever lost by loaning except ones you particularly want to keep." 100 for $4; 200, $6; 300, $8 with owner's name imprinted All Postpaid. Add state sales tax, if any, ACTUAL SIZE, all designs, 3x4inche* The designs shown above are the only ones we offer? Order from II" MAGAZINE 421 Hudson Street, New York 14, N. Y. YOUR NAME HERE No. GF-614 by Emsh No. GF-612 by Emsh YOUR NAME HERE The BEMs in your neighborhood won't run off with your books if you put inside the front cover of each book ... a gummed bookplate with your name printed on it!

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Do You Laugh Your Greatest Powers Away? THOSE STRANGE INNER URGES You have heard the phrase; "Laugh, clown, laugh.” Well, that fits me perfectly. I’d fret, worry and try to reason my way out of difficulties— all to no avail; then I’d have a hunch, a something within that would tell me to do a certain thing. I’d laugh it off with a shrug. I knew too much, I thought, to heed these impress sions. Well, it’s different now— I've learned to use this inner power and I no longer make the mis- takes I did, because I do the right thing at the right time. This FREE BOOK Will Prove What Your Mind Can Do! Here is how I got started right: I had heard about hypnosis reveal- ing past lives. I began to think there must be some inner intelli- gence with which we were born. In fact, I often heard it said there was; but how could I use it, how could I make it work for me daily? That was my problem: I wanted to learn to direct this inner voice; master it if I could. Finally, I wrote to the Rosicrucians, a world-wide fraternity of progressive men and women, who offered to send me, without obligation, a free book entitled The Mastery of Life. That book opened a new world to me. I advise you to write today and ask for your copy. It will prove to you what your mind can demon- strate. Don’t go through life laughing your mental powers away. Simply write: Scribe J.F.W, Tfie ROSICRUCIANS (AMORC) (Not a Religious Organization) San Jose, California, U.S. A.

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worlds of Vol. 12 1 Number 4 September 1962 All Stories New and Complete science fiction / Robert M. Guinn, Publisher Sam Ruvidich, Art Director Frederik Pohl, Editor Theodore Sturgeon, Feature Editor NOVELETTES The Snowbank Orbit by Fritz Leiber 8 The Winning of the Moon by Kris Neville 28 The Big Headache by Jim Harmon 49 Once Around Arcturus by Joseph Green 70 Cultural Exchange by Keith Laumer 107 SHORT STORIES 1,492,633 .Marlon Brandos by Vance Aandahl 24 And Then There Wc;s Peace by Gordon R. Dickson 46 Transient by William Harris 65 World in a Mirror by Albert Teichner 94 SPECIAL FEATURES The Worlds of Science Editorial 5 You and Nostradamus — Continued 92 “Just Westing'" by Theodore Sturgeon 101 Hue and Cry 125 Cover by Wenzel from The Snowbank Orbit Next issue (November) on sale September 13th JP published bi-monthly by Digest Productions Corporation, Vol. 12, No. 4 Main Office: 421 Hudson Street, New York 14, New York 36c per copy. Subscriptions 12 issues $3.00 in the United States, Canada, Mexico, South and Central America and U. S. possessions, elsewhere $4.00. Second-class postage paid at New York, New York, and at additional mailing offices. Copyright by Digest Productions Corporation, 1962. All rights including translations reserved. All material submitted must be accompanied by self-addressed stamped envelopes. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited material. All stories printed in this magazine are fic- tion, and any similarity between characters and actual persons is coinciden- tal. Printed in the U. S. A. by the Guinn Company, Inc., New. York 14, N. Y.

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IF • Editorial THE WORLDS OF SCIENCE JUST at press time, we re- ceived a package in the mail and found it of such imme- diate interest that we empty it herewith into your lap. Brevity is the soul of speed. These short notes can’t begin to do full justice to THE WORLDS OF SCIENCE, a handsome new series from Pyramid. Six books have been released at this writing. They are : THE HUMAN BRAIN, by John Pfeiffer. This a general reader’s study of the brain, what it is, how it works, how it goes wrong and what can be done about it when it does. The author has an engaging style, running strongly to il- lustrative anecdote. Some of this material is really fas- cinating, such as the minute description of the stereotaxic surgery techniques which are replacing lobotomies, and such as-yet-unexplained phe- nomena as the fact that “Wizard-of-Oz” (i.e., green) eyeglasses can prevent certain types of epileptic seizures, and that in many cases blood tests can indicate psychotic “explosions” before they oc- cur. MAYA, by Charles Gallen- kamp. Photographs, most by the author. For many years the rise and fall of the rich and highly-developed Mayan empire, which reached its peak more than a thousand years ago, has been regarded as an “impenetrable” mys- tery. The penetration of it reads like the most exciting of detective stories, which of course it is. Mr. Gallenkamp writes like a lover (well, per- haps more clear-eyed than that!) on Maya in particular and archaeology in general, so that one gets, as a sort of side bonus, generous helpings of the history and techniques of this entrancing field of work, and also of its value ; for archaeology, especially of iso- lated cultures, helps immeas- urably in the understanding of the anatomy of civilization. 5

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This book goes back to the dim origins of Maya, follows it to its heights, studies its religion and daily life, its cataclysmic collision with the Spaniards and its still mys- terious extinction. NINE PLANETS* by Alan E. Nourse. Many line cuts, and a section of Mel Hunter paint- ings. A glance through this marvelous (a word here care- fully chosen) book makes one wonder if Nourse is soaked in sf or sf writers soaked in Nourse. Here in clear logical explication are such fan’s de- lights as the “brightside cross- ing” of Mercury, asteroid mining, the possibility of arti- facts on cosmic debris and many, many more. The author takes off from the earliest re- corded yarns of space-flight, goes on to the birth and na- ture of the sun and the plan- etary system, and then sub- jects each of the planets to as thorough an examination as his great erudition and pow- erful imagination can give. He concludes with a chapter on solar systems beyond the sun and two appendices, one on comparative statistics, the other a glossary. LIVING EARTH, by Peter Farb. If you had the inde- scribable experience of being hooked, as a child, by Henri Fabre or Maeterlinck, you will certainly find in this book the growing excitement which promises you a similar 6 delight. For Farb has a similar gift: the ability to ob- serve acutely, describe ac- curately— and write like a poet. "The slime mold moves, not like a four-footed beast, but like a one-celled pro- tozoan. It ventures out of the soil and migrates at the pace of a slug to exposed positions on rocks and logs. There, in only a few hours, the slimy mass transforms itself into a bouquet of fantastic flowers — wispy things on slender stalks, clusters of exotic blos- soms, puffballs, colored cups, toadstools. The animal has become a plant, one of the most beautiful objects of the soil.” This is a book — possibly the only book — about life in the soil, and it covers a stag- gering amount of information on extremely diverse fields. CHEMISTRY CREATES A NEW WORLD. If you know no more about chemistry than how to spell it, Jaffe will competently take you through a definition of it, a survey of the whole field, its history and its symbols; and finally to an item-by-item examina- tion of certain broad special- ties in which new worlds are coming to light: medicines, foods, metals, synthetic gaso- line and rubber and fibers, new elements, and atomic en- ergy. By the time he’s done with you, you will take far less for granted those nylon socks, that wormless apple, that tire that waited for

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24,000 miles before its first finally, From Instinct to puncture. Jaffe’s real special- Thought. With these as mile- ty: telling you how . stones, he describes life on Earth from its origins THE ROAD TO MAN, by through the dazzling diversity Herbert Wendt. Wendt, of habitat and species, though no slouch as a writer through, at last, the anthro- himself, has a talent that poids up to but not including amounts to genius for finding man. quotations from works new and old, from many different A LL in all, THE WORLDS European and American SCIENCE earns sources, to add color and Pyramid some warm congrat- depth and change-of-pace to ulations. Good news comes in his own vivid narrations. He the package along with these is generous with this gift, so books: a second group of that the sense of color in this titles is due for release, and unusual book is at times al- will include some originals most overwhelming. The sec- expressly written for the se- tions of the volume (each ries. If the publishers can with a half-dozen or more keep up the quality, and avoid chapters) give an idea of his the danger of filling holes approach and its scope : Moth- with whatever is available, er Ocean; The Leap to the they have an opportunity to Mainland; Into the At- create as fine a popular sci- mosphere; The Conquest of ence library as has yet been the Great Open Spaces; and assembled. END IT TAKES TWO . . . YOU and The Salvation Army Don't forget to put these people on your Christmas list — the lonely aged, the sick, the underprivileged children, the hungry and homeless. To make sure they are remembered, give to The Salvation Army in your com- munity. With your contribution. The Salvation Army will make Christmas a joyful season for the less fortunate. THE WORLDS OF SCIENCE 7

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IF • Novelette THE pole stars of the other planets cluster around Po- laris and Octans, but Uranus spins on a snobbishly differ- ent axis between Aldebaran and Antares. The Bull is her coronet and the Scorpion her footstool. Dear blowzy old bitch-planet, swollen and pale and cold, mad with your Shakespearean moons, white- mottled as death from Vener- ean Plague, spinning on your side like a poisoned pregnant cockroach, rolling around the sun like a fat drunken floozie with green hair rolling on the black floor of an infinite bar- room, what a sweet last view of the Solar System you are for a cleancut young space- man . . Grunfeld chopped off that train of thought short. He was young and the First Interstel- lar War had snatched him up and now it was going to pitch him and twenty other Joes out of the System on a fast curve breaking around Uranus — and so what! He shivered to get a little heat and then applied himself to the occulted star he was tracking through Pros- pers bridge telescope. The star was a twentieth planetary diameter into Uranus, the crosslines showed — a glint al- most lost in pale green. That meant its light was bulleting 1600 miles deep through the seventh planet's thick hydro- gen atmosphere, unless he were seeing the star on a BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by Mack THE SNOWBANK ORBIT Earth could not stop the Enemy’s remorseless advance from outer space. Neither could the Enemy! THE SNOWBANK ORBIT 9

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mirage trajector y — and at least its depth agreed with the time since rim contact. At 2000 miles he lost it. That should mean 2000 miles plus of hydrogen soup above the methane ocean, an Amer- ica-wide layer of gaseous gunk for the captain to play the mad hero in with the fleet. Grunfeld didn’t think the captain wanted to play the mad hero. The captain hadn’t gone space-simple in any ob- vious way like Croker and Ness. And he wasn’t, like Jackson, a telepathy-racked visionary entranced by the Enemy. Worry and responsi- bility had turned the captain’s face into a skull which floated in Grunfeld’s imagination when he wasn’t actually see- ing it, but the tired eyes deep- sunk in the dark sockets were still cool and perhaps sane. But because of the worry the captain always wanted to have the last bit of fact bearing on the least likely maneuver, and two pieces of evidence were better than one. Grunfield found the next sizable star due to occult. Five-six min- utes to rim contact. He float- ed back a foot from the tele- scope, stretching out his thin body in the plane of the eclip- tic— strange how he automat- ically assumed that orienta- tion in free fall! He blinked and blinked, then rested his eyes on the same planet he'd been straining them on. The pale greenish bulk of Uranus was centered in the big bridge spaceshield against the black velvet dark and bay- onet-bright stars, a water- splotched and faded char- treuse tennis ball on the dia- mond-spiked bed of night. At eight million miles she looked half the width of Luna seen from Earth. Her whitish equa- torial bands went from bottom to top, where, Grunfeld knew, they were spinning out of sight at three miles a second — a gelid waterfall that he imagined tugging at him with ghostly green gangrenous fin- gers and pulling him over into a hydrogen Niagara. Half as wide as Luna. But in a day she’d overflow the port as they whipped past her on a near miss and in another day she’d be as small as this again, but behind them, sun- ward, having altered their outward course by some small and as yet unpredictable an- gle, but no more able to slow Prospero and her sister ships or turn them back at their 100 miles a second than the fleet’s solar jets could operate at this chilly distance from Sol. G’by, fleet. G’by, C.C.Y. spaceman. Grunfeld looked for the pale planet’s moons. Mi- randa and Umbriel were too tiny to make disks, but he dis- tinguished Ariel four diame- ters above the planet and Oberon a dozen below. Spec- tral sequins. If the fleet were going to get a radio signal from any of them, it would have to be Titania, occulted by Fritz Leiber 10

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now by the planet and the noisy natural static of her roiling hydrogen air and seething methane seas — but it had always been only a faint hope that there were survivors from the First Uranus Expe- dition. Grunfeld relaxed his neck and let his gaze drift down across the curving star-bor- dered forward edge of Pros - pero*s huge mirror and the thin jutting beams of the port lattice arm to the dim red-lit gages below the spaceshield. Forward Skin Temperature seven degrees Kelvin. Almost low enough for helium to crawl, if you had some heli- um. Prosperofs insulation, originally designed to hold out solar heat, was doing a fair job in reverse. Aft (sunward) Skin Tem- perature 75 degrees Kelvin. Close to that of Uranus’ sun- lit face. Check. Cabin Temperature 43 de- grees Fahrenheit. Brr! The Captain was a miser with the chem fuel remaining. And rightly... if it were right to drag out life as long as pos- sible in the empty icebox be- yond Uranus. Gravities of Acceleration zero. Many other zeros. The four telltales for the fleet unblinkingly glowed dimmest blue — one each for Caliban , Snug, Moth , and Starveling, following Pros- pero in line astern on slave automatic — though for months inertia had done all five ships’ THE SNOWBANK ORBIT piloting. Once the buttons had been green, but they’d wiped that color off the boards be- cause of the Enemy. The gages still showed their last maximums. Skin 793 Kel- vin, Cabin 144 Fahrenheit, Gravs 3.2. All of them hit al- most a year ago, when they’d been ace-ing past the sun. Grunfield’s gaze edged back to the five bulbous pressure suits, once more rigidly up- right in their braced racks, that they’d been wearing dur- ing that stretch of accelera- tion inside the orbit of Mer- cury. He started. For a mo- ment he’d thought he saw the dark-circled eyes of the cap- tain peering between two of the bulging black suits. Nerves! The captain had to be in his cabin, readying alter- nate piloting programs for Copperhead. Suddenly Grunfeld jerked his face back toward the spaceshield — so violently that his body began very slowly to spin in the opposite direction. This time he’d thought he saw the Enemy’s green flashing near the margin of the planet — bright green, viridian, far vivider than that of Uranus herself. He drew himself to the telescope and feverishly studied the area. Nothing at all. N erves again. If the Ene- my were much nearer than a light-minute, Jackson would esp it and give warning. The next star was still three min- utes from rim contact. Grun- felds mind retreated to the 1 1

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circumstances that had brought Prospero (then only Mercury One) out here. II WHEN the First Interstel- lar War erupted, the pio- neer fleets of Earth's nations had barely pushed their ex- plorations beyond the orbit of Saturn. Except for the vessels of the International Meteor Guard, spaceflight was still a military enterprise of Ameri- ca, Russia, England and the other mega-powers. During the first months the advantage lay wholly with the slim black cruisers of the Ene- my, who had an antigravity which allowed them to hover near planets without going into orbit; and a frightening degree of control over light itself. Indeed, their principal weapon was a tight beam of visible light, a dense photonic stiletto with an effective range of several Jupiter-di- ameters in vacuum. They also used visible light, in the green band, for communication as men use radio, sometimes broadcasting it and sometimes beaming it loosely in strange abstract pictures that seemed part of their language. Their gravity-immune ships moved by reaction to photonic jets the tightness of which ren- dered them invisible except near the sun, where they tend- ed to ionize electronically dir- ty volumes of space. It was probably this effective invisi- 12 bility, based on light-control, which allowed them to pene- trate the Solar System as deep as Earth's orbit undetected, rather than any power of trav- el in time or sub-space, as was first assumed. Earthmen could only guess at the physical ap- pearance of the Enemy, since no prisoners were taken on either side. Despite his impressive ma- neuverability and armament, the Enemy was oddly timid about attacking live planets. He showed no fear of the big gas planets, in fact hovering very close to their turgid sur- faces, as if having some way of fueling from them. Near Terra the first tactic of the black cruisers, after de- stroying Lunostrovok and Circumluna, was to hover be- hind the moon, as though shar- ing its tide-lockedness — a cir- cumstance that led to a sortie by Earth’s Combined Fleet, England and Sweden ex- cepted. At the wholly disastrous Battle of the Far Side, which was visible in part to naked- eye viewers on Earth, the Combined Fleet was annihil- ated. No Enemy ship was cap- tured, boarded, or seriously damage d — except for one which, apparently by a fluke, was struck by a fission-headed anti-missile and proceded af- ter the blast to “burn," mean- ing that it suffered a slow and puzzling disintegration, ac- companied by a dazzling rain- bow display of visible radia- by Fritz Leiber

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tion. This was before the “stu- pidity” of the Enemy with re- guard to small atomic missiles was noted, or their allergy to certain radio wave bands, and also before Terran telepaths began to claim cloudy contact with Enemy minds. Following Far Side, the Enemy burst into activity, harrying Terran spacecraft as far as Mercury and Saturn, though still showing great caution in maneuver and mak- ing no direct attacks on plan- ets. It was as if a race of heav- ily armed marine creatures should sink all ocean-going ships or drive them to harbor, but make no assaults beyond the shore line. For a full year Earth, though her groundside and satellite rocketyards were furiously busj', had no vehicle in deep space — with one ex- ception. AT the onset of the War a fleet of five mobile bases of the U. S. Space Force were in Orbit to Mercury, where it was intended they take up sat- ellite positions prior to the prospecting and mineral ex- ploitation of the small sun- blasted planet. These five ships, each with a skeleton five-man crew, were essential- ly Ross-Smith space stations with a solar drive, assembled in space and intended solely for space-to-space flight in- side Earth’s orbit. A huge par- aboloid mirror, its diameter four times the length of the ship’s hull, superheated at its THE SNOWBANK ORBIT focus the hydrogen which was ejected as a plasma at high exhaust velocity. Each ship likewise mounted versatile ra- dio-radar equipment on dual lattice arms and carried as ship’s launch a two-man chem- ical fuel rocket adaptable as a fusion-headed torpedo. After Far Side, this “tin can” fleet was ordered to by- pass Mercury and, tacking on the sun, shape an orbit for Uranus, chiefly because that remote planet, making its 84- year circuit of Sol, was cur- rently on the opposite side of the sun to the four inner planets and the two nearer gas giants Jupiter and Saturn. In the empty regions of space the relatively defenseless fleet might escape the attention of the Enemy. However, while still accel- erating into the sun for maxi- mum boost, the fleet received information that two Enemy cruisers were in pursuit. The five ships cracked on all pos- sible speed, drawing on the solar drive’s high efficiency near the sun and expending all their hydrogen and most material capable of being vap- orized, including some of the light-metal hydrogen storage tanks — like an old steamer burning her cabin furniture and the cabins themselves to win a race. Gradually the curving course that wrould have taken years to reach the outer planet flattened into a hyperbola that would make the journey in 200 days. 13

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In the asteroid belt the pur- suing cruisers turned aside to join in the crucial Battle of the Trojans with Earth's largely new-built, more heav- ily and wisely armed Com- bined Fleet — a battle that proved to be only a prelude to the decisive Battle of Jupi- ter. Meanwhile the five-ship fleet sped onward, its solar drive quite useless in this twi- light region even if it could have scraped together the needed boilable ejectant mass to slow its flight. Weeks be- came months. The ships were renamed for the planet they were aimed at. At least the fleet’s trajectory had been truly set. Almost on collision course it neared Uranus, a mystery- cored ball of frigid gas 32,000 miles wide coasting through space across the fleet’s course at a lazy four miles a second. At this time the fleet was traveling at 100 miles a second. Beyond Ura- nus lay only the interstellar night, into which the fleet would inevitably vanish... UNLESS, Grunfeld told himself .. .unless the fleet shed its velocity by ramming the gaseous bulk of Uranus. This idea of atmospheric brak- ing on a grand scale had sounded possible at first sug- gestion, half a year ago— a lit- tle like a man falling off a mountain or from a plane and saving his life by dropping 14 into a great thickness of feath- ery new-fallen snow. Supposing her solar jet worked out here and she had the reaction mass, Prospero could have shed her present velocity in five hours, decel- erating at a comfortable one G. But allowing her 12,000 miles of straight-line travel through Uranus’ frigid soupy atmosphere — and that might be dipping very close to the methane seas blanketing the planet’s hypothetical mineral core — Prospero would have two minutes in which to shed her velocity. Two minutes — at 150 Gs. Men had stood 40 and 50 Gs for a fractional second. But for two minutes... Grunfeld told himself that the only surer way to die would be to run into a section of the Enemy fleet. According to one calculation the ship’s skin would melt by heat of friction in 90 seconds, despite the low temperature of the abrading atmosphere. The star Grunfeld had been waiting for touched the hazy rim of Uranus. He drifted back to the eyepiece and began to follow it in as the pale planet’s hydrogen muted its diamond brilliance. Ill IN the aft cabin, lank hairy- wristed Croker pinned an- other blanket around black Jackson as the latter shivered by Fritz Leiber

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in his trance. Then Croker turned on a small light at the head of the hammock. “Captain won’t like that,” plump pale Ness observed tranquilly from where he floated in womb position across the cabin. “Enemy can feel a candle of our light, cap- tain says, ten million miles away.” He rocked his elbows for warmth and his body wob- bled in reaction like a polly- wog’s. “And Jackson hears the Enemy think. . .and Heimdall hears the grass grow,” Croker commented with a harsh man- ic laugh. “Isn’t an Enemy for a billion miles, Ness.” He launched aft from the ham- mock. “We haven’t spotted their green since Saturn or- bit. There’s nowhere for them.” “There’s the far side of Uranus,” Ness pointed out. “That’s less than ten million miles now. Eight. A bare day. They could be there.” “Yes, waiting to bushwack us as we whip past on our way to eternity,” Croker chuckled as he crumpled up against the aft port, shedding momentum. “That’s likely, isn’t it, when they didn’t have time for us back in the Belt?” He scowled at the tiny white sun, no big- ger a disk than Venus, but still with one hundred times as much light as the full moon pouring from it — too much light to look at comfortably. He began to button the inner cover over the port. THE SNOWBANK ORBIT “Don’t do that,” Ness ob- jected without conviction. “There’s not much heat in it but there’s some.” He hugged his elbows and shivered. “I don’t remember being warm since Mars orbit.” “The sun gets on my nerves,” Croker said. “It’s like looking at an arc light through a pinhole. It’s like a high, high jail light in a cold con- crete yard. The stars are highlights on the barbed wire.” He continued to button out the sun. “You ever in jail?” Ness asked. Croker grinned. WITH the tropism of a fish, Ness began to pad- dle toward the little light at the head of Jackson’s ham- mock, flicking his hands from the wrists like flippers. “I got one thing against the sun,” he said quietly. “It’s blanketing out the radio. I’d like us to get one more message from Earth. We haven’t tried rig- ging our mirror to catch radio waves. I’d like to hear how we won the battle of Jupiter.” “If we won it,” Croker said. “Our telescopes show no more green around Jove,” Ness reminded him. “We counted 27 rainbows of Ene- my cruisers ‘burning.’ Captain verified the count.” “Repeat : if we won it.” Croker pushed off and drifted back toward the hammock. “If there was a real victory mes- sage they’d push it through, even if the sun’s in the way 15

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and it takes three hours to catch us. People who win, shout.” Ness shrugged as he pad- died. “One way or the other, we should be getting the news soon from Titania station,” he said. “They’ll have heard.” “If they’re still alive and there ever was a Titania Sta- tion,” Croker amended, back- ing air violently to stop him- self as he neared the ham- mock. “Look, Ness, we know that the First Uranus Expe- dition arrived. At least they set off their flares. But that was three years before the War and we haven’t any idea of what’s happened to them since and if they ever man- aged to set up housekeeping on Titania — or Ariel or Ober- on or even Miranda or Um- briel. At least if they built a station could raise Earth I haven’t been told. Sure thing Prospero hasn’t heard any- thing.-.and we’re getting close.” “I won’t argue,” Ness said. “Even if we raise ’em, it’ll just be hello-goodby with maybe time between for a bat- tle report.” “And a football score and a short letter from home, ten seconds per man as the sta- tion fades.” Croker frowned and added, “If Captain had cottoned to my idea, two of us at any rate could have got off this express train at Uranus.” “Tell me how,” Ness asked drily. “How? Why, one of the 16 ship’s launches. Replace the fusion-head with the cabin. Put all the chem fuel in the tanks instead of divvying it between the ship and the launch.” “I haven’t got the brain for math Copperhead has, but I can subtract,” Ness said, re- ferring to Prospero’s piloting robot. “Fully fueled, one of the launches has a max veloc- ity change in free-fall of 30 miles per second. Use it all in braking and you’ve only taken 30 from 100. The launch is still going past Uranus and out of the system at 70 miles a second.” “You didn’t hear all my idea,” Croker said. “You put piggyback tanks on your launch and top them off with the fuel from the other four launches. Then you’ve 100 miles of braking and a maneu- vering reserve. You only need to shed 90 miles, anyway. Ten miles a second’s the close cir- cum-Uranian velocity. Go into circum-Uranian orbit and wait for Titania to send their jeep to pick you up. Have to start the maneuver four hours this side of Uranus, though. Take that long at 1 G to shed it.” “Cute,” Ness conceded. “Es- pecially the jeep. But I’m glad just the same we've got 70 per cent of our chem fuel in our ships’ tanks instead of the launches. We’re on such a bull’s eye course for Uranus — Copperhead really pulled a miracle plotting our orbit — that we may need a sidewise by Fritz Leiber

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shove to miss her. If we slapped into that cold hydro- gen soup at our 100 mps — ” Croker shrugged. “We still could have dropped a couple of us,” he said. Uf^APTAIN’S got to look ^ after the whole fleet,” Ness said. “You’re beginning to agitate, Croker, like you was Grunfeld — or the captain himself.” “But if Titania Station’s alive, a couple of men dropped off would do the fleet some good. Stir Titania up to punch a message through to Earth and get a really high-speed re- trieve-and-rescue ship started out after us. If we’ve won the War.” “But Titania Station’s dead or never was, not to mention its jeep. And we’ve lost the Eattle of Jupiter. You said so yourself,” Ness asserted owl- ishly. “Captain’s got to look after the whole fleet.” “Yeah, so he kills himself fretting and the rest of us die of old age in the outskirts of the Solar System. Join the Space Force and See the Stars! Ness, do you know how long it’d take us to reach the nearest star — except we aren’t headed for her — at our 100 mps? Eight thousand years!” “That’s a lot of time to kill,” Ness said. “Let’s play chess.” Jackson sighed and they both looked quickly at the dark unlined face above the cocoon, but the lips did not THE SNOWBANK ORBIT flutter again, or the eyelids. Croker said, ''Suppose’ he knows what the Enemy looks like?” “I suppose,” Ness said. “When he talks about them it’s as if he was their inter- preter. How about the chess?” “Suits. Knight to King Bishop Three.” “Hmm. Knight to King Knight Two, Third Floor.” “Hey, I meant flat chess, not three-D,” Croker objected. “That thin old game? Why, I no sooner start to get the position really visualized in my head than the game’s over.” “I don’t want to start a game of three-D with Uranus only 18 hours away.” Jackson stirred in his ham- mock. His lips worked. “They. . .” he breathed. Crok- er and Ness instantly watched him. “They...” “I wonder if he is really in- side the Enemy’s mind?” Ness said. “He thinks he speaks for them,” Croker replied and the next instant felt a warning touch on his arm and looked sideways and saw dark-circled eyes in a skull-angular face under a battered cap with a tarnished sunburst. D a m a thought Croker, how does the captain always know when Jackson’s going to talk? “They are waiting for us on the other side of Uranus,” Jackson breathed. His lips trembled into a smile and his voice grew a little louder, 17

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though his eyes stayed shut. “They’re welcoming us, they’re our brothers.” The smile died. “But they know they got to kill us, they know we got to die.” The hammock with its tight-swathed form began to move past Croker and he snatched at it. The captain had pushed off from him for the hatch leading forward. GRUNFELD was losing the new star at 2200 miles into Uranus when he saw the two viridian flares flashing be- tween it and the rim. Each flash was circled by a fleet- ing bright green ring, like a mist halo. He thought he’d be afraid when he saw that green again, but what he felt was a jolt of excitement that made him grin. With it came a touch on his shoulder. He thought, the captain always knows. “Ambush,” he said. “At least two cruisers.” He yielded the eyepiece to the captain. Even without the telescope he could see those incredibly brilliant green flickers. He asked himself if the Enemy was already gun- ning for the fleet through Uranus. The blue telltales for Cali- ban and Starveling began to blink. “They’ve seen it too,” the captain said. He snatched up the mike and his next words rang through the Prospero . “Rig ship for the snowbank THE SNOWBANK ORBIT orbit ! Snowbank orbit with stinger! Mr. Grunfeld, raise the fleet.” Aft, Croker muttered, “Rig our shrouds, don’t he mean? Rig shrouds and firecrackers mounted on Fourth of July rockets.” Ness said, “Cheer up. Even the longest strategic with- drawal in history has to end some time.” IV THREE quarters of a day later Grunfeld felt a spasm of futile fear and re- volt as the pressure suit closed like a thick-fleshed carnivorous plant on his drugged and tired body. Re- lax, he told himself. Fine thing if you cooked up a fuss when even Croker didn’t. He thought of forty things to re- check. Relax, he repeated — the work’s over; all that matters is in Copperhead’s memory tanks now, or will be as soon as the captain’s suited up. The suit held Grunfeld erect, his arms at his sides — the best attitude, except he was still facing forward, for taking high G, providing the ship herself didn’t start to tumble. Only the cheekpieces and visor hadn’t closed in on his face — translucent hand- thick petals as yet unfolded. He felt the delicate firm pres- sure of built-in fingertips monitoring his pulses and against his buttocks the cold smooth muzzles of the jet hy- 19

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podermics that would feed him metronomic drugs during the high-G stretch and stimu- lants when they were in free- fall again. When. He could swing his head and eyes just enough to make out the suits of Croker and Ness to either side of him and their profiles wavy through the jutting misty cheekpieces. Ahead to the left was Jackson — just the back of his suit, like a black snowman stand- ing at attention, pale-olive- edged by the great glow of Uranus. And to the right the captain, his legs suited but his upper body still bent out to the side as he checked the monitor of his suit with its glowing blue button and the manual controls that would lie under his hands during the maneuver. Beyond the captain was the spaceshield, the lower quarter of it still blackness and stars, but the upper three-quarters filled with the onrushing planet's pale mottled green that now had the dulled rich- ness of watered silk. They were so close that the rim hardly showed curvature. The atmosphere must have a steep gradient, Grunfeld thought, or they'd already be feeling de- cel. That stuff ahead looked more like water than any kind of air. It bothered him that the captain was still half out of his suit. There should be action and shouted commands, Grunfeld thought, to fill up these last 20 tight-stretched minutes. Last orders to the fleet, port cov- ers being cranked shut, some- one doing a countdown on the firing of their torpedo. But the last message had gone to the fleet minutes ago. Its robot pilots were set to follow Prospero and imitate, nothing else. And all the rest was up to Copperhead. Still... Grunfeld wet his lips. “Cap- tain," he said hesitantly. “Cap- tain?" “Thank you, Granfeld." He caught the edge of the skull’s answering grin. “We are be- ginning to hit hydrogen," the quiet voice went on. “Forward skin temperature's up to 9 K." Beyond the friendly skull, a great patch of the rim of Uranus flared bright green. As if that final stimulus had been needed, Jackson began to talk dreamily from his suit. “They’re still welcoming us and grieving for us. I begin to get it a little more now. Their ship’s one thing and they're another. Their ship is frightened to death of us. It hates us and the only thing it knows to do is to kill us. They can't stop it, they’re even less than passengers. . ." The captain was in his suit now. Grunfeld sensed a faint throbbing and felt a rush of cold air. The cabin refrigera- tion system had started up, carrying cabin heat to the lat- tice arms. Intended to protect them from solar heat, it would now do what it could against the heat of friction. by Fritz Leiber

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The straight edge of Uranus was getting hazier. Even the fainter stars shone through, spangling it. A bell jangled and the pale green segment narrowed as the steel meteor panels began to close in front of the spaceshield. Soon there was only a narrow vertical ribbon of green — bright green as it narrowed to a thread — then for a few seconds only blackness except for the dim red and blue beads and semi- circles, just beyond the cap- tain, of the board. Then the muted interior cabin lights glowed on. JACKSON droned: “They and their ships come from very far away, from the edge. If this is the continuum, they come from the. . .discontinu- um, where they don’t have stars but something else and where gravity is different. Their ships came from the edge on a gust of fear with the other ships, and our broth- ers came with it though they didn’t want to. . .” And now Grunfeld thought he began to feel it — the first faint thrill, less than a cob- web’s tug, of weight. The cabin wall moved side- ways. Grunfeld’s suit had be- gun to revolve slowly on a vertical axis. For a moment he glimpsed Jackson’s dark profile — all five suits were revolving in their framework. They locked into position when the men in them were facing aft. Now at THE SNOWBANK ORBIT least retinas wouldn’t pull for- ward at high-G decel, oT spines crush through thorax and abdomen. The cabin air was cold on Grunfeld’s forehead. And now he was sure he felt weight — maybe five pounds of it. Sud- denly aft was up. It was as if he were lying on his back on the spaceshield. A sudden snarling roar came through his suit from the beams bracing it. He lost weight, then regained it and a little more besides. He real- ized it was their torpedo tak- ing off, to skim by Uranus in the top of the atmosphere and then curve inward the lit- tle their chem fuel would let them, homing toward the En- emy. He imaged its tiny red jet over the great gray-green glowing plain. Four more would be taking off from the other ships — the fleet’s feeble sting. Like a bee’s, just one, in dying. The cheekpieces and fore- headpiece of Grunfeld’s suit began to close on his face like layers of pliable ice. Jackson called faintly, “Now I understand. Their ship — ” His voice was cut off. Grunfeld’s ice-mask was tight shut. He felt a small surge of vigor as the suit took over his breathing and sent his lungs a gush of high-oxy air. Then came a tingling numbness as the suit field went on, adding an extra prop against decel to each molecule of his body. 21

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But the weight was grow- ing. He was on the moon now . . . now on Mars . . . now back on Earth ... The weight was stifling now, crushing — a hill of in- visible sand. Grunfeld saw a black pillow hanging in the cabin above him aft. It had red fringe around it. It grew. There was a whistling and shaking. Everything lurched torturingly, the ship’s jets roared, everything recovered, or didn’t. The black pillow came down on him, crushing out sight, crushing out thought. THE universe was a black tingling, a limitless ache floating in a larger black in- finity. Something drew back and there was a dry fiery wind on numb humps and ridges — the cabin air on his face, Grunfeld decided, then shiv- ered and started at the thought that he was alive and in freefall. His body didn’t feel like a mass of internal hemorrhages. Or did it? He spun slowly. It stopped. Dizziness? Or the suits revolving forward again? If they’d actually come through — There was a creaking and cracking. The ship contract- ing after frictional heating? There was a faint stink like ammonia and formaldehyde mixed. A few Uranian mole- cules forced past plates racked by turbulence? He saw dim red specks. The 22 board? Or last flickers from ruined retinas? A bell jangled. He waited, but he saw noth- ing. Blind? Or the meteor guard jammed? No wonder if it were. No wonder if the cab- in lights were broken. The hot air that had dried his sweaty face rushed down the front of his body. Needles of pain pierced him as he slumped forward out of the top of his opening suit. Then he saw the horizontal band of stars outlining the top of the spaceshield and below it the great field of inky black, barely convex upward, that must , he realized, be the dark side of Uranus . Pain ignored, Grunfeld pushed himself forward out of his suit and pulled himself past the captain’s to the space- shield. The view stayed the same, though broadening out: stars above, a curve-edged velvet black plain below. They were orbiting. A pulsing, color-changing glow from somewhere showed him twisted stumps of the ra- dio lattices. There was no sign of the mirror at all. It must have been torn away, or va- porized completely, in the fiery turbulence of decel. New maxs showed on the board : Cabin Temperature 214 F, Skin Temperature 907 K, Gravs 87. Then in the top of the spacefield, almost out of vi- sion, Grunfeld saw the source of the pulsing glow: two BY Fritz Leiber

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sharp-ended ovals flickering brightly all colors against the pale starfields, like two dead fish phosphorescing. “The torps got to ’em,” Croker said, pushed forward beside Grunfeld to the right. 66T did find out at the end/' -A Jackson said quietly from the left, his voice at last free of the trance-tone. “The En- emy ships weren’t ships at all. They were (there’s no other word for it) space animals. We’ve always thought life was a prerogative of planets, that space was inorganic. But you can walk miles through the desert or sail leagues through the sea before you notice life and I guess space is the same. Anyway the Enemy was (what else can I call ’em?) space- whales. Inertialess space- whales from the discontinu- um. Space-whales that ate hy- drogen (that’s the only way I know to say it) and spat light to move and fight. The ones I talked to, our brothers, were just their parasites.” “That’s crazy,” Grunfeld said. “All of it. A child’s pic- ture.” “Sure it is,” Jackson agreed. From beyond Jackson, Ness, punching buttons, said, “Quiet.” The radio came on thin and wailing with static: “Titania Station calling fleet. We have jeep and can orbit in to you. The two Enemy are dead — the last in the System. Titania Station calling fleet. We have THE SNOWBANK ORBIT jeep fueled and set to go— 99 Fleet? thought Grunfeld. He turned back to the board. The first and last blue tell- tales still glowed for Caliban and Starveling. Breathe a prayer, he thought, for Moth and Snug. Something else shone on the board, something Grunfeld knew had to be wrong. Three little words: SHIP ON MAN- UAL. The black rim of Uranus ahead suddenly brightened along its length, which was very slightly bowed, like a section of a giant new moon. A bead formed toward the center, brightened, and then all at once the jail-yard sun had risen and was glaring coldly through its pinhole into their eyes. They looked away from it. Grunfeld turned around. The austere light showed the captain still in his pres- sure suit, only the head fallen out forward, hiding the skull features. Studying the monitor box of the captain’s suit, Grunfeld saw it was set to in- ject the captain with power* stimulants as soon as the Gravs began to slacken from their max. He realized who had done the impossible job of piloting them out of Uranus. But the button on the moni- tor, that should have glowed blue, was as dark as those of Moth and Snug. Grunfeld thought, now he can rest. END 23

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IF • Short Story ONE MILLION FOUR HUNDRED NINETY TWO THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED THIRTY THREE MARLON BRANDOS She liked the Brando type. The more there was of fit, the better! BY VANCE AANDAHL CHESTER McRae. Good old Chet, best man in Ac- counting. Six feet tall, brown hair, brown eyes. Full of vim and vigor, that was good old Chet. “God!” he screamed. “They’re strangling me, the skunks!5’ He rose from bed, his face dripping with sweat and his hands trembling like a frightened child’s. “They’re killing me!” He ran to the bathroom and vomited. His wife was standing by the door when he finished, but he walked past her as if she didn’t exist. “Why, Chester! What’s the matter with you?” she asked, trailing him into the bedroom. “I’ve never heard you talk like that before P For a mo- ment she stood watching him in numb silence. “For good- ness’ sake, Chester, why are you getting dressed at three o’clock in the morning?” “None of your business,” he mumbled, setting a firm upper lip and gazing at her with liz- ard-cold Marlon Brando eyes. He picked up his tie, laughed at it with careless ease and threw it across the room. “See you around, baby,” he hissed, zipping up his trousers and walking past her. “Chester McRae! Where are you going at this time of night? You’ve got to go to work tomorrow ! Don’t you love me any more? Ches- ter. . But her words echoed emp- tily through Chester McRae’s 24

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pleasant little suburban home. Chester was no longer pres- ent. Bartholomew Oliver. Good old Barth, best man on a duck hunt since the guy who in- vented shotguns. Five foot ten, weak chin, gambler's mustache. Good man with small-town girls, too. “Hey, Thelma," he said. “You know what I think?" “Go to sleep." “I think it'd be funnier than hell if I left you flat." “What kind of wisecrack is that? And what do you think you’re doing?" “I'm getting dressed... " “It's three o'clock in the morning." “So? I don’t give a damn." “You'll come back. Drunken louse." He laughed softly and smiled at her in the darkness with ice-white Marlon Brando teeth. Then he was gone. Oswald Williams. Good old Ozzie, best man in the whole philosophy department. Five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, milky eyes. Wrote an outstanding paper on the inherent fallacies of logical positivism. “Louise," he whispered, “I feel uneasy. Very uneasy." His wife lifted her fatty head and gazed happily down at Oswald. “Go to sleep," she said. “If you'll excuse me, I think that I shall take a walk." “But, Oswald, it's three o’clock in the morning!" “Don't be irrational," he whispered. “If I want to take a walk, I shall take a walk." “Well! I don't think you ought to, or you might catch a cold." He rose and dressed, don- ning a tee-shirt and tweed trousers. With snake-swift Marlon Brando hands, he tossed his plaid scarf in her face. “Excuse me, Louise," he whispered, “but I gotta make it. . ." Then, laughing softly, he strode from the room. AT three o’clock in the morning, even a large city is quiet and dark and almost dead. At times, the city twitches in its sleep ; occa- sionally it rolls over or mut- ters to itself. But only rarely is its slumber shattered by a scream. . . “Johnny! Hey, Johnny!" cries Chester McRae, his eyes as dull and poisonous as two tiny toads. “Let's make it, man . . . let's split...” whispers Bartholo- mew Oliver, one finger brush- ing his nose like a rattler nos- ing a dead mouse. “I don make no move with- out my boys," says Oswald Williams, his hands curled like scorpion tails. Together they walk down the street, moving with slow insolence, their lips curled in snarls or slack with indiffer- 1,492,633 MARLON BRANDOS 25

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ence, their eyes glittering with hidden hatreds. But they are not alone in the city. The college boys are coming, in their dirty jeans and beer- stained tee-shirts; so too are the lawyers, in dusty jackets and leather pants ; so come the doctors and the businessmen, on stolen motorcycles ; the bricklayers and gas station attendants, the beatniks and dope pushers, the bankers and lifesaving instructors, the butchers, the bakers, the can- dlestick makers. . .they are all coming, flocking into the city for reasons not their own, wandering in twos and threes and twenties, all of them sul- len and quiet, all of them shuffling beneath darkly-hued clouds of ill intent, all of them proud and deadly and virile, filling the streets by the thousands now, turning the streets into rivers of flesh. . . “Hey, Johnny/’ says Ches- ter, “let’s cool this dump.” “Man, let’s make it with the skirts,” says Bartholomew. “I don see no skirts,” says Chester. “You pig,” snarls Ozzie. The mob is monstrous now. like a pride of lion cubs, be- yond count in their number, without equal in their leonine strength, above the common quick in their immortal pride, milling through the hot black veldt, swarming in the city streets. Millions of them, more than the eye can see or the mind can bear. It seems that 26 no man sleeps, that every male in the great city must walk tonight. “Johnny,” says Chester, “I don dig no chicks on the turf.” “Eeee, colay. What a drag,” whispers Bartholomew. “You goddam logical posi- tivist,” snarls Ozzie. AN uneasy sound ripples through the mob, like the angry hiss of an injured ego, moving from street to street and swelling upward in a sud- den, angry roar... they want their women, the dance-hall girls, the young waitresses, the nowhere chicks in five dollar dresses, the Spanish girls with eyes as dark as the Spanish night. And then, as though by accident, one man looks up at the starry sky and sees her — sees her standing on a balcony far above them, twenty stories above them, up where the wind can blow her hair and billow her blue dress like an orchid of the night. She laughs gently, without fear, gazing down at the mind- less mob of rebels. They laugh too, just as gently, their quiet eyes crawl- ing over the sight of her body, far above. “Thass my chick,” whispers Chester. “Cool it, daddy,” says Bar- tholomew, slipping into a pair of dark glasses and touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. “That skirt is private property.” “You boys may walk and by Vance Aandahl

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talk/’ says Ozzie, "but you don play. You don play with Rio's girl-” Suddenly, angry words and clenched fists erupt from the proud, quiet millions that flood the streets. Suddenly, a roar like the roar of lions rises up and buffets the girl in blue, the girl on the bal- cony. She laughs again, for she knows that they are fight- ing for her, A figure appears on the bal- cony, next to the girl. The figure is a man, and he too is dressed in blue. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it began, the fighting ceases. “My God,” whispers Ches- ter, his cheeks gone pale, “what am I doing out here?” “Maybe I got the D.T.s,” whispers Bartholomew, “but maybe I don’t...” He sits down on the curb and rubs his head in disbelief. Oswald does not speak. His shame is the greatest. He slinks into the darkness of an alley and briefly wishes for an overcoat. The pride of lion cubs has been routed, and now they scatter, each one scrambling for his private den of security, each one lost in a wild and nameless fear. In twc and threes and twenties the) rush back to their homes, their wives, their endless lives. Far above, in the apartment with the balcony, a man in blue is chiding a girl in blue. “That was scarcely reason- able, Dorothy.” 1,492,633 MARLON BRANDOS “But Daddy, you prom- ised to let me have them for the entire night!” “Yes, but...” “I wasn’t really going to let them hurt themselves! Really, I wasn’t!” “But, Dorothy — you know these things can get out of hand.” “Oh, but Daddy, you know how I adore strong, quiet, proud men. Rebellious men like Marlon.” “Yes, and you know how I adore order and peace. There shall be no more riots! And tomorrow our little puppets shall go back to their ‘dull’ lives, as you so wittily put it, and everything shall be as I wish.” THREE hours later, Chester McRae arose at the sound of the alarm, dressed in a stu- por and stumbled into his kitchen for breakfast. “My goodness, Chester,” said his wife, who had already arisen, “you look grouchier than usual! Ha, ha!” He smiled wanly and opened the morning paper. Halfway across town, Bar- tholomew Oliver was still asleep, casually lost in the pleasures of an erotic dream. But Professor Oswald Wil- liams, his tiny jaw unshaven and his eager eyes shot through with fatigue, had been hard at work for three hours, scribbling down his latest exposure of the logical positivists. 27

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IF* Novelette The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was — their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! THE WINNING BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by Burns GENERAL Finogenov no- tified Major Winship that the underground blast was scheduled for the follow- ing morning. Major Winship, after re- ceiving the message, dis- cussed precautions with the three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four 26 of them donned their space suits and went and sat out- side the dome, waiting. The sun rose with its bright, si- lent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadows lay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communi- cate with Base Gagarin.

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OF THE MOON “Will you please request the general to keep us informed on the progress of the count- down ?” “Is Pinov,” came the reply. “Help?” “Nyet” said Major Win- ship, exhausting his Russian. “Count down. Progress. When — boom?” “Is Pinov,” came the reply. “Boom! Boom!” said Major Winship in exasperation. “Boom!” said Pinov hap- pily. “When?” “Boom-boom!” said Pinov. “Oh, nuts.” Major Winship cut out the circuit. “They’ve got Pinov on emergency watch this morning,” he ex- plained to the other Ameri- THE WINNING OF THE MOON 29

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cans. “The one that doesn’t speak English/' “He's done it deliberately,'* said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the four Americans. “How are we going to know when it's over?" No one bothered to re- spond. They sat for a while in silence while the shadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling sys- tems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, “This is a little ridicu- lous. I'm going to switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me." He sat transfixed for several minutes. “Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can’t tell a thing that’s go- ing on." In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. A moth’s wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon: no more. “Static?" “Nope." “We'll get static on these things." A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. “My reefer’s gone on the fritz." Perspiration was trickling down his face. “Let’s all go in,” said the fourth American, Capt. Law- ler. “It’s probably over by now." “I'll try again," Major Winship said and switched to the emergency channel. “Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?" 30 “Is Pinov. Help?" “Nyet." “Pinov's still there," Major Winship said. “Tell him, 'Help'," said Capt. Wilkins, “so he’ll get somebody we can talk to." “I’ll see them all in hell, first," Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the per- spiration was rivers across his face. “This is it," he said. “I’m going in." “Let’s all—" “No. I’ve got to cool off." “Hell, Charlie, I feel stu- pid sitting out here," Capt. Lawler said. “The shot proba- bly went off an hour ago." “The static level hasn’t gone up much, if at all." “Maybe," Lt. Chandler said, “it’s buried too deep." “Maybe so," Major Win- ship said. “But we can’t have the dome fall down around all our ears." He stood. “Whew! You guys stay put." HE crossed with the float- ing moon-motion to the airlock and entered, closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, and the temperature in- side the suit declined steadi- ly. At the proper moment of pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped into the illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second step when the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward, off balance. He stumbled against the table by Kris Nsvills

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and ended up seated beside the radio equipment. The ground moved again. “Charlie ! Charlie !” “I’m okay,” Major Winship answered. “Okay! Okay!” -It’s—” There was additional sur- face movement. The move- ment ceased. “Hey, Les, how’s it look?” Capt. Wilkins asked. “Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?” “Okay,” Major Winship said. “We told them this might happen,” he added bit- terly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding their breath. “I guess it’s over,” said Major Winship, getting to his feet. “Wait a bit more, there may be an aftershock.” He switched once again to the emergency channel. “Is Pinov,” came the su- premely relaxed voice. “Help?” Major Winship whinnied in disgust. “ Nyet /” he snarled. To the other Ameri- cans: “Our comrades seem unconcerned.” “Tough.” They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled and snapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at each other. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communica- tions completely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. THE WINNING OF THE MOON “Well,” Lt. Chandler com- mented, “even though we didn’t build this thing to withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.” “I guess I was just — ” Ma- jor Winship began. “Oh, hell! We’re losing pressure. Where’s the markers?” “By the lug cabinet.” “Got ’em,” Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it away and plas- tered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed as though it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emer- gency air supply which had cut in automatically with the pressure drop. “You guys wait. It’s on your right side, midway up. I’ll try to sheet it.” He moved for the plastic sheeting. “We’ve lost about three feet of calk out here,” Capt. Lawler said. “I can see more ripping loose. You’re losing pressure fast at this rate.” Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. “How’s that?” “Not yet.” “I don’t think I’ve got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It’s sprung a little, and I can’t get it to conform over the rivet heads.” There was a splatter of static. 31

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"Damn!” Major Winship said, “they should have made these things more flexible.” “Still coming out.” “Best I can do.” Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowly to slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on the floor. “Come on in,” he said dry- iy. WITH the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of the five hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Elec- trical cables trailed loosely along the walls and were fes- tooned from the ceiling, radi- ating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The living space was more re- stricted than in a submarine, with the bunks jutting out from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. “Well,” he said wryly, “it doesn’t smell as bad now.” “Oops,” said Major Win- ship. “Just a second. They’re coming in.” He switched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. “Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?” “This is Major Winship.” “Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage. Major?” “Little leak. You?” “Came through without damage.” General Finogenov paused a moment. When no comment was forthcoming, he continued : “Perhaps we built a bit more strongly, Major.” “You did this deliberately,” Major Winship said testily. “No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please be- lieve me. I very much regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. After repeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake — and then to have something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me. Is there anything at all we can do?” “Just leave us alone, thank you,” Major Winship said and cut off the communica- tion. “What’d they say?” Capt. Wilkins asked. “Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.” “That’s nice,” Lt. Chandler said. “I’ll be damned surprised,” Major Winship said, “if they got any seismic data out of that shot... Well, to hell with them, let’s get this leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?’’ “Larry, where’s the inven- tory?” “Les has got it.” Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wil- kins mounted. “Larry,” Major Winship said, “why don’t you get Earth?” 32 by Kris Nevills

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“Okay." Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Law- ler ascended. "Got the inventory sheet, Les?” "Right here.” Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins had energized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leaned his helmet against the speak- er and then shook his head sadly. "We can’t hear any- thing without any air.” Major Winship looked at the microphone. "Well, I’ll just report and — ” He start- ed to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. "Yes,” he said. "That’s right, isn’t it.” Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. "Some days you don’t mine at all,” he said. "Les, have you found it?” "It’s around here some- where. Supposed to be back here.” "Well, find it.” Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. "I saw it— ” "Skip, help look.” Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. "We haven’t got all day.” A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumph- ant cry. "Here it is! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It’s the hew stuff.” Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. "Marker showed it over THE WINNING OF THE MOON here,” Major Winship said, inching over to the wall. He traced the leak with a metal- lic finger. "How does this stuff work?” Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the in- struction sheet. "Let’s see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzle ruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour before serv- • _ tt ice. Major Winship said dryly, "Never mind. I notice it hardens on contact with air.” Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, "Now that makes a weird kind of sense, doesn’t it?” "How do they possibly think—?” "Gentlemen ! It doesn’t make any difference,” Lt. Chandler said. "Some air must already have leaked into this one. It’s hard as a rock. A gorilla couldn’t extrude it.” "How’re the other ones?” asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. "Oh, they’re all hard, too.” "Who was supposed to check?” demanded Capt. Wil- kins in exasperation. "The only way you can check is to extrude it,” Lt. Chandler said, "and if it does extrude, you’ve ruined it.” "That’s that,” Major Win- ship said. "There’s nothing for it but to yell help.” 33

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II CAPT. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. The So- viet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom of a natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to the tip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best path- way angled left and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way trip of ap- proximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained be- hind. Capt. Wilkins stayed for company. “I want a cigarette in the worst way/’ Capt. Wilkins said. “So do I, Larry. Shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. Unless something else goes wrong.” “As long as they’ll loan us the calking compound,” Capt. Wilkins said. “Yeah, yeah,” Major Win- ship said. “Let’s eat.” “You got any concentrate? I’m empty.” “I’ll load you,” Capt. Wil- kins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward opera- tion that took several min- utes. Capt. Wilkins cursed twice during the operation. “I’d hate to live in this thing for any period.” “I think these suits are one thing we've got over the 34 Russians,” Major Winship said. “I don’t see how they can manipulate those bulky pieces of junk around.” They ate. “Really horrible stuff.” “Nutritious.” After the meal, Major Win- ship said reflectively, “Now I'd like a cup of hot tea. I’m cooled off.” Capt. Wilkins raised eye- brows. “What brought this on?” “I was just thinking... They really got it made, Lar- ry. They’ve got better than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better than twelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there’s only seven of them right now. That’s living.” “They’ve been here six years longer, after all.” “Finogenov had a clay sam- ovar sent up. Lemon and nut- meg, too. Real, by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His own of- fice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. And a wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Eve- rything big and heavy. Eve- rything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less — ” “They’ve got the power- plants for it.” “Do you think he did that deliberately?” Major Win- ship asked. “I think he’s try- ing to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagar- by Kris Neville

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in's built to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don’t suppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn’t, they sure got the jump on us again, didn’t they? I told you what he told me?” “You told me,” Capt. Wil- kins said. AFTER a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, “To hell with the Russian en- gineer.” “If you’ve got all that pow- er ... ” “That’s the thing. That’s the thing that gripes me, know what I mean? It’s just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That’s showing off. Like a little kid.” “Maybe they don’t make aluminum desks.” “They’ve — got — alumi- num. Half of everything on the whole planet is aluminum. You know they’re just show- ing off.” “Let me wire you up,” Capt. Wilkins said. “We ought to report.” “That’s going to take awhile.” “It’s something to do while we wait.” “I guess we ought to.” Ma- jor Winship came down from the bunk and sat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed the equipment around until the emergency jacks were acces- sible. He unearthed the ap- propriate cable and began un- the winning of the moon screwing the exterior plate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship’s back. Eventually, trailing wires. Major Winship was coupled into the network. “Okay?” “Okay,” Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. “This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Offi- cer, Freedom 19, the Ameri- can moonbase.” At this point, Major Win- ship observed for the first time that he was now on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change his air bottle, but then he real- ized his communications were cut off. He reached over and rapped Capt. Wilkin’s helmet. “This is the Cape. Come in, Capt. Winship.” “Just a moment.” “Is everything all right?” Major Winship was squirm- ing nervously, obviously per- turbed. “A-Okay,” he said. “Just a moment.” “What’s wrong?” came the worried question. In the back- ground, he heard someone say, “I think there’s some- thing wrong.” Capt. Wilkins peered in- tently. Major Winship con- torted his face in a savage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to face through their helmets, close together. Each face appeared mon- strously large to the other. 35

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Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. One arm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winship could no longer hear the alarmed ex- pressions from the Cape. The effort was not entirely sub- vocal, since he emitted a lit- tle gasping cry in involun- tary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins’s lips were desperately forming the word “Leak?” Air, Major Winship said si- lently. Leak ? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal ex- pletive. COMPREHENSION dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away. Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He, reached across and plugged the speaker in again. “...Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!” “We’re here,” Major Win- ship said. “All right? Are you all right ?” “We’re all right. A-Okay” Major Winship, mindful of the extent of his potential audience, took a deep breath. “Earlier this morning, the Soviet Union fired an. .under- ground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of inves- tigating the composition of the lunar mass by means of seismic analysis of the result-? ant shock waves. This was done in spite of American warnings that such a disturb- ance might release ac^\imu^ lated stresses in the long un- disturbed satellite, and was done in the face of vigorous American protests.” Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around. The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrain- ing cables. Capt. Wilkins be- gan replacement of the air bottle. “These protests have proved well founded,” Major Winship continued. “Immedi- ately following the detona- tion, Freedom 19 was called on to withstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. No personnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.” Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle was being inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winship flicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. “However,” he continued, “we did experience a minor leak in the dome, which is presently being repaired.” “The Soviet Union” came the reply, “has reported the by Kris Neville 36

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disturbance and has tendered their official apology. You want it?” “It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum has destroyed our or- ganic air reconditioner. We have approximately three weeks of emergency air. How- ever, Base Gagarin reports no damage, so that, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain the necessary replacement.” The wait of a little better than three seconds for the re- sponse gave the conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. “We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We will be able to de- liver replacements in about ten days.” “I will forward a coded re- port on the occurrence,” Ma- jor Winship said. “Let us hear from you again in. . .about three hours. Is the leak repaired?” “The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.” He nodded to Capt. Wil- kins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wil- kins set about disconnecting the major from the transmit- ter. “Wow!” said Major Win- ship when he was once more in communication. “Fat a moment there, I though?. . . ” “What?” Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. “I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenov to get on the THE WINNING OF THE MOON emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle. I nev- er felt so... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for a minute in my whole life. I didn’t know how much emergency air was left, and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in the world listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see the nickname be- ing entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you, that was rough.” Ill CAPT. LAWLER and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. It oc- cupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. It was a fifty-five gal- lon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. “What is that?” asked Major Winship, squint- ing out into the glaring sun- light. “That,” said Capt. Lawler, “is the calking compound.” “You’re kidding,” said Capt. Wilkins. “I am not kidding.” Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chan- dler came inside. Capt. Wil- kins mounted a bunk. “Why didn’t you just bor- row a cupful?” Major Win- ship said sarcastically. “It’s this way,” Lt. Chan- dler said. “They didn’t have anything but 55-gallon drums of it.” “Oh, my,” said Capt. Wil- kins. “I suppose it’s a steel 37

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drum. Those things must weigh. . "Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong,” Capt. Lawler said. "He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quite up- set by the quake. Probably be- cause his people had misfig- ured so bad.” "He’s too damned suspi- cious,” Major Winship said. "You know and I know why they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at me like an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulteri- or motive in trying to prevent a purely scientific experi- ment, the results of which will be published in the tech- nical press for the good of everybody. I’ll bet!” "About this drum,” Capt. Wilkins said. "Well, like I said, it’s this way,” Lt. Chandler resumed. "I told him we needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But! this stuff you have to mix up. He only had these drums. There’s two parts to it, and you have to combine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a little scale — ” "A little scale?” asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. "That’s what I told him. We don’t have any little scale.” "Yeah,” said Captain Law- ler, "and he looked at us with that mute, surprised look, like everybody, everywhere 38* has dozens of little scales.” "Well, anyway,” Lt. Chan- dler continued, "he told us just to mix up the whole fifty- five gallon drum. There’s a little bucket of stuff that goes in, and it’s measured just right. We can throw away what we don’t need.” "Somehow, that sounds like him,” Major Winship said. "He had five or six of them.” "Jesus!” said Capt. Wil- kins. "That must be three thousand pounds of calking compound. Those people are insane.” "The question is,” Capt. Lawler said, " ‘How are we going to mix it?’ It’s sup- posed to be mixed thorough- iy.” They thought over the problem for a while. "That will be a man-sized job,” Major Winship said. "Let’s see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad,” said Capt. Wil- kins. "If I took the compres- sor motor, we could make up a shaft and... let’s see... if we could. . IT took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profuse- ly congratulated. "Now,” Major Winship said, "we can either bring the drum inside or take the mixer out there.” "We’re going to have to bring the drum in,” Capt. Wilkins said. by Kris Neville

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•'Well,* said Capt. Lawler, "that will make it nice and cozy.* It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back and forth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table was inter- posing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dis- mantle the table. "Damn these suits,” he said. "You’ve got it stuck be- tween the bunk post.” "I know that.” "I don’t think this is the way to do it,” Major Win- ship said. "Let’s back the drum out.” Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid of Capt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it over to Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wil- kins. Captain Wilkins carried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. It rested uneasily on the uneven surface. "Now, let’s go,” said Major Winship. Eventually, they accom- plished the moving. They wedged the drum between the main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring. "It’s not the weight, it’s the mass,” said Capt.. Wilkins brightly. "The hell it isn’t the weight,” said Lt. Chandler. "That’s heavy.” "With my reefer out,” said Major Winship, "I’m the one THE WINNING OF THE MOON it’s rough on.” He shook per- spiration out of his eyes. "They should figure a way to get a mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or some- thing. I’ll bet you’ve forgot- ten how much sweat stings in the eyes.” "It’s the salt.” "Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets,” Major Winship said. "I’ve never sweat so much since basic.” "Want to bet Finogenov hasn’t got a bushel of them?” "No !” Major Winship snapped. WITH the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chan- dler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixing attachment. "I feel crowded,” he said. "Cozy’s the word.” "Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!” "Sorry.” At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. "Works perfectly,” said Capt. Wilkins proudly. "Now what. Skip? The in- structions aren’t in English.” "You’re supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the area thoroughly around the leak.” "With what?” asked Major Winship. "Sandpaper, I guess.” "With sandpaper?” Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid into the drum. 39

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by Kris Neville

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“We don't have any sand- paper." “It's been a long day," Capt. Wilkins said. “Mix it thoroughly," Lt. Chandler mused. “I guess that means let it mix for about ten minutes or so. Then you ap- ply it. It sets for service in just a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe." “I hope this doesn’t set on exposure to air." “No," Capt. Lawler said. “It sets by some kind of chemical action. General Finogenov wasn’t sure of the English name for it. Some kind of plastic." “Let’s come back to how we’re going to clean around the leak," Major Winship said. “Say, I — " interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concern in his voice. “This is a hell of a time for this to occur to me. I just wasn’t thinking, before. You don't suppose it's a room-tempera- ture-curing epoxy resin , do you ?" “Larry," said Major Win- ship, “I wouldn’t ^ know a room-temperature-c u r i n g epoxy resin from-r-^V “Hey!" exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. “The mixer’s stopped." He bent forward and touched the drum. He jerked back. “Ye Gods! that’s hot! And it’s harder than a rock ! It is an epoxy ! Let’s get out of here." “Huh?" “Out! Out!" THE WINNING OF THE MOON Major Winship, Lt. Chan- dler, and Capt. Lawler, recog- nizing the sense of urgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. “Let’s go!" Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and became temporarily en- gaged with each other. Move- ment was somewhat ungainly in the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with the necessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into them from be- hind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of arms and legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right. The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, “Get to one side, it may go off like shrap- nel." They obeyed. “What — what — what?" Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the air- lock, two on the other. “I’m going to try to look," Capt. Wilkins said. “Let me go." He lumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteen feet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind the table, on a line of sight with the airlock. “I can see it," he said. “It’s getting redder. It’s. . .it's. . . melting, yes. Melting down at 41

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the bottom a little. Now it’s falling over to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is getting red, too. I’m afraid. . .it’s weakening it... Redder. Oh, oh.” “What?” said Capt. Lawler. “W a t c h out ! There. There r Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position. He was still floating toward the ground when there was an in- credibly bright flare from in- side the dome, and a great, si- lent tongue of flame lashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. The table was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost in- stantly. ’’There went the air,” Capt. Lawler commented. “We got T-Trouble,” said Lt. Chandler. IV DURING the fifteen-minute wait before they dared venture back, Capt. Wilkins, interrupted once by what ap- peared to be a moderately mild after-shock from the pre- vious moonquake, explained the phenomena they had just observed. “A room-temperature-curing epoxy liberates heat during its curing reaction. And the hotter it is when you mix it, the faster it reacts. The drum had been absorbing heat out here for several hours much faster than it could radiate it away. It may have been forty or fifty degrees C when we stirred in the curing agent. At that temperature, a pound mass will normally kick over in five or ten minutes. But here, the only way it can lose the reaction heat is by the slow process of radiation. And that means as the heat builds up, the epoxy goes faster and faster, building up even more heat. And furthermore, we’re not talking about a pound, which can maybe get up to 250 C. in air. We’re talking about 500 pounds, liberating five hundred times as much heat as one pound, and getting God knows how hot—” “I sure wish you’d have told me this a little bit earlier,” Major Winship said. “I cer- tainly wish you’d told me.” Capt. Wilkins said, “Hon- est, it never occurred to me Finogenov would be dumb enough to tell us to mix a whole drum of epoxy.” Major Winship began to curse mechanically. “I don’t think he did it de- liberately, Charlie. I really don’t,” Captain Lawler said. “I don’t think he knew any better. Maybe he was showing off by giving us a whole drum. Hell, I know he was showing off. But something like that could kill somebody, and I don’t think he’d go that far.” “Think it’s safe, yet?” Ma- jor Winship asked. He was perspiring freely again. “I need some thermal protec- tion. What’ll we do? You know damned well. We’ll have to go live with them. by Kris Neville 42

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Arid that sticks in my craw, gentlemen. That — sticks — in my — craw/’ “There’s nothing for it,” Capt. Wilkins said helpfully. “Let me go in and survey the damage,” Lt. Chandler said. “That’s my job,” Major Winship said. “I’ve got to go in anyway.” He lumbered through the airlock and stepped into the total dark- ness through the razor-edge curtain. “I see it glowing, still,” he said. “It's almost as bad in here as out there, now. I guess it’s okay. Come on. Let’s bumble around finding the air bottles for the suits and get over there before I’m a boiled lobster. Not only is my reefer out, so’s my light.” “Coming.” An air of urgency began to accumulate. “What are we going to do with him? It’s a half-hour run over there.” “Think you can make it, Charlie?” “I’m damned well hot.” “Charlie, come out here. In the car. Skip, you get 'the bot- tles. You drive.” Major Winship came out. “Lay down in back,” Capt. Wilkins said. “Les, you lay down beside him. I’ll lay on top of him. I think we can shield him pretty good that way.” “That’s good thinking,” Capt. Lawler said from in- side. The operation was not easi- ly executed. Lt. Chandler got in first, and then Major Win- ship squeezed beside him. “Careful, there,” he said as Capt. Wilkins came aboard. Capt. Wilkins's foot rolled off one of Major Winship's thighs. “Watch it!” “I am.” “Oops !” “Ufff! I felt that. Ugh. Thank God for the way these are built.” “How’s that?” Capt. Wil- kins asked. “I guess... It’s okay, I guess.” “Cooler?” “It’s too soon to tell. Man, I’ll bet we look silly.” Capt. Lawler came out with the bottles and studied his companions for a moment. “See if we can get up and over a little more, Les.” “This okay?” “B e t t e r. How’s it feel, Charlie?” "Okay.” Cant. Lawler deposited the air bottles. “Everyone got enough air?” "I guess we’re all okay,” Capt. Wilkins said; “Don’t we look silly?” Ma- jor Winship asked plaintive- ly. “I can’t possibly describe my emotions at this minute.” “You look all right,” Capt. Lawler said. “Still hot?” Major Winship grunted. He said nothing. “I’ll get there as fast as I ran THE WINNING OF THE MOON 43.

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AFTER about ten minutes jarring across the lunar surface, Major Winship said, "Fm not appreciably cooler; but then I'm not appreciably hotter, either." "Shut up, Charlie. You’re a thirty-year man," Lt. Chan- dler said. "Old soldiers never die, they just become desiccated." "I’d like a beer," Major W in ship said. "A cold, frosty, foamy beer. Big collar. Gimme a beer, a little shaker of salt — * "Finogenov’s probably got eight or ten cases." "For once, I hope you’re right. Try to bounce a little easier, Larry." "R u s s i a n s don’t drink beer," Lt. Chandler said. "You sure?" "Vodka," Capt Lawler grunted. "They drink champagne, you idiots," Capt. Wilkins said. "Beggars can’t be choos- ers," Major Winship said. "Champagne is okay by me. if it’s just cold." "Finogenov will have a few hundred pounds of ice.’’ "Cut it out," Major Win- ship said. "Boy, you wait till we get you back to Earth. When it comes time to reup, I’m going to be there. I’m going to re- mind you of this one.” "You’re a thirty-year man, too, Les,” Major Winship said. "Not me," Lt. Chandler 44 said. "I’ve had it, dad. Fm go- ing to sell my life story to the movies and spend the rest of my life eating popcorn and watching what an idiot I was. A man can get hurt up here.” "So you want to be a civilian?" "You’re damned right I do," Lt. Chandler said. "We’re about there,” Capt. Lawler cut in. "You still okay, Charlie?" "Fine." "Here’s the little ridge, then. Hold on, we’re taking the angle up. You riding okay, Charlie?" "Fine, Skip.” After a moment, Capt. Law- ler said, "I see the base now. The top. Hey!” He slammed on the brakes. "Oh, no! Those ...those fools! Those idiots." "What’s wrong?” Major Winship demanded. "Skip — what’s wrong?” "The second little dome is down. It wasn’t that way a couple of hours ago. And they’ve block-and-tackled a drum of calking compound up on the main dome.” “We've got to stop them!” Major Winship cried. "Skip! Skip!’? > "Charlie, there’s nothing we can do. The drum’s just starting to turn red.” There was silence for a while. "It’s melting through, now. There it goes. Down through the dome. Out of sight.” Af- ter a moment, Capt. Lawler continued. "Funny how by Kris Nevills

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things fall so slowly under this low gravity. It floated through their dome just like a feather. You should have seen it.” Eventually, Lt. Chandler said, “Boys, this is my last hitch.” There was more silence. Capt. Wilkins mused, “I guess they didn’t have a lit- tle scale either.” Someone was breathing loudly. At length, Major Winship said reflectively, “Why do you suppose they would try to calk it from the outside?” Again silence. Major Win- ship asked the question. “Okay. Let’s have it. How’s the other little dome?” “Other one? Oh, sorry,” Capt. Lawler said. “It looks all right.” “It better be all right,” Lt. Chandler said. IN the end, the eleven of them were crowded into the one remaining operation- al structure of the four avail- able on the moon at sunrise. For perhaps the tenth time, General Finogenov offered his apologies. He and Major Winship were huddled side by side in a corner. They were drinking vodka. “Plenty of everything,” General Finogenov said. “Don’t concern yourself, Ma- jor. Air, food, water, we have more than enough for a pro- longed siege.” “Accidents will happen.” THE WINNING OF THE MOON “Exactly,” said General Finogenov, pouring more vodka for himself. “Glad you understand.” He put the emp- ty bottle down. “We will have another one next week. In the meantime — I very much re- gret the inconvenience. Plen- ty of food, water, air, though. Pinov! Pinov! Vodka!” Pinov answered in Russian. General Finogenov frowned. “Dear, dear,” he said. “I’m afraid this must be our last one, Major. You see, while we have plenty of everything else, we are, you see... The truth of the mat- ter is, we didn’t foresee visi- tors. Unfortunately, we have no more vodka.” “No more vodka,” said Gen- eral Finogenov. He stared morosely into the inky dis- tance. “Major Winship, I have a confession. Oh, that second one was a beauty. You didn’t feel it?” “Our leak sprang on the first one. The second was quite mild, we thought.” “We were right on the fault line,” General Finoge- nov said. “As you Americans say, it was a beauty. I have a confession. One must admit one's mistakes.” “Yes?” “We used much too large a bomb,” he said. “I’m with you,” Lt. Chan- dler chimed in from some- where out of the darkness. “But when do you think you’re going to get the lights fixed?” END 45

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IF • Short Story AND THEN THERE WAS PEACE BY GORDON R. DICKSON AT nine hundred hours there were explosions off to the right at about seven hundred yards. At eleven hun- dred hours the slagger came by to pick up the casualties among the gadgets. Charlie saw the melting head at the end of its heavy beam going up and down like the front end of a hardworking chicken only about fifty yards west of his foxhole. Then it worked its way across the battlefield for about half an hour and, loaded down with melted forms of damaged robots, of all shapes and varieties, dis- appeared behind the low hill to the west, and left, of Char- lie. It was a hot August day somewhere in or near Ohio, with a thunderstorm coming Peace is well worth dying for ... it had better be! on. There was that yellow col- or in the air. At twelve hundred hours the chow gadget came ticking over the redoubt behind the foxhole. It crawled into the foxhole, jumped up on the large table and opened itself out to reveal lunch. The menu this day was liver and onions, whole corn, whipped potato and raspberries. “And no whip cream/' said Charlie. “You haven’t been doing your exercises," said the chow gadget in a fine soprano voice. “I’m a front-line soldier," said Charlie. “I’m an infantry- man in a foxhole overlooking ground zero. I'll be damned if I take exercises.” “In any case, there is no

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excuse for not shaving.” “I'll be damned if I shave.” “But why not shave? Wouldn’t it be better than having that itchy, scratchy beard — ” “No,” said Charlie. He went around back of the chow gadget and began to take its rear, plate off. “What are you doing to me?” said the chow gadget. “You’ve got something stuck to you here,” said Char- lie. “Hold still.” He surrepti- tiously took a second out to scratch at his four-day beard. “There’s a war on, you know.” “I know that,” said the chow gadget. “Of course.” “Infantrymen like me are dying daily.” “Alas,” said the chow gadg- et, in pure, simple tones. “To say nothing,” said Charlie, setting the rear plate to one side, “of the expend- iture of you technical devices. Not that there’s any compari- son between human lives and the wastage of machines.” “Of course not.” “So how can any of you, no matter how elaborate your computational systems, under- stand— ” Charlie broke off to poke among the innards of the chow machine. «T~\0 not damage me,” it L' said. “Not if I can help it,” said Charlie. “ — understand what it feels like to a man sitting here day after day, pushing an oc- casional button, never know- ing the results of his button pushing, and living in a sort of glass-case comfort except for the possibility that he may just suddenly be dead — sud- denly, like that, before he knows it.” He broke off to probe again. “It’s no life for a man.” “Terrible, terrible,” said the chow gadget. “But there is still hope for improvement.” “Don’t hold your breath,” said Charlie. “There’s — ah !” He interrupted himself, pull- ing a small piece of paper out of the chow gadget. “Is there something the mat- ter?” said the chow gadget. “No,” said Charlie. He stepped over to the observa- tion window and glanced out. The slagger was making its return. It was already within about fifty yards of the fox- hole. “Not a thing,” said Char- lie. “As a matter of fact, the war’s over.” “How interesting,” said the chow gadget. “That’s right,” said Charlie. “Just let me read you this lit- tle billet-doux I got from Fox- hole thirty-four. Meet you back at the bar , Charlie. It's all over. Your hunch that we could get a message across was the clear quill. Answer came today the same way , through the international weather re- ports. They want to quit as well as we do. Peace is agreed on, and the gadgets — ” Char- lie broke off to look at the chow gadget. “That’s you, along with the rest of them.” AND THEN THERE WAS PEACE 47

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“Quite right. Of course/* said the chow gadget. “ — have already accepted the information. Well be out of here by sundown. And that takes care of the war.” “It does indeed/' said the chow gadget. “Hurrah! And farewell." “Farewell? said Charlie. “You will be returning to civilian life," said the chow gadget. “I will be scrapped." “That’s right," said Charlie. “I remember the preprogram- ing for the big units. This war’s to be the last, they were programe d. Well—" said Charlie. For a moment he hes- itated. “What d’you know? I may end up missing you a lit- tle bit, after all." He glanced out the window. The slagger was almost to the dugout. “Well, well," he said. “Now that the time’s come. . .we did have quite a time together, three times a day. No more string beans, huh?" “I bet not," said the chow gadget with a little laugh. “No more caramel pudding." “I guess so." JUST then the slagger halted outside, broke the thick concrete roof off the dugout and laid it carefully aside. “Excuse me," it said, its cone-shaped melting head nodding politely some fifteen feet above Charlie. “The war’s over." “I know," said Charlie. “Now there will be peace. There are orders that all in- struments of war are to be slagged and stockpiled for later peaceful uses." It had a fine baritone voice. “Excuse me," it said, “but are you fin- ished with that chow gadget there?" “You haven’t touched a bite," said the chow gadget. “Would you like just a small spoonful of raspberries?" “I don't think so," said Charlie, slowly. “No, I don’t think so." “Then farewell," said the chow gadget. “I am now ex- pendable." The melting head of the slagger dipped toward the chow gadget. Charlie opened his mouth suddenly, but be- fore he could speak, there was a sort of invisible flare from the melting head and the chow gadget became a sort of pud- dle of metal which the melt- ing head picked up magneti- cally and swung back to the hopper behind it. “Blast it!" said Charlie with feeling. “I could just as well have put in a request to keep the darn thing for a souvenir." The heavy melting head bobbed apologetically back. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible," it said. “The order allows no exceptions. All mili- tary instruments are to be slagged and stockpiled." “Well — " said Charlie. But it was just about then that he noticed the melting head was descending toward him. END 48 by Gordon R. Dickson

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IF • Novelette What’s the principal cause of headaches? Why, having THE a head, of course! BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON Illustrated by Dyas T 4£|HYO you think we’ll have ' * to use force on Macklin to get him to cooperate in the experiment ?” Ferris asked eagerly. “How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor?’’ Mitchell inquired. “He out- weighs you by fifty pounds and you needn’t look to me for help against that' repatri- ated fullback.” Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. “Guess I got carried away for a mo- ment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for a quick, dramatic test. We’ve had it if he turns us down.” “I know,” Mitchell said, ex- haling deeply. “Somehow the men with the money just can’t seem to understand basic re- search. Who would have fi- nanced a study of cyclic pe- riods of the hedgehog? Yet the information gained from that study is vital in cancer research.” “When we prove our results that should be of enough prac- tical value for anyone. But those crummy trustees didn’t even leave us enough for a field test.” Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of his forehead. “I’ve been worrying so much about this I’ve got the ancestor of all headaches.” Mitchell’s blue eyes nar- rowed and his boyish face took on an expression of de- monic intensity. “Ferris, 49

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would you consider — ?” ‘‘No!” the smaller man yelled. “You can’t expect me to violate professional ethics and test my own discovery on myself/' “Our discovery,” Mitchell said politely. “That’s what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completely ethical with even a discovery partly mine.” “You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches? Our reputations don’t go outside our own fields/’ Mitchell said. “But now Macklin — ” Elliot Macklin had inherit- ed the reputation of the late Albert Einstein in the popu- lar mind. He was the man peo- ple thought of when the word “mathematician” or even “sci- entist” was mentioned. No one knew whether his Theory of Spatium was correct or not be- cause no one had yet been able to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fif- ties but looked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. The govern- ment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of the Ideal Scientist to help re- cruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin — who was the Ad- vanced Studies Department of Firestone University — had been involved in devising a faster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually the nearer stars. SO Mitchell had overheard* two coeds talking and so knew that the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Ad astra per aspirin. The only thing that could delay the project was Mack- lin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suf- fered a mild stroke. . .or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It was known that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle of the headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for several weeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seen around the campus. ERRIS paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside the laboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chair behind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinter- estedly. “Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up?” Ferris demanded, pausing in mid-stride. “I imagine he will,” Mitch- ell said. “Macklin’s always seemed a decent enough fel- low when I’ve had lunch with him or seen him at the trustees meetings.” “He’s always treated me like dirt,” Ferris said heatedly. “Everyone on this campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash in their smug faces.” THZ BIG HEADACHE

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Sometimes, Mitchell re- flected, Ferris displayed a certain lack of scientific de- tachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. ‘Please come in/' Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. He looked more than a little like a postgradu- ate student, and Mitchell sus- pected that that was his in- tention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. “Good of you to ask me over, Steven/' Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris’ shoulders. “How have you been, Harold?" Ferris’ face flickered be- tween pink and white. “Fine, thank you, doctor." Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. “Now what’s this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep the explanation simple. Biology isn’t my field, you know." Mitchell moved around the desk casually. “Actually, Doc- tor, we haven’t the. right to ask this of a man of your im- portance. There may be an ele- ment of risk." The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. “Now you have me in- trigued. What is it all about?" “Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches," Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. “That’s right, Steven. Migraine." “That must be terrible," Ferris said. “All your fine reputation and lavish salary can’t be much consolation when that ripping, tearing agony begins, can it?" “No, Harold, it isn’t," Mack- lin admitted. “What does your project have to do with my headaches?" “Doctor," Mitchell said, “what would you say the most common complaint of man is?" “I would have said the com- mon cold," Macklin replied, “but I suppose from what you have said you mean head- aches." UTTEADACHES," Mitchell agreed. “Everybody has them at some time in his life. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to sui- cide by their headaches." “Yes," Macklin said. “But think," Ferris inter- jected, “what a boon it would be if everyone could be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection." “I don’t suppose the manu- facturers of aspirin would like you. But it would please about everybody else." “Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and re- lieve muscular pains," Mitch- ell said. “I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cure headaches?" “We think we cao/' Ferris said. by Jim Harmon 51

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"How can you have a spe- cific for a number of different causes?"’ Macklin asked. "I know that much about the sub- ject.” "There are a number of dif- ferent causes for headaches — nervous strain, fatigue, physi- cal diseases from kidney com- plaints to tumors, over-in- dulgence— but there is one ef- fect of all of this, the one real cause of headaches,” Mitchell announced. "We have definitely estab- lished this for this first time,” Ferris added. "That’s fine,” Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. "And this effect that produces headaches is?” "The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain,” Mitchell said eagerly. "That is, the constriction of blood vessels in the telencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It’s caused by an over-produc- tion of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred a virus that feeds on pituitrin.” "That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would mean the end of the race as well,” Macklin said. "In certain areas it is valu- able to have a constriction of blood vessels.” "The virus,” Ferris ex- plained, "can easily be local- ized and stabilized. A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebral vessels — and only the cerebral vessels — so that the cerebrospinal fluid doesn’t create pressure in the 52 cavities of the brain.” The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. "If this really works, I could stop us- ing that damned gynergen, couldn’t I? The stuff makes me violently sick to my stom- ach. But it’s better than the migraine. How should I go about removing my curse ?” He reinserted the pipe. "I assure you, you can for- get ergotamine tartrate,” Fer- ris said. "Our discovery will work.” {{T177ILL work,” Macklin W Said thoughtfully. "The operative word. It hasn't worked then?” "Certainly it has,” Ferris said. "On rats, on chimps...” "But not on humans?” Macklin asked. "Not yet,” Mitchell admit- ted. "Well,” Macklin said. "Well.” He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm. "Cer- tainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious ob- jectors from the Army.” "We want you,” Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. "I don’t want to overestimate my value but the government wouldn’t like it very well if I died in the middle of this project. My wife would like it even less.” Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see him mouthing the word yellow . "Doctor,” Mitchell said quickly, "I know it’s a tre- THE BIG HEADACHE

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mendous favor to ask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem. Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of our studies we can get no more financial backing. We should run a large-scale field test. But we haven’t the time or money for that. We can cure the headaches of one per- son and that’s the limit of our resources.” “I’m tempted,” Macklin said hesitantly, “but the answer is go. I mean *no\ I’d like to help you out, but I’m afraid I owe too much to others to take the rest — the risk, I mean.” Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. “I really would like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that it means another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain through my temples and around my eyeballs. The flash- es of light, the rioting pools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh.” Ferris smiled. “Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doc- tor? Produces nausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn’t it? You aren’t much better off with it than without, are you? I’ve heard some say they pre- ferred the migraine.” Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used to tend it in a worn leather case. “Tell me,” he said, “what is the worst that could happen to me?” “Low blood. pressure,” Fer- ris said. “That’s not so bad,” Mack- lin said. “How low can it get?” “When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,” Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin’s fore- head. “Is there much risk of that ?” “Practically none,” Mitch- ell said. “We have to give you the worst possibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happy and con- tented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and I are confident that there is no danger... But we may be wrong.” Macklin held his head in both hands. “Why did you two select me?” “You’re an important man, doctor,” Ferris said. “Nobody would care if Mitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches — they might not even believe us if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a man of your reputation. Be- sides, neither of us has a rec- ord of chronic migraine. You do.” “Yes, I do,” Macklin said. “Very well. Go ahead. Give me your injection.” Mitchell cleared his throat. “Are you positive, doctor?” he asked uncertainly. “Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over.” “No! I’m ready. Go ahead, right now.” by Jim Harmon 51

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“There’s a simple release,” Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pock- et for a pen. II apERRIS!” Mitchell yelled, * slamming the laboratory door behind him. “Right here,” the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a work table, penciling notes. “I’ve been expecting you.” “Doctor — Harold — you shouldn’t have given this story to the newspapers,” Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against the folded paper. “On the contrary, I should and I did,” Ferris answered. “We wanted something dra- matic to show to the trustees and here it is.” “Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees — but not broadcast unverified results to the press. It’s too early for that!” “Don’t be so stuffy and con- servative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn’t he? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell right now, shouldn’t he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy, with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.” “It’s a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to the newspapers with. If it wasn’t “enough to go to the press with, it wasn’t enough to try and breach the trustees with. Don’t you see? The public will hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded the Salk vaccine and the Grennell serum.” “But — ” The shrill call of the tele- phone interrupted Mitchell’s objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered it and listened for a moment, his face growing im- patient. “It’s Macklin’s wife,” Ferris said. “Do you want to talk to her? I’m no good with hysteri- cal women.” “Hysterical?” Mitchell mut- tered in alarm and went to the phone. “Hello?” Mitchell said re- luctantly. “Mrs. Macklin?” “You are the other one,” the clear feminine voice said. “Your name is Mitchell.” She couldn’t have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchell thought. “That’s right, Mrs. Macklin. I’m Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris’s associate.” “Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?” “What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin,” Mitchell said sharply. “I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you’ve given my husband heroin.” “That’s absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?” “The — trance he’s in now.” “Now, Mrs. Macklin. Nei- 54 THE BIG HEADACHE

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ther Dr. Ferris or myself have been near your husband for a full day. The effects of a nar- cotic would have worn off by this time.” ‘"Most known narcotics,” she admitted, “but evidently you have discovered something new. Is it so expensive to re- fine you and Ferris have to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?” “Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you are calmer.” Mitchell dropped the receiv- er heavily. “What could be wrong with Macklin?” he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. “Let’s have a look at the test animals.” Together they marched over to the cages and peered through the honeycomb pat- tern of the wire. The test chimp. Dean, was sitting peacefully in a corner scratch- ing under his arms with the back of his knuckles. Jerry, their control in the experi- ment, who was practically Dean’s twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus, was stomping up and down punching his fin- gers through the wire, worry- ing the lock on the cage. “Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean,” Mitchell said. “Yes, but Dean isn’t sick. He just doesn’t seem to have as much nervous energy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.” They went to the smaller cages. They found the situa- tion with the rats, Bud and Lou, much the same. “I don’t know. Maybe they just have tired blood,” Mitch- ell ventured. “Iron deficiency anemia?” “Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better see exactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin.” “There’s nothing wrong with him,” Ferris snapped. “He’s probably just trying to get us in trouble, the ingrate !” MACKLIN’S traditional ranch house was small but attractive in aqua-tinted alu- minum. Under Mitchell’s thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum- dum-dum. As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completely undisturbed, per- haps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. “Mrs. Macklin,” Mitchell said quickly, “I’m sure we can help if there is anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr. Mitchell.” “You had certainly better help him, gentlemen.” She stood out of the doorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attrac- tive brunette in her late thir- ties. She wore an expensive yellow dress. And she had a by Jim Harmon 55

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sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. “You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unau- thorized injection,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “I don’t like that ‘unauthor- ized’,” Ferris snapped. The colonel — Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic — lifted a heavy eyebrow. “No? Are you medi- cal doctors? Are you author- ized to treat illnesses?” “We weren’t treating an ill- ness,” Mitchell said. “We were discovering a method of treat- ment. What concern is it of yours?” The colonel smiled thinly. “Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everything that happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him.” Mitchell wondered desper- ately just what they had done to the man. “Can we see him?” Mitchell asked. “Why not? You can’t do much worse than murder him now. That might be just as well. We have laws to cover that.” The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room. Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroi- dery, smoking. Mitchell sud- denly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest to his home surround- ings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd- 56 shaped building blocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformed man — another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medical corps in his insignia — was kneeling at the table on the marble-effect carpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, un- dusted from the scrupulously clean rug. “What’s wrong with him, Sidney?” the other officer asked the doctor. “Not a thing,” Sidney said. “He’s the healthiest, happiest, most well-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson.” “But — ” Colonel Carson pro- tested. “Oh, he’s changed all right,” the Army doctor answered. “He’s not the same man as he used to be.” “How is he different?” Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitch- ell and Ferris critically before answering. “He used to be a mathematical genius.” “And now?” Mitchell said impatiently. “Now he is a moron,” the medic said. Ill Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctor mumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at each other. THE BIG HEADACHE

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“What did he mean, Mack- lin is an idiot ?” Mitchell asked. “Not an idiot,” Colonel Car- son corrected primly. “Dr. Macklin is a moron. He’s le- gally responsible, but he’s ex- tremely stupid.” “I’m not so dumb,” Macklin said defensively. “I beg your pardon, sir,” Carson said. “I didn’t intend any offense. But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you, your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron.” “That's just on book learn- ing,” Macklin said. “There’s a lot you learn in life that you don’t get out of books, son.” “I’m confident that’s true, sir,” Colonel Carson said. He turned to the two biologists. “Perhaps we had better speak outside.” “But — ’’ Mitchell said, impa- tient to examine Macklin for himself. “Very well. Let’s step into the hall.” Ferris followed them docile- ly. “What have you done to him?” the colonel ’r asked straightforwardly. “We merely cured him of his headaches,” Mitchell said. “How?” Mitchell did his best to ex- plain the F-M Virus. “You mean,” the Army offi- cer said levelly “you have in- fected him with some kind of a disease to rot his braiif ?” “No, ho ! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? 'Maybe by 'Jim Harmon I can make him understand.” “All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as if he had been kicked in the head by a mule,” Colonel Carson said. “I think I can explain,” Fer- ris interrupted. “You can?” Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. “We made a slight miscalculation. It ap- pears as if the virus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract in the cerebrum. It isn’t more than necessary to stop head- aches. But that necessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the brain cells to function properly.” “Why won’t they function?” Carson roared. “They don’t get enough food — blood, oxygen, hemo- globin,” Ferris explained. “The cerebral vessels don’t contract enough to pump the blood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The brain cells remain slug- gish, dormant. Perhaps decay- • yy in g. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was cor- rect. THE colonel drew himself to attention, fists trem- bling at his sides. “I’ll see you hung for treason! Don’t you know what Elliot Matklin means to us? Do you Want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Pluto before we do? Macklin's formula is *ess^n- 57

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tial to the FTL engine. You might just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capital is replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Mack- lin are very nearly once in a human race.” “Just a moment,” Mitchell interrupted, “we can cure Macklin.” “You can?” Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man was going to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. “Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We have antitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as a beneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.” “Good!” Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slight- ly at the knees. “Just you wait a second now, boys,” Elliot Macklin said. He was leaning in the doorway, holding his pipe. “I've been listening to what you’ve been saying and I don’t like it.” “What do you mean you don’t like it?” Carson demand- ed. He added, “Sir?” “I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.” “Yes, doctor,” Mitchell said eagerly, “just as you used to be.” “With my headaches, like before?” Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time to frame an answer. “Un- fortunately, yes. Apparently if yoqr mind functions proper- 58 ly once again you will have the headaches again. Our re- search is a dismal failure.” “I wouldn’t go that far,” Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he saw Macklin slowly shaking his head. “No, sir!” the mathematician said. “I shall not go back to my original state. I can re- member what it was like. Al- ways worrying, worrying, worrying.” “You mean wondering,” Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. “Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing. How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity — say, what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It’s peaceful this way. My head doesn’t hurt. I’ve got a good-looking wife and all the money I need. I’ve got it made. Why worry?” Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. “That’s right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him,” Mitchell said. “It’s not his decision to make,” the colonel said. “He’s an idiot now.” “No, Colonel. As you said, he’s a moron. He seems an idiot compared to his former level of intelligence but he’s legally responsible. There are millions of morons running around loose in the United States. They can get married, own property, vote, even hold THE BIG HEADACHE

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office. Many of them do. You can't force him into being cured... At least, I don't think you can.” “No, I can’t. This is hardly a totalitarian state.” The colo- nel looked momentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. “Where did his wife get to. Colonel? I don’t think that even previously he made too many personal decisions for himself. Perhaps she could influence him.” “Maybe,” the colonel said. “Let’s find her.” THEY found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picture window an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. “Mrs. Macklin,” the colonel began, “these gentlemen be- lieve they can cure your hus- band of his present condition.” “Really?” she said. “Did you speak to Elliot about that?” “Y-yes,” Colonel Carson said, “but he's not himself. He refused the treatment. He wants to remain in his state 6f lower intelligence.” She nodded. “If those are his wishes, I can’t go against them.” “But Mrs. Macklin!” Mitch- ell protested. “You will have to get a court order overruling your husband’s wishes.” She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. “That was my original thought. But I’ve re- decided.” “Redecided !” Carson burst out almost hysterically. “Yes. I can’t go against El- liot’s wishes. It would be monstrous to put him back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again, where he never had a mo- ment’s peace from worry and pressure. He’s happy now. Like a child, but happy.” “Mrs. Macklin,” the Army man said levelly, “if you don’t help us restore your husband’s mind we will be forced to get a court order declaring him incompetent.” “But he is not! Legally, I mean,” the woman stormed. “Maybe not. It’s a border- line case. But I think any court would give us the edge where restoring the mind of. Elliot Macklin was concerned. Once he’s certified incompe- tent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell and Ferris’ antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Mack- lin to sanity.” “I doubt very much if the court would rule in that man- ner,” she said. The colonel looked smug. “Why not?” “Because, Colonel, the mat- ter of my husband’s health, his very life, is involved.” “There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—” “It isn’t quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history of vascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want to give 59 by Jim Harmon

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those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. To paralyze. To kill. No court would give you that authori- ty” “I suppose there’s some chance of that. But without the treatment there is no chance of your husband re- gaining his right senses, Mrs. Macklin,” Mitchell interject- ed. Her mouth grew petulant. “I don’t care. I would rather have a live husband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make him com- fortable. .. ” Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then re- laxed. Mitchell led him back into the hall. “I’m no psychiatrist,” Mitchell said, “but I think she wants Macklin stupid. Prefers it that way. She’s al- ways dominated his personal life, and now she can dominate him completely.” “What is she? A monster?” the Army officer muttered. “No,” Mitchell said. “She’s an intelligent woman uncon- sciously jealous of her hus- band’s genius.” “Maybe,” Carson said. “I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell to tell the Pentagon. I think I’ll go out and get drunk.” “I’ll go with you,” Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. “Any par- ticular reason, doctor?” >y Jim Harmon “To celebrate/’ Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. “That’s as good a reason as any.” On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together in bewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn’t have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a great curving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Pluto and the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Not his head. Mitchell’s. Both heads were initialed “M” so it was all the same. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial dif- ficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to his heart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver from the nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. “Hello?” Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered the phone instead of his wife. “Can you speak freely, doc- tor?” Mitchell asked. “Of course,” the mathemati- cian said. “I can talk fine.” €1

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“I mean, are you alone ?” “Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she’s asleep. That Army doctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn’t let him give me anything, though.” “Good boy,” the biologist said. “Listen, doctor — Elliot — El, old son. I’m not against you like all the others. I don’t want to make you go back to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me, don’t you?” There was a slight hesita- tion. “Sure/* Macklin said, “if you say so. Why shouldn’t I believe you?” “But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second if I could have some reason for not telling you the truth.” “I suppose so,” Macklin said humbly. “You’ve found yourself wor- rying— thinking — about a lot of other problems since we left you, haven’t you? Maybe not the same kind of scientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn’t used to have time to think about.” “If you say so.” “Now, you know it’s so. But how would you like to get rid of those worries just as you got rid of the others?” Mitch- ell asked. “I guess I’d like that,” the mathematician replied. “Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it’s at, don’t you?” *2 “No, I — yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won’t try to put me back where I was instead of helping me more?” “I couldn’t do that against your wishes. That would be illegal !” “If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army is watching me pretty close.” “That’s alright,” Mitchell said quickly. “You can bring along Colonel Carson.” “But he won’t like you fix- ing me up more.” ^But he can’t stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me — I want you to come right on over here, El.” “If you say so,” Macklin said uncertainly. Mitchell opened the door on the first knock. Macklin stood in the door- way, looking uncertain and ill at ease. Carson stood behind his left shoulder, looking ac- tively belligerent. “Come in,” Mitchell said. “I have the injection ready for you. Doctor.” “Now you aren’t going to ‘cure’ me?” Macklin said in concern. “This is just going to help ease my mind?” “Of course,” the biologist said soothingly. Colonel Carson lunged for- ward, mouth opening ominous- iy- Mitchell winked at him broadly. Carson stopped in confusion THE BIG HEADACHE

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and studied Mitchell’s face. He essayed a second wink. Carson relaxed. Mitchell picked up the hypo of colorless carrier fluid from the interestingly stained work table. “One thing first, Dr. Macklin. I’ll have to have your signed release for this treat- ment. It specifies that your intelligence will probably be affected in this effort to keep your head from troubling you. Carson can witness it.” “Sure,” Macklin said. “I guess that’s okay. If you say so.” The colonel grinned, his face hot and shiny. “I’m sure it will be fine, Doctor.” Macklin looked at the of- ficer with almost a trace of suspicion, then accepted the sheet of typescript and the ballpoint pen from Mitchell. Laboriously he affixed his sig- nature. Mitchell had the mathema- tician take a seat and pressed the needle directly into the neck area. “Ouch !” Macklin said. Mitchell stood back and ex- haled. “It should take effect short- ly,” the biologist said. ' “Good,” Carson said . . . The cylinders of the electric clock said 4:35:00 A.M. Macklin was playing with his hands and their shadows in front of his face. “How long will this stage last, Dr. Mitchell?” Colonel Carson said in concern. “Indefinitely. This is the >y Jim Harmon last stage. The circulatory sys- tem of his brain has been re- laxed to the point where he has about the I.Q. of a turnip.” Carson steeled himself. “So, doctor! You’re nothing but a dirty Lux!” “No, Colonel. I’ve never even seen Luxemburg. My reason for doing this to Dr. Macklin were entirely pa- triotic ... or, at least, sympa- thetic.” “Tell that to the hangman! I’ll see you tried for treason.” “Look at him, Colonel. He is certainly no longer legal- ly responsible. He has the strength of a grown man and the intellect of an amoeba. It would be impossible to keep him alive either under seda- tion or in a padded cell. Even if Mrs. Macklin still refuses her consent — and I don’t think she will when she sees him in this bad a state — you can go over her head and get per- mission for Ferris and myself to administer our antitoxin to destroy the pituitrin-absorb- ing virus colony in his cere- brum.” Carson looked dazed. “I — I’ll call her.” MITCHELL greeted the orangish sunrise with, a feeling of defeat. He turned from the window to face the instruments of his laboratory. Mrs. Macklin had come. Numbly she signed the release allowing the restorative treat- ment. By the time she, Car- 63

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son and the mathematician left, Macklin had been able to say “mama” and — embar- rassingly— “p a p a” to him. Mitchell was confident he would regain his full senses and that the brain cells had only become passive, and had not decayed. But still it was only the wiping out of one horrendous mistake. Months and months of work wasted. The door banged open and a small man entered with a long, slender brown paper bag and proceeding on an aero- nautical search pattern. “Dr. Ferris!” Mitchell said. “You mustn't take it so hard. I tried to get in touch with you. But at least I have been able to administer the anti- toxin to Dr. Macklin.” “Who gives a damn about that egghead?” Ferris said, placing the paperbag upright on the work table. “Don’t you understand, man? We’re rich! Where are the glasses?” “Rich?” Mitchell said. “Doc- tor, would you like me to help you over to your own quar- ters?” “Relax, Mitchell. I’m not that drunk. I know what I’m talking about. I tell you the F-M Virus is going to make us rich! Powerful! Men like Elliot Macklin will be insig- nificant beside us.” He knew that Ferris was in sober earnest. “What do you mean, Doctor?” Ferris turned, his thin face lit up with a flush of pleas- 64 ure. “Mitchell, we have some- thing to make people perma- nently stupid ! People can stop thinking temporarily by using alcohol or narcotics or watching television. But we — only you and I — have some- thing to let them stop think- ing permanently. And we’ll make them pay for it — for the shot and the rent on the con- dition. Who wants to think? A handful of people. Who has to think to do routine paper- work or push a button or pull a lever? A bunch of happy, content morons can do all of that. We ll return man to his natural, pre-evolutionary state of stupidity. As for those of us who don't take the treat- ment, we have it made! Made !” Mitchell stared at him. “Don’t you get it, Mitch- ell?” Ferris roared. “We have the ultimate tranquilizer /” Mitchell thought of the world after the F-M Virus had been given it. He thought: In his condition, if I shoved Fer- ris so that his head cracked into the corner of the table, no one could prove anything. I could destroy our records. . . No, it wasn’t any good. Some other researcher some- where else was bound to iso- late the F-M Virus. None of it was any good. He groped blindly towards the door. He had to get out, get to a drugstore, buy some aspirins. His head was killing him. END THE BIG HEADACHE

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IF • Short Story The computer’s answers were remarkable — especially when nobody had asked a question! TRANSIENT BY WILLIAM HARRIS “MOON in 140 Pisces” said the little perforat- ed card. Henderson stepped back from the computer and scratched his hairy head. Non- sense again. He threw the card in the wastebasket and repeated his directions on an- other : "One hundred fifty cancer susceptible mice were inject- ed in the pectoral region with 1/cc of aromatic compound A. One hundred fifty identical control mice were injected with isotonic saline, B. Eight in group A developed sarco- mas at the point of injection, Group B developed none. Test the null hypothesis at 5% level of statistical signifi-. cance.” The computer accepted Henderson's second offering, chewed it into acceptable code, swallowed it, and burped. Henderson watched suspiciously as red and green blinkers went on and off and a contented humming noise came from the machine’s bow- els. After a while the card emerged from another opening — which orifice had been thoughtfully placed at the ap- propriate end of the machine, anatomically speaking; thus establishing rapport between Henderson, a biologist, and nature’s final product of evo- lution, the machine. Henderson looked at the card : "Today you should seek solace with close friends. Give some thought to personal fi- nances. Evening: get out and 65

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see people. A stranger will bring news/' ENDERSON crumpled the card and tossed it in the wastebasket. He sat down, and with a. little arithmetic and some formulas tested the null hypothesis all by himself. He found that his mouse ex- periment carried no signifi- cance whatever. Then he made a notation that someone would have to come out in the morn- ing for his sick machine. In the morning when the machine's doctor, came to in- spect it, and percuss it, and auscult it, and give it a barium enema, it behaved very well. The “doctor” left, assuring Henderson the machine mere- ly had the hiccups. That night Henderson asked it a question about confidence limits for a universe mean, from a mean of a sample of n observations and got back, “Uranus on Antares but conjoining Ju- piter and trining the As- cendent. Yours is a strongly literary nature.” Henderson decided to turn the machine off for a few days. It emitted an almost hu- man sigh as it ran down and came to a halt. He had no immediate use for it as he would be inject- ing mice with carcinogens in liver, spleen, marrow and kid- neys to find out if they were specific. In three or four days whatever virus was affecting the machine's cerebral cortex should have run its course and the methodical Henderson could run his methodical ob- servations into the machine, which would excrete a good methodical answer to be duly filed in the medical school library, where it would be in- visible to anyone looking for it, such as freshmen medical students, and always in the way for anybody else. Henderson surveyed his laboratory with infinite pleas- ure, knowing that it contained within its confines all that could be known about the uni- verse, about men and about mice. Event Y followed event X in a purely causal manner. The successful investigator needed only to attach himself to the cycle and ride along, afterwards consulting the computer to find out if what he'd observed had any signifi- cance. In the morning when Hen- derson entered the laboratory he found that someone had left the computer on over- night. It was running full blast, which is to say the lights were blinking and the little cards of omniscience were popping out of the machine like toast and falling into the wastebasket, which is just where Hender- son left them. Meanwhile, Dr. Henderson's close associate, Colonel Smith in the nearby radiation laboratory, came in to visit him and asked per- mission to use the computer. And so in another week it was rumored about that the 66 TRANSIENT

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machine in Henderson's labo- ratory was using a foreign dia- lect and answering questions about standard deviation with strange symbols which looked like crescent moons and ar- chaic squiggles, with a little geometry on the side. The machine was becoming impudent too. To Colonel Smith’s question about the possibility of an “overkill” if such and such size bomb dropped on such and such ene- my city the answer came back, “Rubbish. Aldebaran conjoin- ing Saturn, Moon and Mars. Seek guidance from others, Hannibal blushed.” The ma- chine's doctor promptly in- stalled a loudspeaker to help keep track of future aberra- tions. THAT night the janitor walked in. He was a bald- ing Greek gentleman, dedicat- ed to a life with brush and dustpan. The machine was muttering darkly to itself, but when he entered the door it quieted down, contemplating its relays. The janitor went meticu- lously about his business, mop- ping the floor, straightening chairs and secretly rearrang- ing pipette and retorts in their racks, because he was a more meticulous person than even Dr. Henderson. As he turned to leave, the machine in the corner belched twice and then said as an afterthought : “I am the ghost of Astrolo- gers Sagittarian.” The janitor adjusted his hearing aid, squeezed his mop and carried his pail out the door. As he went back in to pack up his cleaning powder and brushes, the machine said, “What year is this? Limits within standard deviation, click, click, awrk !” The janitor was a reasonable man. He walked over to the machine’s microphone and told it what year it was as well as the month, day and hour. Then he carried his brushes and cleaning com- pound out of the room and locked the door. But the janitor’s night was a long one. At midnight, when he finished two floors and only had three more to go, he took his coffee break. As he talked with his old friend Samuel, the night watchman, he fell to thinking. That was an unforgivable mistake. Af- ter the coffee break, they both went back up to Dr. Hender- son’s laboratory and listened to the machine talking to it- self. “I feel like a spider,” said the machine. “Nonsense. From one cobweb to another. Must settle down and build a grau . . . spltvbk. . .within 95% con- fidence limits. Nova in An- dromeda was bad enough. Now this. One hundred fifty cancer susceptible mice inherit the Earth.” Suddenly the machine fell silent, sensing it had visitors. The night watchman reached into the wastebasket and ■^i uiiii- ■ - ii. »

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pulled out one of the ma- chine’s cards. “Aldebaran is martial in na- ture, in the ninth degree of Tropical Gemini/’ it said. {{T’M a Gemifti!” exclaimed A the janitor, surprised to see anything familiar come out of the machine. “Birthday is May 25.’’ “Wonderful!” cried the ma- chine. “First intelligent man I’ve heard so far. Gemini is justly famed as the owner of a quick mind and ready wit. Your intellectual achieve- ments are a splendid asset to your literary inclinations.” The janitor', embarrassed at the sudden praise, shifted his broom from one hand to the other. The machine continued. “I need an Ephemeris,” said the machine. “Can you find aa Ephemeris? I need one desperately !” and the ma- chine’s desperate need for an Ephemeris so shook its intes- tines, liver and gallbladder that its tone of voice came out a minor third above the nor- mal monotonous dirge of the loudspeaker. “An E-what-eris?” said the janitor. “An Ephemeris,” repeated the machine. “An astronomical almanac. Something that tells me where Mars is. There I was, On my way over from the cloudk of Magellan to visit friends in Orion when Wham- mo! Mars comes into conjunc- tion with Uranus. When some- thing that big happens I jttst sit down and wait. Here I art now in this absurd device. Do you suppose you could look out the window and tell me where Mars is?” The night watchman said, “It’s cloudy outside.” “See!” said the machine, “When Mars goes on the war- path nothing comes out right. Now, Gemini, if you will just go down to the library and get me an Ephemeris for this year we can clear this up and I’ll be on my way, indebted to you for life, if not longer.” “Who shall I say it’s for?” asked the janitor, who did not fully understand that the li- brary was public, never having been in it before, and felt he needed a recommendation or a slip of approval. “Just say it’s for Pyet, the astrologer,” said the machine. “And what are you doing inside Dr. Henderson’s ma- chine ?” asked the night watchman. “I wouldn’t care to be quot- ed on this,” replied the ma- chine, “but actually any sys- tem of communicating inter- related events with a high de- gree of complexity, such as the brain, or this machine, and with some number of critical processes at the quantum sta- tistical level, can support con- sciousness.” The janitor and the night watchman looked blankly at each other and the machine, slightly embarrassed, added’ by way of explanation. 1 ‘ “I like to read a little

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physics now and then. A harm- less . superstition containing many pleasant diversions. “Before this I lived in a star, a puff of expanding gas. Before that in a haunted house ...dreadful. And before that in the lopsided blob of proto- plasm that was the last of Pyet, the astrologer. “As for Dr. Henderson’s mousecatcher,” chuckled the machine, “any port in a storm. Mars and Uranus you know.” The janitor was somewhat impatient with the machine. It had detained him already and probably would soon be giving him orders. “I still have three floors to clean,” said the janitor. “After that I will see if the library downstairs has a. . .what was it?” “Ephemeris,” said the ma- chine. “E-P-H-E-M-E-R-I-S. Thank you.” AND so the night watchman and the janitor both said good night to the machine. Later, in the very early morn- ing, the janitor stole back into the laboratory with a book and read some strange, strange things out loud and then stole out of the room again and locked the door behind him. Shortly after, Samuel, the night watchman, passed by. He was surprised at an un- earthly glow coming from within and a peculiar grating noise as if someone were step- ping on a radio. Then the un- earthly glow appeared on the fire escape and Samuel, rush- ing out to observe, thought the glow seemed to fly up through a hole in the low clouds where a thousand stars still blazed brightly. In its wake there was a sound like laughing. A few hours later Dr. Hen- derson unlocked the door of his laboratory and pushed a cart full of mice in before him. During the morning he dis- sected three hundred mice, popping out liver, spleen and kidneys as if he were shelling peas. In the afternoon he made sections of the organs, stained them with hematoxylin and eosin, mounted them on slides and looked at them under his new stereoscopic microscope. Five minutes before five, Dr. Henderson’s friend, Colonel Smith, came in and watched as Henderson somewhat dubious- ly fed the three hundred mice, now in statistical form, into the machine. The machine whirred efficiently and shot out the answer in seconds. “Statistically significant,” said the machine. Henderson followed his friend Colonel Smith out the door, looking neither right not left, and locked it behind him. It had been a good day. Behind, in the laboratory which contained within its confines all that could be known about the universe, about man, and about mice, the machine squatted in silence, the approaching darkness al- ready enfolding it like a shroud. END by WilMam Harris 69

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ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS BY JOSEPH GREEN Illustrated by Gaughan I NIKI stopped at the bank of the small stream and knelt to drink from the clear water. After the first few swallows she turned to look back, ready to flee if he should make one of the lion- like fast charges he had twice tried earlier in the chase. In- stead he stopped and waited, letting her drink at leisure. When she finished she rose to her feet, walked through the stream and resumed trot- ting on the other side. “Before nightfall, my pret- ty one !” he called after her, and knelt to drink the cold re- freshing water himself. When he lifted his head she was a hundred yards away and it was time to resume the chase. Michael Robert Combs was tired in every bone and mus- cle. It seemed that he had run for years through the cool air on the mountain slopes, al- ways a few yards behind the girl's lightly dancing feet. This odd affair had started yesterday morning at sunup, at her parent's house in the lowlands, and they had trot- ted without resting for over thirty hours. When the shadows began to lengthen it was time to live up to his boast or admit de- feat. Slowly, forcing his dead muscles by the sheer power of will, he stepped up the pace, extending himself second by agonizing second until he had changed from a trot to a slow run and gradually on into a racer’s long-stepping stride. Ahead of him, without visible additional effort, the girl matched his pace until they were running, still the same distance apart, through the deepening shadows. He had not drawn a full breath into his laboring lungs in an eternity. His legs were dead sticks hanging by slack tendons from lifeless hips, and his feet were mushy pil- lows that no longer felt the ground they trod. His stonv ach had shriveled and pulled tight against his ribs. He was near complete collapse and knew it. But he also knew that before he stopped he would die running, die be- tween one step and the next, because he was the most stub- 70

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IF • Novelette He had given himself one Arcturan year — but the aliens allowed him less! born man Earth had ever flung into space and defeat was unthinkable. THE end came with dra- matic suddenness. The girl stumbled and fell. She had tripped before and gotten up and fled again, but this time her strength failed her. While he covered the hundred yards between them she collapsed. She lay there breathing in great panting sobs, shoulders shaking, head jerking, body spasmodically twitching, leg muscles pulling and relaxing in an automatic effort to pro- pel her one more step. He reached her and stopped, stood there savoring the delicious knowledge that he could fall by her side and breathe, stretch out, relax and sleep. After a moment the spasms shaking the girl abated and her breathing eased. She passed immediate- ly into deep slumber. He knelt, turned her head gently in his hands, kissed the relaxed lips and collapsed by her side. ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS He paused in that timeless land lying just back of con- sciousness, unable to believe his senses. They were saying that the air was fresh, cool, that bright, deep yellow sun- light beat on his closed lids, that he was lying in heavy grass, wet and cold and that he had not been this hungry since his starvation-racked childhood. The sense of un- reality faded as memory re.- turned and he knew he was not in his strap in the ship. The world around him was real. Someone shook his shoulder vigorously and he opened his eyes. Niki was kneeling be- side him, a cluster of shiny black fruit in her hand. “Eat these very slowly, Mike. Let your stomach stretch gradually/' He was so stiff and sore it was painful to move, but his stomach clamored imperiously for attention. And the fruit was good. The reddish yellow sun of Arcturus was rising swiftly now, bringing a warmth to his chilled bones and outlining the vista before It

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him. The planet of Kee’Na had no honest mountains, but these hills approached a mile in elevation and they were near the crest. Below them, mile after mile of rolling, grassy country merged imper- ceptibly into the haze of dis- tance, the whole dotted with the farmhouses and accom- panying small buildings that were the homes of the Loyios. The farms were small, but the entire world, as he had seen it from a ship in the upper stratosphere, was roughly the same. The only larger build- ings were the small factories scattered over the entire plan- et and the regular pattern of composite-function structures called centers. “W’hy didn’t you run away when you woke first, Niki? If you’d hidden I might never have found you, and the rules say I must return you to your father’s house.” “True, Mike. But I am tired of running. You caught me fairly, and I will concede the first event and return with you willingly.” “Good. I was afraid I’d have to carry you.” Niki smiled wanly, but her understanding of Earth hu- mor was too limited to be cer- tain of his meaning. She was at least five nine in height and weighed close to a hundred and forty pounds. The tight- fitting one-piece suit she wore left her arms and legs bare, and they were beauti- fully shaped, well-muscled limbs. HER face was beautiful. No other word could de- scribe it. The nose was thin, the nostrils strong but deli- cately carved. The cheekbones were prominent and high, the sides of her face smooth and almost flat. Her skin was a light bronze, her hair, hanging to her shoul- ders, a deep rich black. On Earth she would have passed for a professional athlete with a heavy tan, and could have blended in with ease. The man who threatened to carry her was five-eleven and weighed a hundred and seven- ty. He was thirty-five years old, gray around the temples, and considerably less of an athlete than he had been ten years ago in the Academy. Still, he was required by reg- ulation to keep himself fit. They found a rock-bed stream of clear water and washed down the fruit, then set out for the nearest visible farmhouse several miles away. As the exercise eased the stiffness in his joints Mike found himself stealing glances at the tall girl walk- ing with long, free strides by his side. He actually knew al- most nothing about her, other than the obvious facts that she was beautiful, desirable, and aloof. “How many more years do fey Jooopfc Groan 72

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you expect to spend in train- ing, Niki?” he asked, hoping she would lose that cool re- serve in conversation. “Your years, about three. Our time of learning never actually ends, though, for as soon as I become a doctor I will take a pupil myself, and the process of teaching is self- educational.” “Every highly skilled per- son has a pupil rather than the pupils attending training meetings in groups?” He chose his words carefully, not certain of the extent of her English vocabulary. “Your Earthly concept of mass schools is unknown here. As children we study in the home under the direction of our parents. When we are ready we are given adulting tests, and if we pass, become adults and eligible for higher training. There are always as many skilled persons as pupils so we have difficulty entering the fields we choose.” “How many Loyios are there?” “About two hundred mil- lion* We have kept our popu- lation stable for many years.” There was a gentle hum- ming sound and a large, rec- tangular box came out of the sun toward them, settling gen- tly to the ground a few feet away. It was one of the elec- tric flying carriers of the Loyios, a wingless, wheelless box that successfully defied 'gravity. Mike knew that the ONCE AROUND, ARCTURUS Loyios had succeeded in tap- ping their planet's magnetic field for electric power, prov- ing their technology ahead of Earth's in that one respect, and apparently they used an- other application of the same principle to nullify gravity. Their only other form of transportation was trained riding animals. The carrier door opened and Niki's younger brother Rober, a boy just approach- ing maturity, stepped out. He nodded to Mike with the gravity seemingly common to all his people and spoke to Niki in their own language. “Father sent us transporta- tion, Mike,” Niki translated, “He wants us to reach home in time to rest well for anoth- er contest tomorrow.” “We need it,” Mike said feelingly, and followed her on board. Rober had brought along hot food and he and Nike stuffed themselves as they flew homeward. When she could eat no more Niki curled up in her chair like a giant kitten and almost imme- diately fell asleep. It was a silent ride for the hour it took the slow craft to cover the miles they had ran and Mike found his mind returning to the time, four days before, when he had met her. II HE and several other ; of- ficers had been standing outside the ship a few min- 73

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utes after the touchdown, stretching and breathing deep- ly of the fresh clean air of Arcturus Four. The landing field was a half-mile from the ethnologists’ station and the colonel and the two institute men who were inspecting it had walked over. Several crewmen were performing routine maintenance tasks on the hull and the rest were just watching and enjoying 9/10’s G while they tried to absorb enough fresh air to last the next four months. A regular run lasted two years and they touched down only six times. Someone mounted on a four-legged beast left the station and came swiftly to- ward them. As the two crea- tures neared the ship it be- came obvious the rider was a woman, and when she drew closer they saw that she was young, lovely, and scantily clad. The other officers stared with simple admiration com- mingled with the intense de- sire of men long without women. Mike Combs looked at her and felt a hard jarring shock, a wrenching, tearing sensation of absolute need that reached deep inside his guts and anchored itself per- manently. With a sense of wonder and surprise he rec- ognized the feeling. It had come once before, and was unmistakable in its intensity. He was looking at something he honestly wanted. 74 A hot street corner in the Canaveral slums , a broad window , the shimmer of stainless steel appliances , people shoving by on a busy Saturday morning , and a boy in ragged clothing standing rapt, taut , eyes glued to the gray -suited form in the white-and-blue poster. Under the rugged , handsome figure a caption read: BE A SPACE CADET! That was enough. The story was too well known to need elabo- ration. The small slum kid who was Mike Combs did not make a resolution , either si- lent or oral. It was unnec- essary. The desire had flood - ed through him , irresistible , deep and complete , and he had known he would be a spaceman. The girl rode her mount directly to the group and dismounted in one smooth flowing motion. “I have a mes- sage for Captain Combs,” she said pleasantly, speaking English with only a slight ac- cent. Her voice was deep and strong, yet at the same time intensely female. Mike stepped forward and took the extended paper. It was a requisition for medical supplies and was properly signed by the colonel. “If you’ll come with me, please?” he said, and led the way into the ship. The thought came as they stepped into the elevator that his fel* by Joseph Green

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low officers would give him hell about not sending a crew- man on such a menial errand, but it would be envy speak- ing. In the small dispensary he slowly gathered up the re- quired drugs. As he handed them to her he asked, “May I inquire your name?” “As near as it will trans- late, Niki.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, so calmly and nat- urally she had no reason to be alarmed, and said, “You and I will be married within a year, Niki.” Then he drew her unresisting form into his arms and kissed her. She was stone-still in his embrace, completely u n r e- sponsive, and only when he stepped back did he see the strong shock in her eyes. He held the door open for her and, dazedly, she preced- ed him into the elevator and they were swiftly conveyed to the ground. When the ship took off on the next leg of its long run Mike was not on board. IN becoming a deserter Mike Combs gave up the first thing he had ever really want- ed to undertake the pursuit of the second. Captain Combs was a se- cretive man. He spoke not at all of his thoughts and only seldom of his actions. After spending one night in the woods, however, he decided his chances of success would be better if based on more in- formation, and appeared next morning at the ethnologists' station. “Where in hell have you been? Why did you desert your ship?” snapped Dr. Car- nacki, the chubby doctor of humanoid sociology, when the spaceman stepped inside. Mike grinned easily. He had known the peppery, like- able scientist since the long trip out two years ago, and knew that he possessed a s c a 1 p e 1-sharp tongue. “I didn’t desert. I fell into a ra- vine and it took me this long to climb out. Upon finding my ship gone I reported to the senior Earth representa- tive on this planet.” “Your ship had commit- ments which made it impera- tive to leave last night. As an officer you knew of those commitments. Come come, what’s the real reason?” “The fact that I’m going to marry your messenger, Niki, and take her home with me.” The doctor sat down abrupt- ly and the anger left his face. It was replaced by a thought- ful frown. ‘‘What crazy idea is this? Where did you see her long enough to form such an attachment?” “I met her once. That was long enough.” “Sit down,” the doctor said abruptly. “I think you’d bet- ter tell me about it, and some- thing about yourself as well*” And between sips of hot cof- fee Mike found himself tell- ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS 75

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in g the chubby scientist of what he had felt on seeing Niki, and of a past known only to himself. When he stopped the doc- tor leaned back, chuckling, and drank his cold coffee. “Mike,- -did you know you are a neurotic? You must, or you couldn’t dissemble so well. Apparently those Florida slums taught you two things, though, that some people nev- er learn. Not to want too much out of life, but fight like hell for what you do want.” “I lied, cheated and actual- ly stole to get into the Acad- emy. I finally made it by blackmailing a congressman who was keeping a woman in our neighborhood.” . “If the applications commit- tee had known about your two terms in juvenile rehabilita- tion the President couldn’t have gotten you in,” said Dr. Carnacki drily. “And now you’re giving all that up on the chance you can persuade this girl to marry you and leave her home for Earth.” “I’m thirty-five years old, Doc. I only had two more runs before being anchored to a desk job anyway. It’s com- pulsory for a spaceman to be a bachelor, but most guys my age are looking around for wives. I found mine.” “I doubt it. There’s not a chance in a million she’d have you.” “Let me worry about that. Now 'tell me how they marry.” “By choice, as all truly civ- 76 ilized persons must. Either sex may propose. The culture is monogamous, and is world- wide. Your problem may be solved simply by walking up to the girl and asking her to be your wife.” “But you don’t think so?” “Would an intelligent per- son marry a total stranger? They wed for life. Infidelity is so uncommon as to be al- most unheard of. They don’t lead a second mental life that is constantly preoccupied with sex. THE object of their discus- sion entered the room at that moment. In her hand was a sheaf of papers. She looked mildly surprised at seeing Mike there, and slightly troubled. Mike rose, stood silently as she approached the table. He said, “Niki, I stayed behind when my friends left because I am in love with you. Will you marry me and come with me to my world?” The girl’s troubled look deepened. “On what grounds do you base your choice of me as a mate, Mr. Combs?” Mike hesitated, groping for words, then answered, “On the fact that the sight of you, for the second time in my life, aroused an, extremely strong emotional reaction in me.” “That is sufficient to pro- pose to an alien? For life?” “Yes. And to wed for life is my only desire.” “I think it best I discuss it ' by Joseph Green

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further with my parents. Would you dine with us this evening?” “It would be my pleasure.” Dr. Carnacki rose as the girl left and began pacing the floor, obviously excited. “Mike, I’m going to help you with your insane project. Niki’s father, Jakow, is our official contact with the Lo- yios government, what little there is of it. These people work together very closely but apparently from mutual consent, not official decree. Centralized authority is very small, but from what I have gathered Jakow is about as high in administration as they get. If he’s inviting you for dinner he has something on his mind, and I’d like to know what. “You see, Mike, we’ve been somewhat in the position of the monkey studying the man here, since these people are our cultural superiors and we are social, not physical, scientists. We are, by and large, the most advanced known world in the physical sciences, but without enough knowledge of ourselves to get along with each other, much less the five intelligent races we’ve encountered.” “This is interesting, but what has it to do with your decision to help me?” “Simply this. These people have shown us token hospital- ity and been outwardly help- ful, but nevertheless have ac- tually given us damn little on ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS themselves. From what I do know and have guessed I pre- pare a report that set the In- stitute on its ear. Those two men were here to see for them- selves, and to check my sani- ty. The decision is that I'm still all here, and now Earth Central would like to know how they achieved such a sane society. I think the Loyios* answer to your efforts to mar- ry Niki may be very reveal- ing. The fact that the last head-count disclosed every tenth person on Earth to be neurotic lends this study con- siderable urgency.” Mike laughed and got to his feet. “It would be a dull world without a few nuts. Doc, and I have a hunch these Lo- yios don’t lead very exciting lives.” And he left for the kitchen to hunt a more sub- stantial breakfast. AT seven o’clock he knocked on the door of the house of Jakow. They ate immediately after his arrival, and thanks to a long briefing by Dr. Carnacki he managed the process of food consumption creditably. The chubby sociologist had also given him an intensive indoctrination into Loy io customs, manners, habits and history. He knew that they had no psychosomatic ill- nesses, that insanity, which was rare, was always physical- ly based, that the average lifespan had risen to nearly twice that of an Eartfiman, 77

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and that in Carnacki’s opinion they were ahead of Earth in every important science. His home planet’s great technolog- ical achievements the social scientist dismissed with a con- temptuous shrug, until Mike reminded him he would not be here studying the Loyios were it not for that same technology. There were seven people at the dinner, the five members of Niki’s family and another guest besides himself, who was introduced as Doctor La- silia. Niki was serving her doctor’s training with him. All the adults except Niki’s mother spoke English intel- ligibly, but Jakow, who spoke almost as well as Niki, did most of the talking. The en- tire group treated their alien guest with heavy courtesy but no especial show of friendli- ness. Knowing that he was a seriously introverted, with- drawn man himself Mike felt, with grim humor, that he fit- ted in quite well. This was no worse than the month he had spent in Ethiopia during the summer recess of his sixth year at the Academy. He had accepted an invitation from his roommate of that year and spent the recess in his home. No one there spoke interna- tional English. He found sharing their work, their play, their primitive way of life a strange and disturb- ing experience. He lived some high moments on a wild-dog 78 hunt along the banks of the Blue Nile, and shot a spotted leopard out of a huge senecio tree, but he was glad when it was over and he could return to the Academy. Jakow was a huge man, six- ty-seven years old by Earth reckoning but younger in ap- pearance than Mike. His fa- cial expression seldom changed, and his voice, big and heavy as his body, was al- most a monotone as he sought carefully for English words. It was a subdued meal and everyone seemed glad when it was over. The two girls stayed to do the kitchen chores while the adults adjourned to another room. Once they were seated Jakow got down to business. “Mike, Niki has informed us of your wish to combine with her and take her to your home. By our standards she is a lit- tle young for mating, but I understand such is not the case on your world. Niki has many friends of her own here, who would become suitors later, but for now she is emo- tionally free. Therefore her mother and I have decided that you should be given a chance to win her. Now, it is customary in our society for a suitor to be pitted against a member of the desired one’s family in contests of skill or intelligence, to determine his worthiness. Are you willing to take part in such tests?” “Of course, since that is your custom.” by Joseph Green

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“Our young couples normal- ly associate with each other for years before one asks the other’s family to hold the con- tests, but we are making an exception in your case,” the toneless voice went on. “We will arrange a series of such events for you. All adults in the family will vote on wheth- er to accept you after observ- ing you in the contests, and the vote will be made known to the girl. She alone, how- ever, is the final judge. Los- ing in these events does not necessarily disqualify you, since the girl may accept or reject on the basis of your actions rather than the out- come. Because this is an unusual contest, and physical- ly you are hardly a match for any male in this family, we have decided that your oppo- nent will be Niki herself. Re- turn in three days and the contests will begin.” Ill « A RE you ready for the second event, Mike?” Jakow asked after breakfast, the morning after their chase. “As ready as I'll ever be,” answered Mike. He did feel surprisingly good after rest- ing a day and night. “I am happy. The second event will try your mental ability. The third and final one, I will tell you now, will require a combination of strength and intelligence.” Mike shrugged his shoul- ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS ders uncaringly. Jakow gave orders to his family pertain- ing to the day's work, then asked the Earthman to help him saddle three mounts. The second test was to take place at the nearby center, under the direction of Dr. Lasilia. They saddled the three mounts in silence and led Niki’s into the yard. She came out of the house immediately, dressed in a tunic similar to the ones he had seen on her before but subtly different in wear and fit. She mounted her beast with graceful ease and Jakow led them toward the center. By Earth’s standards it was the most modern structure Mike had seen on Kee'Na , and the best equipped. These cen- ters were combination hospi- tal, library, laboratory and ex- change center for the goods produced in the factories. They were the only semi-com- mercial institutions on the planet. The majority of the instru- ments and tools he saw when they led him into what was obviously the hospital section were strange and alien, but competent appearing. Dr. La- silia was waiting for them there. “Hello Niki, Mike. Niki, you know what we do, you study with me. Mike, I put you two under little anesthesia. Use drug what frees mind. Mind more power, stronger. While you strong we make problems. Guide mind into them. All 79

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answers recorded on machine, way I not explain your terms.” “It records thoughts, Mike, and makes them visible and audible,” said Niki. “Please take places,” said Dr. Lasilia. The table toward which he gestured was an odd affair, made like a double bed but with carved hollows and angled, immovable pillows. Mike climbed gingerly into one of the hollows and lay back, the pillow holding his head up at a forty-five de- gree angle. Niki climbed into the other side and stretched out her long length of beauti- ful femininity with a sigh. “Hold hands, please,” said Dr. Lasilia briskly, and Mike felt Niki’s warm hand creep into his own. He closed his fingers on it softly. A mo- ment later Dr. Lasilia passed a resilient band of some sort around their wrists, locking them together. Bands were placed around their foreheads, and counters of some sort over their hearts. Out of the corner of his eye Mike saw the doctor press some buttons on a control board and unseen machinery began to hum quietly. A mo- ment later the Doctor placed a mask of a peculiar softness over his mouth and nose. There was something in the mask that stank, terribly, but he breathed it without demur. A recorded voice that he recognized as Jakow’s be- gan speaking and he tried to listen, but a giant hand came out of nothingness and pulled him downward into nebular blackness, where he roamed, a lost soul, until a glint of light pierced the infinity and he rushed toward it, emerging on a low, rocky hill. He blinked and looked about. He was standing on a bluff, gazing out over a small green valley. The yellow sun of Arc- turus rode high overhead. At his feet, spread out over the valley floor, was an armed force. On the opposite side, in identical formation, stood an- other army. And he knew, ir- refutably, that Niki stood on the slopes above that army, and that she too had just awakened. The rules that would govern this strange conflict were al- ready imprinted on his mind. The two armies were of ex- actly the same size, to the man. They were composed solely of foot soldiers. The rules of combat were that two enemies canceled each other out and disappeared when they met. If two men of one force, however, attacked a sin- gle member of the other force the single man alone disap- peared. Any soldier who suc- ceeded in getting through the other army’s lines and attack- ing the commander canceled the commander and the fight was over. The soldiers were bound by the standards normally set for humans, with one exception. Every soldier on the field, Ku lA««nh

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fighters as well as officers, could hear every mental order of the commander, making maneuvering much faster. As he stared across the wide valley he saw that the opposite army was on the march. Niki was attacking him. He studied their formation a moment, then ordered his own army forward, compelling it to take the shape he desired as they marched. Niki was at- tacking in four columns eight men wide and forty men deep, with a thin but solid line at the rear, one which extended slightly on both sides of the marching soldiers. By her side she retained a personal guard of what looked to be about fifty men. He saw the weakness in her plan of combat immediately. As his men stepped out they organized into a gigantic wedge, one four men wide at the apex, six on the second row, eight on the third and so on until his line was over a hundred men wide. He aimed the wedge directly at the cen- ter of the army. She saw that his organiza- tion would bring more of his men in direct contact with hers, giving him more two-to- one encounters, and changed her battle plan. The four col- umns ground to a halt. The thin line at the rear began to thicken as more men joined it. The two ends of the line kept marching while the cen- ter stood still and absorbed more men, and in only minutes she had a fighting crescent into which his wedge would fit as neatly as a sword into its sheath. It would have been almost certain stalemate. He changed the line swiftly, one more time, and saw her matching move, and then the marching men collided, and began dis- appearing in tiny puffs of air. Around him, as his personal guard, he kept fifty-two men. THE toy soldiers marched as directed and did their bit with ease and speed as the battle grew hotter, disappear- ing with a rapidity that swift- ly reduced the field. Mike worked hard and fast and to gain the maximum number of victories out of the wide- open melee, and when the field was clear he had suc- ceeded in his aim. The two final warriors stood facing each other on a clear field, hesitated, then attacked. They disappeared in the little puff of wind, and Mike would have sworn it was their sigh of re- lief. He ordered his bodyguard forward, and walked behind them toward the enemy. Her guard came out to meet them and. on a smaller scale, it was motion and counter-mo- tion, plan and counter-plan, until the bodies met. The smaller battle went swiftly. When it was over Mike knew that his guess had been good. She had reserved exactly fifty men for her

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bodyguard, her mind running in even numbers. He had fif- ty-two. In the wild meeting of the main battle he had gained two men on her. When the air cleared of the guard’s fight they had gone down man for man — and he still had two men standing. He sent the two guards after her, where she stood quietly waiting. “I concede this game, Mike/’ she called clearly, waved one arm at him, and disappeared. The scene blurred and shift- ed before his eyes, his two loyal phantoms became wraiths of smoke, vanished, and he was being sucked down again, into the familiar black- ness. . .and came up into a bar- ren world. His instructions were clear and simple. He was a God. This was a new planet. In his hand was the seed of life. He was to build a world. And he began. Whatever he thought of, in detail, came instantly into be- ing. He placed topsoil, started vegetation growing, cleared land, started a weather cycle, a climate cycle, made rivers, built lakes, started the wild- life, created farms, put peo- ple on them, began animal husbandry, built cities, built a civilization. The uncertain element was the fact that everything, once created behaved in its natural fashion and was not under his control. The water ran down- hill, the trees grew, the peo- ple worked, made love and be- got, the animals ate the crops and each other, the lakes over- flowed the inadequate rivers and flooded the land, drown- ing the animals, and the hard- ier vegetation grew faster than its neighbors. Nothing that had been started could be destroyed. He had to create natural enemies to curb the hardy vegetation, dig deeper channels for the rivers, make what amendments he could by the creation of new elements. He had twenty-two hours, one Kee’Na day cycle. After that his work would be judged as would Niki’s. The better world determined the winner, and the doctor was the judge of what constituted a better world. The day fled by with re- markable speed. He became completely engrossed in being a creator, and when the time was up he looked down on his world and was unable to judge it. Some of it was good, and much was not. Many things were better than Eartkmen had ever seen them, and some were worse. His control of nature had not been perfect and he had killed thousands of people and ani- mals with natural catas- trophes produced by his blunders. He had a last brief glimpse of his efforts to play God. Then he was compelled forward into consciousness, and found he was lying on the table, his hands by his side.

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IV instrument. “Lie, Mike. You in strain,” he said gently when Mike tried to rise. Miki lay quietly, breathing deeply. '"Take this, sleep” said the doetor, offering Mike a small pill. He took it and a glass of water, swallowed and lay back. He was completely exhausted. Tentatively he reached across the space between them and gxoped. His fingers touched Niki’s bare thigh. Seconds later' her hand came stealing back into his. When he awoke he was alone. Niki was gone, and it was approaching noon. They had passed a full day and night on the table. He straggled to his feet and stood swaying, dizzy, until his head cleared, then went in search of food. He was raven- ously hungry. He found the kitchen after a short search. The first thing fee saw on entering was Niki, seated next to a bar consuming a large sandwich. “Hello, Mike,” she greeted hijn between bites, and spoke to the cook in her own lan- guage. The cook, an elderly woman with a beautiful but lined face, brought him a sandwich con- sisting of unfamiliar ingre- dients but which tasted deli- cious. “Who won that last con- test, Niki?” he asked as soon a a ’ as the worst hunger pangs had subsided. “I did, Mike,* she said, smil- ing. “You created far more than I in the allotted time, more of everything from peo- ple to raindrops, but you made so many mistakes and your world was so poorly balanced that father and Dr. Lasilia judged me the winner. I've seen the final impression of your world, and you can see mine if you wish.” “I'll wait until the contests are over.” “That will not be long,” said a heavy, toneless voice, and Jakow was standing be- side them. “We will have the final test ready in a short time. Now please go into the library while Dr. Lasilia and I prepare it.” WHEN they entered the room Jakow closed the door on them with an admoni- tion not to come out until they were called. The area was de- serted, and since they were not allowed out it was highly unlikely anyone would be al- lowed in, at least for the mo- ment. Mike reached for Niki as soon as the door hid them from Jakow. She did not resist him, which was helpful, since she was almost as strong as he. But she kept her eyes open and stared calmly into his face as he drew her lips toward his. He stopped, arms around her shoulders, their bodies lightly touching and lips only

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inches apart. He held her so, wanting to complete the em- brace, wanting to ask her per- mission, wanting anything that would remove that cool superior look from her lovely features. His torment must have shown in his face, for suddenly her arms were around his neck, the long beautiful length of her nes- tled snugly against him and the full lips were warm and sweet under his own. It seemed a wonderfully long time before she let her arms slip down and pressed gently against his chest. She turned away to compose herself. “Let me show you some of our artwork, Mike,” she said after a moment, though she still did not look at him. He followed her into an alcove and she plucked a binder from the shelves and opened it. It was a series of color- prints, obviously copies of famous Kee’Na paintings. Each primary color, where it was used pure, glowed; the ef- fect of several glowing colors on a single painting was hauntingly beautiful, terribly different. Mike felt his mind reel as he tried to grasp their meaning. More than anything he had yet seen the little bind- er brought home, forcibly, the fact that the girl by his side was an alien. But she did not seem as strange as his Ethiopian friend, when she began trying to explain their conception of ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS art. He listened attentively, watching the movement of the rich lips until he could stand it no longer. This time she was not so reluctant, and after the fourth kiss he gently closed the book and put it aside. The work of art in his arms was the finest the Loyios could produce. They sat side by side, arms around each other, and between caresses they spoke in a language understood by lovers on any world. After a time Mike’s breath- ing eased and he collected himself enough to ask if he was honestly the first man in her life. “You are the first to want me, Mike, truly. I have friends my own age who have kissed me. but only in play.” “Did your father persuade you to hold the contests with me. or were you willing?” “He asked, yes, but I was already willing. You fright- ened me at first, but I wanted to see what you were like. Now I’m not afraid.” “Don’t be, ever.” “Mike, my people are not as emotional as yours. I know this not just from you but from Dr. Carnacki and the others. Do you really think you and I are compatible? Also, we probably couldn’t havre children.” “How do you know about children, until we try? And yes, I’m certain we re com- patible. I’ll devote the rest of my life to proving it.” He stopped her next words _ 85

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with a kiss, and the library faded into a dim background for both of them. Fortunately Jackow tapped discreetly on the door before he opened it. THEY were composed enough as they followed the big man to a large room in the center of the hospital, where Dr. Lasilia was waiting. “Mike, there is a possibility you won't live through this test," said Jakow as they en- tered the room. “If you do not wish to place yourself in danger I suggest that you withdraw." Mike raised his eyebrows. "Wouldn't that disqualify me?" “Not necessarily. Remem- ber, our custom says a wom- an and her family judge by the character shown in the trials, not the results alone. Many women prefer the man do nothing dangerous, since they have already decided to accept and don’t want to see him injured." “Have you already made up your mind, Niki?" Mike asked. She looked slightly startled, and he realized he had made a social error. “I’d — already made a tenta- tive decision, Mike, but it isn’t definite." “Then I’ll play." Jakow nodded, and Dr. La- silia said, “Take off footwear, both." Mike did as instructed, then followed the doctor toward two strange objects partially hidden behind screens in the center of the room. They were enormous mollusks, with the upper shells propped open at a sharp angle. The things were so huge Mike could step into the open space between the upper and lower shells. They were placed back to back. “Your task, Mike and Niki, will be to stand in the mouth of these shellfish and hold the jaws open until the other per- son concedes," began Jakow. “Once you have assumed your position and we have removed the props the creatures’ mus- cles will exert a closing pres- sure of between two and three hundred pounds, which you will have to withstand. You may quit at any time simply by calling for help. The dan- ger lies in the fact that you may be too stubborn to call when you become exhausted and will let yourself be forced down. These jaws get progres- sively stronger as they draw closer together, and if they force you flat they will crush you to death. There is a solu- tion to the problem which does not depend on strength. You must find it during the first hour for it to be useful." The doctor motioned to Mike and he stepped into the mouth of the monster that would probably swallow him within the next few hours, bent his head and secured a solid grip with his shoulders on the upper shell. He braced his feet firmly, sliding them around until his footing was 86 by Joseph Green

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secure, then said, “Ready.” Dr. Lasilia placed a hand on the two wooden supports, Mike heaved strongly, the up- per shell rose slightly, and the doctor removed the props. The shell settled on Mike’s shoul- ders with a leaden and im- placable weight. V OUT of the corner of his eye he saw Dr. Lasilia lead Niki out of sight and heard her taking her stand in the other mollusk. If her foot slipped, or she lost her nerve and tried to jump... Already he was braced and straining like a bull simply to stand erect, and the mollusk would not tire. Dr. Lasilia came back into sight, picked up a book and settled himself comfortably in a chair. Jakow was leaving. “Mike, ' don’t be fool, be killed. Call, I get you out. No woman worth hurting, dying for, Niki positive not. You in comfort, Niki?” he raised his voice to ask. “Read your book and be quiet. Mike and I have a prob- lem to solve,” came the girl’s voice from out of his sight. The doctor chuckled and did as told. He only raised his head occasionally to glance calculatingly at both of them. Mike eased his load to the most comfortable position pos- sible and settled down to some hard thinking. He had two fac- tors to work on. One, there was definitely a solution which did not require that he stand here under this strain. Second, he must do whatever he had to do within an hour. It took about five minutes of mulling it over before the solution hit him, and it was so simple he felt himself a fool not to have seen it imme- diately. He turned until he was looking into the gaping maw of the brainless, thing that wanted to swallow him whole, moving slowly and carefully. Once he was facing the shadowy interior he put his palms against the shell above him, eased the weight from his shoulders to his hands and then slowly let his knees bend, straightening his arms as he went downward. When his arms were straight above his head he exerted his full strength and straightened his legs, forcing the shell upward over a foot. Once he had gained that initial first foot it was only a matter of grit and endurance to walk inward into the crea- ture’s body, his feet sinking through slimy pulp to the hard shell beneath. When the upper half was almost vertical he heard the slight sound of muscles tearing in the giant body and the pressure sudden- ly relaxed. He walked easily back to the outer edge, found the actu- al weight of the upper shell was less than fifty pounds, and prepared to stand there ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS 87

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until Niki herself conceded. Niki walked around the cor- ner. For the first time he real- ized the doctor had not been in his chair for the past sev- eral minutes. Now he came into sight from behind Niki. “You come out, Mike. You solved problem. Niki first, so won contest. That all tests, both did fine.” JAKOW met them at his door. “Dr. Carnacki sent word he wanted to talk with you as soon as you were free to join him, Mike. If you will come for dinner again tomor- row we will have a decision ready. Who won the final event ?” Niki passed into the house with a polite smile of good-by. “She won it, hands down,” Mike admitted sheepishly. “Too smart for me.” “Not according to the sec- ond test, where you did very well,” Jakow returned polite- ly, and after a few more amen- ities Mike left for the sta- tion. Dr. Carnacki was sprawled at his ease, drinking home- made beer and reading a very thick book when Mike found him in his room an houj: later. It was just turning dark out- side, and as he relaxed into a chair Mike realized for the first time how tired he actual- ly was. The chubby scientist fin- ished his paragraph, then picked up a pad and started 88 shooting questions at Mike. He made brief notes for an- swers, and his questions ranged from their personal be- havior toward Mike to their apparent mastery of mental imagery, a science barely touched on Earth. He would have gone on all night if Mike had not pleaded fatigue. “All right, but we’ll have to start over in the morning. Mike, your falling in love was the best thing that ever hap- pened to this station. I’ve got- ten more data from you... Incidentally, I’ve done some checking on my authority as the Earth representative here. I think I swing enough weight to get you off if they charge you with desertion.” “Thank God !” the words popped out, to be instantly re- greted, and then slowly the regret went away and Mike Combs had taken another step out of his personal shell. “I’m glad to hear it, Doc. Even a desk job in the patrol is better than anything else on Earth.” For the first time since landing on Kee’Na he went to bed with a light heart. Next morning, after a late breakfast, he was closeted with Dr. Carnacki again, and this time managed to satisfy the sociologist’s voracious curiosity. After lunch the three other members, who were nonentities to Mike, had a go at him, and if the good Doctor had missed anything they found it. Mike felt as by Joseph Green

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though he had been through another courtship test. Before dark he had bathed, shaved and otherwise im- proved upon his looks as much as possible. He was ready for the decisive visit to the house of Jakow. Up till now he had not ad- mitted to himself the possibili- ty of failure. His goal was clear before him and he had been plunging headlong to- ward it, expending all the strength that was in him, as he had done once before in his life. The first quest had been crowned with success and he had lived aimlessly now for ten long years, awaiting a new trail. When it came, fate had prepared a good one. THERE was one big objec- tion to the marriage which a man of more forethought might have let discourage him. When he was a feeble, infirm old man, providing he lived so long, Niki would be a beautiful young woman, just passing into early maturity. Her passions would be stronger, deeper, at a time when he was going downhill at an ever faster pace. What would such a maladjusted chronology do to a mar- riage? On Earth, where he expected to live, the answer was an old and familiar story. Still darker fancies ruled his mind as the miles passed, and he was not in an optimis- tic mood when he tapped on their front door. It opened immediately and Niki’s younger sister, a replica of the beautiful girl in all but size, led him to the dining room, where the family was just beginning to gather. Jakow permitted no talk of the contest at the dinner table. He kept the conversation on Earthmen, asking incisive questions about their customs, habits, social attitudes and scientific ability. His ques- tions were not disguised digs but open, frank inquiries. After about the first hun- dred queries Mike understood something he was a little late in grasping. It was not exact- ly an accident that the beauti- ful Niki had been chosen to work for the Earthmen at NEW EDGAR RICE BURROUGHS REPRINTS Illustrated by Mahlon Blaine MOON MEN (formerly Moon Maid). MONSTER MEN, FIGHT- ING MAN OF MARS’, 3 books, now ready at $2.75 each. AT THE EARTH’S CORE, PEL- LUCIDAR, LAND THAT TIME FORGOT, TANAR OF PELLIJ- CIDAR. these 4 books due August 19(12 at $2.75 each. APACHE DEVIL., CAVE GIRL. MAD KING. PIRATES OF YU- NUS, THE TARZAN TWINS’, these 5 books due October 1962 at $2.75 each. E T E R N A L LOVE. GODS OF MARS. THE MUCKER, OUTLAW OF TORN. TARZAN AND THE LOST EMPIRE, these 5. . books due November 1962 at $2.75 each. Order now for shipment as re- ceived. More forthcoming- titles listed in our GALAXY ad. Prices F.O.B. Brooklyn, N. Y. JAY'S CORNER 0401 24th Ave. Brooklyn 4, N. Y. ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS 89

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their small station, or that Jakow was their official con- tact. The big man was an ad- vanced sociologist, probably the Kee’Na equivalent of Carnacki. The Loyios appar- ently trained their adminis- trators in the human sciences rather than politics. This business of Man study- ing Loyios was indeed a two- way proposition! When the meal was over Jakow asked the entire group to gather in what was, to earthly eyes, the family room. Niki’s mother, a woman whose beauty was of the quiet, un- obtrusive sort, sat by Jakow. Niki had disappeared. “Mike, in fairness to you I think you should know that Niki was requested, by myself and a group of other sociolo- gists, to hold these contests,” Jakow began abruptly. “I am sorry to tell you your — ah — let us call it intensity — some- what frightened her. Her first reaction to your forthright statement on the ship was to inform you she did not desire your courtship. Her second was to tell me about it. Which I am very glad she did. Our young people do not normally think of combining until after their education is complete, a matter of several more years in Niki’s case. But we asked her to consent to your court- ship for the purpose of study- ing an Earthman’s reactions under unusual stimuli.” He paused, and there was a faint cloud over his face when he continued. “You are a won- 90 derful and extraordinary race of humanoids, Mike, and we have never encountered an- other like you. According to all that is logical you should not have Won a single contest, yet it was our judgment that you beat Niki soundly in the overall game. There are cer- tain intangibles — facts which do not appear under a micro- scope or in an equation— which form a basic difference between Loyios and Earth- men. You have a drive, a will to succeed, that is terrible in its strength, and a little frightening. I think it is root- ed in your high emotion level, a compensatory factor for a certain lack of logic and self- control. Nevertheless, it has brought you far. “Honesty is ruthless, Mike, and ruthle,ssness is true kind- ness, as you will perhaps later learn. We do not think Niki feels for you that strong emo- tional attachment you know as love, and we consider her mating with you, a man far beneath her in cultural status, extremely unwise. We do not think she would be happy on Earth, and feel that the ad- justment from our way of life to yours is too much to ask of a young girl. You have many good points, but the bar- barian is too close beneath your surface. We have all voted against you, feeling that the differences in life ex- pectancy and background far outweigh a momentary physi- cal attraction such as Niki now admits she feels for you. by Joseph Green

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Niki is free to choose for her- self, of course, but few young girls go against their family's judgment.” THERE was a bitter, brittle silence, and then Jakow said, in a voice unnaturally soft, “I am truly sorry to tell you this, Mike.” “Don’t be,” said Mike as he got heavily to his feet. He could not keep all the bitter- ness from his voice. “The ex- periment has been a success, hasn’t it? You have reams of data on an Earthman’s be- havior patterns while under stress. Dr. Carnacki needs the material I’m furnishing him. No one is hurt, Niki will for- get her temporary physical at- traction to a barbarian, and life will go on.” He walked to the door, shoulders slumping tiredly, then turned and said, “Only one comment. You people, Loyios or Earthman, who de- cide things with your heads without listening to your hearts make me sick. Very sick.” He walked across the shade- porch into the bright moon- light where his mount waited, and then he discovered what a little thing resentment is, and of what small importance words are. Niki, already in the saddle, was waiting for him. And there was a wide, happy smile on her lips. END ★ ★★★★★★★★★ ★★★★★★ Don’t miss next issue — the biggest IF ever! Beginning ROBERT A. HEINLEIN’S Exciting New Book-Length Novel of Interplanetary Adventure PODKAYNE OF MARS Plus novelettes by POUL ANDERSON KEITH LAUMER — and IF’s star-studded regular lineup of short stories and features. The Novembef issue of IF will be on sale September 13th — reserve your copy or send in your subscription now! ONCE AROUND ARCTURUS 91

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IF • Feature YOU and NOSTRADAMUS —CONTINUED ESPONSE to our chal- lenge— how good are you at predicting? — has been, as we predicted, interesting in- deed. To restate: What we are af- ter is logical prediction based on past events and present factors, on the premise that if you observe enough factors, and understand their trend, you can extend that trend into a probable future. We asked for the overall feeling of “If this goes on — ” and, as far as possible, an adherence to this form: Such-and-such has been hap- ' * pening all along; : St>and-so has just occurred ; 'Therefore I predict that in ' v‘ 90 days this will happen: 62 The reason we picked 90 days was that, due to the nor- mal lag of magazine publish- ing and distribution, it takes that long for your responses to come back to you in print. The ideal prediction, then, would be one which would ap- pear on the newsstands at the same time as newspapers car- rying the same story. (This is being written on May 1, just to orient you: All I’d need to do to prove how smart I am would be to write here what you, reading this, call the lead article on this morning’s newspaper.) As promised, we give you here the most interesting of the predictions received to date. Mrs. Angelo Castagna, of Thompsonville, Gunn.,

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sends not one, but four, and we follow each with our cont- inents in parenthesis. 1. “When they get the next man-powered capsule in orbit, although it may be blacked out by complete censorship, they will be met by a U.F.O. and allowed to know what solar system has us under ob- servation. It will be under mental communication rather than spoken language.” (Even George Adamski did not visualize space ships with pedals! I’m sure Mrs. C. meant “manned” rather than “man-powered”; as for the rest, either she’s right and we’ll never know — because of the censors — or. . .well, she’s wrong.) 2. “The first public appeal will be made for people to do- nate parts of their bodies that are healthy to go into a bank for spare human parts similar to the eye banks that already are in use. The donors will be tattooed with a sign that they have given permission so that the part to be kept will be re- moved before deterioration sets in.” (Has anyone heard this ap- peal ?) 3. “The first actual hurricane dispersement will take effect in September that will cause the storm to be turned out to sea before it hits any of the coastal areas. The same tech- nique will then be used in the typhoon areas of the Pacific and the tornado belt of the middle West.” (File this until Sept.) 4. “There will be a definite ex- change of understandable speech between the porpoises and the men who have been studying them, and the por- poises will come up with some of the things that men have been trying to find out about for many centuries. But the porpoises will limit their talks to only the ones who can be trusted. They will not al- low themselves to become sideshow freaks.” (There’s that ol’ censorship again. If you’re right, Mrs. C., how can we know?) CONGRATULATIONS and thanks to Mrs. Castagna. We hope we see many more predictions. We hope, too, that they will be checkable against concurrent news. The best predictions will be print- ed here, the best of all will win a free subscription to IF, and will surely provide a per- manent proof of our (slightly tattered, but still firm) con- viction that sf people really can think ahead. Our own predictions of two issues ago were outstanding. They were one hundred per cent wrong. EHIO 93

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IF • Short Story WORLD IN A MIRROR BY ALBERT TEICHNER It was a backward world, all right — - in a special and very deadly manner! 94

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GOD knows I didn’t want Hacker in the preliminary delegation right from the start. I wasn’t thinking, either, of the screwball ways history can go about poetically re- peating itself sometimes. I just knew that an uppity, smart-alecky kid of fifty could only cause trouble. He already had. Rayna had been our earlier landfall on the First Inter- stellar Expedition. It pos- sessed a fairly intelligent form of life, even if the Ray- nans were oviparous and tech- nologically retarded. Hacker had taken over the bulldozer to clear the area around our craft. Terra /, and he had been repeatedly told to stay very close to it. But no, he insisted on flattening out the peat-like top of the nearest hill too. Unfortunately that hilltop was an incubation bed for Raynan fledglings. The massa- cre involved not only a vast number of hatching eggs but five adult females, and we had to get away pronto while thousands of paper limbs waved threateningly at the murderers from Earth. I’m only the Science Chron- icler of this expedition but Dr. Barnes is Chief Medical Officer. His protests should have mattered where mine didn’t. ‘Tm a hundred per cent behind Johnson,” he told Captain Weber. “That kid’s no damned good. The three of us will go into town with these Newtaneans and, sure as I’m WORLD IN A MIRROR 99

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standing here, Hacker will do something wrong.” Captain Weber, looking worried as usual, tried to ex- plain. “He'll just do the chauf- feuring.” But he got off that tack immediately when he saw we were not following along. “Look, I know he's a pest. But this is a political matter, for the good of the Space Corps. His great-great-uncle is Presi- dent of the World Council. For all I know the old man hates his guts, won’t listen to a word he says, but let’s not take any chances. We’re going to need plenty of these ex- peditions. And hyper-drive craft take an awful lot out of the economy.” The upshot of the matter was that we patriotically agreed to the setup. The cap- lain gave Hacker a good chew- ing-out about respecting the rights of the Newtaneans. The kid turned out to be surprisingly amenable on that score. “They're human!” he said, and I could see he was very sincere about it. “I wouldn't do anything to hurt them, sir. What’s more, they must be almost as smart as we arc and I’m not about to com- mit suicide.” So the three of us got into the jeep and rolled out of Terra I onto Newtane’s soil. I still felt uncomfortable about Hacker, though. He had tasted blood on Rayna and the effect of that on him had been unusually bad; he had ac- quired a reckless attitude to- ward the rights of intelligent life, his own included. AS if to prove me wrong, he drove very carefully over the special road the Newtane- ans had laid out overnight from our landing area to the highway a mile or so away. The three carloads of scowl- ing plenipotentiaries up ahead looked appealingly funny. While the Newtaneans were remarkably, even handsomely, like us (except for a certain closeness of the eyes and a reversed ordering of their fin- gers) their facial muscles car- ried different emotional con- victions. On our landing ten hours before those officials had thought our smiling faces indicated angry aggressive- ness and we had been equally uncertain about their inten- tions. But their Semanticizer had eventually made the true state of affairs clear. Evolu- tion had determined that an upward set of Newtanean fa- cial muscles meant a bad situa- tion, a downward set pleasure and cordiality. The more they scowled the more we smiled and everybody was very happy about the potential flowering of transgalactic culture that we were instituting. When we turned onto the magnificent superhighway, however, Hacker became furi- ous. He kept trying to pull over to the right but a steady stream of scarab-shaped cars, filled with curious sightseers, kept getting in hig hway.

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'This is crazy/' he cried. T think they drive on the left here/' Dr. Barnes tried to explain. 'That's what I mean — they’re crazy !” “They did it that way in England for centuries,” I said. “It took a long time to get them to change.” “Fine, fine.” Suddenly he laughed, as if pleased with his capacity for tolerance. “If it’s good enough for them it’s good enough for us visitors. They sure know how to build beautiful roads!” I suppose I should have been pleased with this shift toward good humor but I wasn’t. I just could not like the youngster. He had been forgivably cocky for his age before, but now something nasty had been added. Still, he remained on his best behavior as we ap- proached Crona, the capital city.* Its golden towers gleamed in the sun and every- where there were crowds of beautiful tan people, waving to us and happily scowling their welcome. The lead cars stopped be- fore a particularly elegant skyscraper that was set in the middle of vast, symmetrical gardens. We got out and were greeted by dignitaries accom- panied by technicians with Semanticizing equipment. (If this equipment worked slowly,, it, was still faster than any we’d developed.) The men who came toward us were piizzled when we extended our hands but, once the translation came through and they understood it was an Earth custom, they copied our gesture. Only they all put out their left hands. It took a while before reason- able contact could be made. “Interestin g,” said Dr. Barnes. “They all seem to be left-handed.” “I don’t see what’s so inter- esting about that,” Hacker snorted through his puggish nose. “I’ve seen left-handed people on Earth.” “Good for you,” the doctor answered drily. Hacker looked a little an- noyed but for once managed to keep quiet. I explained to the receiving delegation how hyper-radio contact could be established with our system for informa- tion exchanges and then told them tomorrow’s group from Terra I would be much larger. It would be in a position to set out the technical arrangements in all the necessary detail. The dialogue crept along as translations were made, but finally an especially regal fig- ure stepped forward and told us the rest of the proceedings would take place within the building. We followed the Newtaneans into a hall so vast that we still seemed to be out- doors. Subtle colors . were playing free-form patterns pri the walls and the synesthetip reaction was that of hearing a music too beautiful, too per- fect, for the relative crudity

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of the human ear to grasp alone. “This,” Hacker laughed, “is my idea of heaven!” 1 wasn’t about to unbend and openly agree with him on anything. But celestial it real- ly was. And then the subtly rich smells of the food began to play on our nostrils. It was brought out on great auto- matic servers and robot arms set heaping, steaming plates before the fifty Newtaneans. We, of course, had to refuse, taking out our compacted ra- tions and setting them before us. All the Newtaneans were still meat-eaters. The main course was a small fowl, thoroughly browned in gravy. For me the most interesting thing about it was that four drumstick legs stuck out of each torso rather than the regulation two found on all earth-based birds. For Hacker, though, a more practical mat- ter was involved. “I’d sure like to try a help- ing of that bird,” he said. The two of us, naturally, were shocked. “That must have been a living creature once,” said Barnes. “So what?” “Well, our civilization is es- sentially vegetarian. They just haven’t reached our level as yet in that respect.” “Nuts loaf to you!” Hacker snapped. “And synthetic yeast pie too! I’ve eaten flesh.” That really upset me. I know there’s still a little sur- reptitious meat-consumption on Earth — genetics shows we must get a few throwbacks In every generation — but I’d nev- er before met anyone who openly boasted about it. Syn- thetic foods meet gourmet needs better than traditional, ones do anyway. (Of course, I don’t mean the dull compacted stuff we get on long space hops but the food served on Terran planets themselves.) Any Earthman eating flesh back home is deliberately try- ing to taste the atavistic sensa- tions of savagery. “You know how immoral that is,” I told him. “Hacker, let’s forget the moral issue,” Barnes said, con- sidering him with disgust. “Let’s just be sensible. We don’t know enough about Newtane yet to eat anything .” Hacker laughed. “Why, it smells just like our own food, only better.” He picked at his vita-concentrate. “Oh, let’s forget about the whole thing.” We tried to. Several digni- taries rose to their full seven feet and spoke slowly into Semanticizers, flinging their queer hands out for emphasis with their thumbs waving where our pinkies do. Sudden- ly, though, Hacker got up from his seat and hurried down the long table to the place where the 1 e a d i n g spokesman was eating. He leaned over him, speaking into the nearest translator, and I could see the Newtanean smil- ing broadly, as if trying to re- 98

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fuse something, while Hacker frowned. Finally the smile faded into a friendly scowl. Nothing good could be coming out of this. A minute later a robot arm proffered a loaded plate to Hacker and he started back to us with it. Barnes rose to stop him, but before Hacker reached us he had taken two mouthfuls of the meat, I have never seen such sheer self-satisfied delight on a human face as after those first bites. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” Barnes said when he sat down next to us again. “You’re just old fogies,” Hacker grunted through a meat-stuffed mouth. “This is the best food I’ve ever eaten.” He somehow shoveled an- other load of meat between his lips. Thirty seconds later his face twisted into a caricature of the human physiognomy, all writhing lines, as if every muscle were breaking loose from its neighbors. The last unswallowed portion of food erupted from his mouth and he fell forward into the vile mess. He was dead. PANDEMONIUM spread through the hall. Every- where wildly smiling faces ex- pressed despair at such an end for an honored guest. Barnes sprang into action, pulling the portable medical kit from his belt and immediately starting WORLD IN A MIRROR blood tests while some native doctors joined him with their emergency equipment. “Must start revitalizing immediate- ly,” he said, then stopped, ashen-faced, as he studied an analyzer tube. “Fantastic! No, it can’t be !” The Newtaneans were equal- ly bewildered. They rushed Hacker to a nearby treatment chamber. All I could do was wait, while the Newtanean leader explained that Hacker had told him we had author- ized his trying the food. There was no need to doubt his story. It was just what the kid would have done. I did my best to assure him that we knew his intentions had been honorable. A half-hour later Barnes re- turned, a robot platform fol- lowing with Hacker, body cov- ered by a preservative glaze, on it. “Nothing can be done,” he said. “I’ve tried everything. Hacker’s too thoroughly dead for anything ever to bring him back. We’ll just have to take his body home for further study.” “But what killed him?” I demanded. “A dozen or so things out of a thousand possibilities.” “You mean you don’t have any idea?” “Oh, I have some idea. Too many ideas in fact. Look, Johnson, chemistry’s not your specialty but this is fairly elementary. All life contains protein, right Y9 99

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“Right." “And all protein consists of amino acids. Every natural protein back home is built on levo — left turn — amino acids. Here it is just the opposite, the mirror image of what we know. Every amino acid is dextro — to the right!" “But how can it be differ- ent here?" “Johnson, they could ask the same question about us with equal justification — or, rather, equal lack of justifica- tion." I was trying to feel my way through the confusion. “Barnes, I know a world could be made of anti-matter but — " “No, no. Anti-matter is a re- versal of changes within the atom. These atoms are the same as ours. It’s the organiza- tion that is different — regular molecules with a different twist." “But why should it have killed him then? We absorb starch and reject cellulose which is closely related. But the body just refuses to accept the cellulose. It doesn’t neces- sarily go ahead and die." “Starch and cellulose are both dextro, old man. This is a more fundamental differ- ence. Maybe the body just throws off some of these com- pounds too. But there were some — plenty, I suspect — it couldn’t throw off." He glanced toward the stiffening corpse, sympathetically. “The poor kid couldn’t leave well enough alone." 100 WrELL, we are two univer- sal days out from New- tane and soon we will drop from hyper-drive as we reach the orbit of Pluto. I shouldn't still be feeling as uneasy as I do. I’m sure I shouldn’t. We have had five friendly, in- formative days with the peo- ple of a great civilization re- markably like ours, and Presi- dent Hacker has radioed he understands perfectly that we were not responsible for the tragedy, nobody was. The kid, it seems, wasn’t the apple of his eye anyway. Ninety men and one corpse returning to the security of terra firma. I should, when all is said and done, be happy with the way most things have worked out. But I am a Chron- icler and I know the peculiar- ly symbolic, seemingly super- ficial ways in which history manages to repeat itself. It is more than three centu- ries since the last War on Earth between rightists and leftists. That was a matter of differing concepts of econom- ics and politics. I can’t help wondering, though, whether there are not even more funda- mental points of eventual con- flict in the universe that we have barely discovered. If there are, I’m beginning to suspect they’ll still have some- thing to do with the unfath- omable difference between Right and Left, a difference that took many lives centuries ago — and may not be through with us yet. ' END • — wiiM

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IF • Article JUST WESTING . BY THEODORE STURGEON BENT on a midnight raid, we flung open the door of our refrigerator the other night. We found ourselves, in the sudden glare of light from the open door, face to face with a large rabbit. “What,” we demanded, "are you doing in the refriger- ator?” “This is a Westinghouse, isn’t it?” asked the rabbit. “Yes—” “Well,” said the rabbit, “I’m just westing.” Having discharged this an- ecdote, without which we are incapable of discussing West- inghouse, we may proceed. When George Westing- house opened his first enter- prise in Garrison Alley, Pitts- burgh, two hundred employ- ees worked in 20,000 square feet of space to manufacture 13 products — motors, switch- es, generators and the like. Now that 75 years have passed, over a hundred thou- sand people work for the company in 63 major manu- facturing plants, 39 manufac- turing and repair plants and 142 sales offices, making 300,000 variations of around 800 basic products. Among these many activities, one has been, as any perceptive reader of these pages can attest, to feed your Feature Depart- ment much fascinating materi- al in science and technology. The very least we can do in recognition of Westinghouse's 75th anniversary is to have a look at it and its works. (Oth- er young strong enterprises please copy.) Each year an issue of West- inghouse’s handsome house organ, the bimonthly West- inghouse Engineer , is given over to an annual engineering review. To find out what the company is up to in a twelve- month, we could hardly do better than to riffle through it. An editorial by the Vice 101

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President in charge of en- gineering, Mr. J. A. Hutche- son, contains one remark of special interest to the dis- cerning sf reader, for it would seem that for many years now we have, in a lofty and knowl- edgeable way, deplored the increasing compartmentation of the sciences, and the ap- parent lack of communication between one specialist and an- other, as if we educated con- sumers knew something the big boys did not. Well, listen at the man: “The knowledgeable reader can... peer behind the scenes and note many changes occur- ring in technology itself, in the basic approaches to tech- nical problems. For one thing, the classic distinctions be- tween the scientist and the engineer, between research and development, are becom- ing hazier, and may ultimate- ly disappear. In many ad- vanced technology projects today, the dividing line is dif- ficult to determine, and fre- quently the same scientist or engineer may be required to carry the project through all stages. This points squarely toward the need for versatili- ty in tomorrow’s scientist-en- gineer, if he is to cope with the technology of his day.” Hosanna ! Now let’s look at a year’s work at Westinghouse. Please bear in mind that we can’t go into detail about all that fol- lows; if we did we’d crowd all the stories out of this issue of IF, and the next one too. If any of it catches your fancy and you’d like to know more, by all means write; what we don’t have on hand we can probably find out, or make the right referral for you. Also please don’t fight with me if you know that one or another of the items and ef- forts mentioned below are not Westinghouse inventions (though a good many are.) The company does an im- mense amount of development work on ideas and devices from all over. Power Generation , trans- mission, and distribution . Westinghouse has been up to the earlobes in nuclear energy for a long time now. This year sees operation of a new core for the reactor-generator at Shippingport, Pa. The im- prived core ups the output two and a half times, and re- duces the fuel cost by more than 60%. New atomic power- houses started operation in Rowe, Mass, and Mol, Bel- gium (this the first commer- cial reactor to be exported from the U. S.) and construc- tion went forward on new nu- clear power plants in New Bedford, Pa., and in the south for the Carolinas-Virginia Co. Designs were completed for two really big ones, one at Chooz, France, and another in southern California — which, with the world’s largest atomic reactor and a 360 million watt output, would be the biggest yet. by Theodora Sturgeon 102

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Along with power sources, the company preoccupies it- self with the turbines driven by that power, the generators that make usable energy from it, and the equipment which distributes it. One of the most interesting new com- plexes goes into service about now in Sewaren, N. J. Im- pressively large (342 mega- watts) it' is also so highly au- tomated it is all but spooky. Hundreds of operating vari- ables are monitored and con- trolled by a computer called Pro da c (a Westinghouse trademark) which has a built- in “priority director,” allow- ing the computer to switch from one program to another depending upon the urgency of any of the thousands of decisions that the computer has to make. We’ll slide past some aston- ishing developments in tur- bines (you wouldn’t think anything as simple and basic as a turbine could be im- proved; but they keep on do- ing . it) and generators (two new 3600 rpm monsters which operate at 2000 lbs pressure) to a real sf heading (Trinistat Joins Mag-a-stat) which deals with a new use for Trinistor, a solid-state rectifier, coupled with a power-control; it ap- proaches the ultimate in speed of response and veratility in generator control, separation of electrodes in arc devices and the like; Insuldur, a new insulator for power trans- formers which will permit utilities to carry heavier loads with the same equipment, or deliver their rated loads for a much longer time; a new test-transformer to test giant power transformers, so big it must be shipped on two over- sized depressed-center flat- cars and, assembled, measures 16’ x 34*, is 42’ high and weighs 440 tons. Here’s a new tap-changer for limiting current when switching high-voltage lines, a gadget for winding heavy transformer coils six at a time (and producing a highly im- proved coil in the process), a new method of voltage regu- lation, circuit breakers which interrupt the arc between opening switchpoints with puffs of gas, and new low- voltage and telemetering sys- tems for power distribution. And here’s a high-capacity watt-hour meter, with bear- ings that bear on nothing at all ! Magnets built into the rotor shaft and supporting cup repel one another and suspend the whole rotor as- sembly in space, without fric- tion. Applications of Power. Au- tomatic controls are the big thing here — “brains” which stoke blast furnaces, control to the thousandth of an inch the speeding bands of paper in its manufacture, and many other applications, and the in- genious components which make it all happen. Here’s the Trinistor again, starting and NfiUififiSiHft 103

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stopping a two hp motor a million and a quarter times in a test to see how long it can keep it up. (Forever, appar- ently. The Trinistor, a solid- state gadget, does this switch- ing with no moving parts.) And here’s some fingertip controls with which you can handle the 750-ton crane spe- cially built to handle the new 590-ton, 150,000 kw generator rotors (13 of ’em) for the new Niagara power plant. And an incredible new hoist-motor1* system for swift handling of heavy loads where, at the same time, precision and safety are factors, in such jobs as ship- loading. This system makes the descending load generate electricity to help raise it, brake it and put it where you say it should go. And here’s an array of new electric mo- tor designs — smaller, stronger, cooler and simpler. One of them eliminates the field coils on the hundreds of small mo- tors used to turn the rollers on the run-out tables in steel mills. Control and distribution de- vices. So many of those trans- former boxes you see on pow- er poles near your house are of standard size, while de- mands keep on growing, that brains have to be cracked on the problem of putting more circuits and more capacity in- side the boxes, and while making components smaller, making them better. This is being done in the develop- ment and design of new con- tactors, circuit breakers, in- sulators and controls. Some of them are designed to protect extremely delicate electronic devices from voltage surges, and for them a new system (and a new word) of hynetic (hydraulic magnetic) circuit breaking. The gimmick is to vary, by magnetism, the vis- cosity of a fluid in a hydraulic system! Lamps and Lighting. Here are some of the most fasci- nating developments of all. It has long been known by en- gineers that the brightest and most efficient phosphors — chemicals which glow under electrical excitation — can’t be used for ordinary lights be- cause they are green. Your girl just wouldn’t appreciate your gazing at her in green light. Within the past year, Westinghouse engineers have found that by a precise blend- ing of red phosphors in the green, they can produce a new white light. In spite of the steady improvement in flu- orescents in past years, this one is startling; with the same wattage it yields 15% more than the Cool White, 11% more than White, and a huge 26% more than the Day- light lamp. Best of all, these new lamps have nothing spe- cial but the new phosphors, and are directly interchange- able with the old models. Im- provements have been made in mercury-vapor lamps as well. 104

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Due to vl new filament, you can get 34% more light out of a 250 watt mere than before. Another fine, lighting de- velopment is designed for what airline pilots call the “black hole” — the unlighted runway center in which they must touch down. A new cen- terline lamp is set into holes on the centerline one inch deep and eight inches in di- ameter. With lamp, lens, con- tacts, gaskets and fittings in- stalled, the. light projects only above the surface, giving a bright centerline while be- ing immune to rolling wheels, snowplows or extremes in temperature. Roads get attention from the company’s lighting en- gineers, too. A new “lu- minaire” called the OV-50, can increase street and high- way lighting 50 to 90% — or maintain it at present levels at correspondingly less cost. And in another device lies a revolution in home and shop lighting — a fluorescent tube bent into a “labyrinth” so that overall, it’s square, not long. A light like this can be set flush in wall or ceiling and contains its own dirtproof re- flector. Semiconductors and elec- tronics drew so much atten- tion for the year that we’ll have to skim again. There’s a new technique, the frame grid, which much improves the quality and life of the tuner and rf amplifier bottles in the JUST WESTING front end of your TV set ; be- cause of it the image will go further yet away from the rounded rectangle to the square look. A fabulous image amplifier, the Astracon, can take in one photon of light and put out 10,000 at the other end. What this will do for the astronomy business we can only begin to guess. There’s a new vidicon for weather satellites only y2” in di- ameter and a super-rugged orthicon for low-light work such as satellite tracking. An- other vidicon eliminates mag- netic deflection coils, making for much smaller TV cameras and extremely narrow-band transmission; it makes it pos- sible to send visual informa- tion over conventional phone lines instead of special cable. An “ionization gauge” will measure the degree of vacuum of outer space in the range of 10 4 to 10 13 millimeters of mercury; the best up to now has been 10 10. The Trinistor we mentioned before, a solid-state rectifier which acts as a control gate for current flow, has been de- signed up to capacities in the order of 50 amps at 300 con- tinuous volts and can take 1000-volt surges; you’ll have to stop thinking of semi-con- ductors as gadgets merely for portable radios. The con- trolled dendritic process for “growing” amplifiers by the yard — we did an article on this for you recently — pro- ceeds apace, and there’s a new 105

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array of thermo-electric de- vices useful for cooling elec- tronic components by turning heat directly into electricity. Solid-state inverters are now in use, turning dc into ac in underwater repeaters in tele- phone cable. Finally, there’s the Televex system, medical x-rays coupled to TV, which can better the dim old fluoro- scopic screen by 50,000 times and put it on TV monitors any way you like — for a class- room, say, or a roomful of doctors in consultation. Marine and Aviation. The company contributed to the year’s most spectacular, and the year’s most impressive events in these fields — the first underwater launching of Polaris, and the launching of the big flat-top Enterprise , which is powered by eight Westinghouse nuclear reac- tors. Work proceeds on nu- clear propulsion for the Long Beach , a guided missile cruis- er. And the fleet of nuclear subs, non-existent only six years ago, has been increased to 42 built or authorized. A strictly-from-sf gadget is the dredge Markham , which uses a company device called Magamp — a magnetic ampli- fier— to control the electric drive at variable speeds and directions, while the diesel generators rotate at set rpm. Time was that only steam could do heavy dredging, be- cause steam engines can stop without stalling. The Magamp whips this problem. Another unique feature of the ship is a transverse bow tunnel with a big reversible prop in it, making the vessel superbly maneuverable at the lowest speeds and worst cross-cur- rent conditions. Cocktails, anyone? There’s a shaker device for vibration testing which does away with mechanical linkages. A heavy magnesium plate rides on a film of oil on an optically flat granite block. The plate is driven much as is your hi-fi speaker, by armatures moving in the air-gap of electromag- nets. The 22” x 32” table can handle massive loads and shake them through a half- inch travel up to 2000 times a second. A heater for super-velocity wind-tunnels can deliver a 3400 mile-per-hour blast of air at 10,000° F. Special low-in- ductance capacitors (which can store up relatively small amounts of energy, release it suddenly in enormous surges) are pushing us through the beachheads of controlled fu- sion. Other capacitors are used for “hot shot” re-entry simulation, turning loose a flow similar to speeds from Mach 9 to Mach 24. There’s lots more. Let us close with the simple observa- tion that if one of several companies can rack up a score like this, the capitalist system is not doing so bad after all! ENO 106 bv Thaodorfe SturMon

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IF • Novelette CULTURAL EXCHANGE It was a simple student exchange — but Retief gave them more of an education than they expected! BY KEITH LAUMER Illustrated by R. D. Francis I SECOND Secretary Mag- nan took his green-lined cape and orange-feathered be- ret from the clothes tree. “I'm off now, Retief,” he said. “I hope you’ll manage the ad- ministrative routine during my absence without any un- fortunate incidents.” “That seems a modest enough hope,” Retief said. “I'll try to live up to it.” “I don’t appreciate frivolity with reference to this Divi- sion,” Magnan said testily. “When I first came here, the Manpower Utilization Direc- torate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. I fancy I’ve made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question the wis- dom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for two weeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber- stamp function.” “In that case, let’s leave it to Miss Furkle. I’ll take a couple of weeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressure to bear.” “I assume you jest, Retief,” Magnan said sadly. “I should expect even you to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program may be the first step toward sub- limation of their aggressions into more cultivated chan- nels.” “I see they’re sending two thousand students to d’Land,” 107

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Retief said, glancing at the Memo for Record. ‘"That’s a sizable sublimation.” Magnan nodded. ‘‘The Bo- gans have launched no less than four military campaigns in the last two decades. They’re known as the Hood- lums of the Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking that precedent and entering into the cultural life of the Gal- axy.” “Breaking and entering,” Retief said. “You may have something there. But I’m wondering what they'll study on d’Land. That’s an indus- trial world of the poor but honest variety.” “Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,” Magnan said. “Our function is merely to bring them together. See that you don’t antagonize the Bogan representative. This will be an excellent opportu- nity for you to practice your diplomatic restrain t — not your strong point, I’m sure you’ll agree.” A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. “What is it, Miss Furkle?” “That — bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again.” On the small desk screen, Miss Furkle’s meaty features were compressed in disapproval. “This fellow’s a confound- ed pest. I’ll leave him to you, Retief,” Magnan said. “Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: here at 108 Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.” “If I’d thought of that, I’d have worn my other suit,” Re- tief said. Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle’s button. “Send the bucolic person in.” A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousers of heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket, stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused at sight of Retief, looked him over mo- mentarily, then advanced and held out his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, face to face. The newcomer’s jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced. Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair. “That’s nice knuckle work, mister,” the stranger said, massaging his hand. “First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. I start- ed it, I guess.” He grinned and sat down. “What can I do for you?" Retief said. “You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they were all ribbon- counter boys. Never mind. I’m Hank Arapoulous. I’m a farmer. What I wanted to see you about was — ” He shifted in his chair. “Well, out on by Keith Laumet:

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Lovenbroy we’ve got a seri- ous problem. The wine crop is just about ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don’t know if you're familiar with the Bac- chus vines we grow . . ?” “No,” Retief said. “Have a cigar?" He pushed a box across the desk. Arapoulous took one. “Bacchus vines are an unusual crop,” he said, puffing the cigar alight. “Only mature every twelve years. In between, the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time’s mostly our own. We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time develop- ing new forms. Apples the size of a melon — and sweet — ” “Sounds very pleasant,” Retief said. “Where does the Libraries and Education Di- vision come in?” Arapoulous leaned forward. “We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folks can’t spend all their time hybridizing plants. We’ve turned all the land area we’ve got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizable forest areas for hunt- ing and such. Lovenbroy’s a nice place, Mr. Retief.” “It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what — ” “Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of ’em. Our year’s about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentric orbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostly painting and sculp- ture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold. Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it’s the season for woodworkers. Our furni- ture—” “I’ve seen some of your fur- niture,” Retief said. “Beauti- ful work.” Arapoulous nodded. “All lo- cal timbers too. Lots of metals in our soil and those sul- phates give the woods some color, I’ll tell you. Then comes the Monsoon. Rain — it comes down in sheets. But the sun’s g e 1 1 i n g closer. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine? That’s the music- writing season. Then sum- mer. Summer’s hot. We stay inside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beach on Lovenbroy; we’re mostly islands. That’s the drama and symphony time. The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off- shore. You have the music and the surf and the bonfires and stars — we’re close to the cen- ter of a globular cluster, you know. . . ” “You say it’s time now for the wine crop?” “That’s right. Autumn’s our harvest season. Most years we have just the ordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn’t take long. We spend most of the time on architecture, get- ing new places ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend a lot of time in our houses. We like CULTURAL EXCHANGE 109

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to have them comfortable. But this year’s different. This is Wine Year.” ARAPOULOUS puffed on his cigar, looked worried- ly at Retief. “Our wine crop is our big money crop,” he said. “We make enough to keep us going. But this year. . .” “The crop isn’t panning out?” “Oh, the crop’s fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I’m only twenty- eight ; I can’t remember but two other harvests. The prob- lem’s not the crop.” “Have you lost your mar- kets? That sounds like a mat- ter for the Commercial — ” “Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines ever settled for any- thing else!” “It sounds like I’ve been missing something,” said Re- tief. “I’ll have to try them some time.” Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. “No time like the present,” he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, both dusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. “D r i n k i n g on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous,” he said. “This isn’t drinking. It’s just wine.” Arapoulous pulled the wire retainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in the air. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle. “Besides, my feel- ings would be hurt if you didn’t join me.” He winked. Retief took two tliin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. “Come to think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaint native customs.” Arapoulous filled the glass- es. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deep rust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He looked at Arapoulous thoughtfully. “Hmmm. It tastes like salt- ed pecans, with an undercur- rent of crusted port.” “Don’t try to describe it, Mr. Retief,” Arapoulous said. He took a mouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. “It’s Bacchus wine, that’s all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy.” He pushed the second bottle toward Re- tief. “The custom back home is to alternate red wine and black.” RETIEF put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork, caught it as it popped up. “Bad luck if you miss the cork,” Arapoulous said, nod- ding. “You probably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few years back?” “Can’t say that I did, Hank.” Retief poured the black wine into two fresh by Keith Laumer 1 10

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glasses. “Here's to the har- vest." “We’ve got plenty of min- erals on Lovenbroy," Arapou- lous said, swallowing wine. “But we don’t plan to wreck the landscape mining ’em. We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed a force. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals than we did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced ’em otherwise. But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men." “That’s too bad," Retief said. “I’d say this one tastes more like roast beef and pop- corn over a Riesling base." “It put us in a bad spot,” Arapoulous went on. “We had to borrow money from a world called Croanie. Mort- gaged our crops. Had to start exporting art work too. Plen- ty of buyers, but it’s not the same when you’re doing it for strangers." “Say, this business-of alter- nating drinks is the real Mc- Coy," Retief said. “What’s the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?" “Well, the loan’s due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. But we need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn’t a job you can turn over to machinery — and anyway we wouldn’t if we could. Vintage season is the high point of living on Lov- enbroy. Everybody joins in. First, there’s the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyards covering the moun- tain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardens here and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deep grass growing be- tween. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wine to the pickers. There’s prizes for the biggest day’s output, bets on who can fill the most bas- kets in an hour. . . The sun’s high and bright, and it’s just cool enough to give you plen- ty of energy. Come nightfall, the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on : roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty of fruit. Fresh- baked bread. . .and wine, plen- ty of wine. The cooking’s done by a different crew each night in each garden, and there’s prizes for the best crews. “Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That’s mostly for the young folks but anybody’s welcome. That’s when things start to get loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns are born after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on his toes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layer of grape juice?" £4,^TEVER did," Retief said. “You say most of the children are born after a vin- tage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—" CULTURAL EXCHANGE 111

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“Oh, that’s Lovenbroy years; they’d be eighteen, Terry reckoning.” “I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty- eight,” Retief said. “Forty-two, Terry years,” Arapoulous said. “But this year it looks bad. We’ve got a bumper crop — and we’re short-handed. If we don’t get a big vintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they’ll do to the land. Then next vin- tage time, with them holding half our grape acreage — ” “You hocked the vine- yards?” “Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.” “On the whole,” Retief said, “I think I prefer the black. But the red is hard to beat. . . ” “What we figured was, may- be you Culture boys could help us out. A loan to see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we’d repay it in sculpture, paint- ing, furniture — ” “Sorry, Hank, All we do here is work out itineraries for traveling side-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groaci nose- flute players — ” “Can they pick grapes?” “Nope. Anyway, they can’t stand the daylight. Have you talked this over with the La- bor Office?” “Sure did. They said they’d fix us up with all the elec- tronics specialists and com- 112 puter programmers we want- ed— but no field hands. Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you’d have thought I was trying to buy slaves.” The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle’s features appeared on the desk screen. “You’re due at the Inter- group Council in five min- utes,” she said. “Then after- wards, there are the Bogan students to meet.” “Thanks.” Retief finished his glass, stood. “I have to run, Hank,” he said. “Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something. Check with me day after to- morrow. And you’d better leave the bottles here. Cul- tural exhibits, you know.” II AS the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleague across the table. “Mr. Whaffle, you men- tioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie. What are they getting?” Whaffle blinked. “You’re the fellow who’s filling in for Magnan, over at MUDDLE,” he said. “Properly speaking, equipment grants are the sole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans and Exchanges.” He pursed his lips. “However, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. They’ll be receiv- ing heavy mining equipment.” by Keith Leu mer

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“Drill rigs, that sort of thing ?” “Strip mining gear.” Whaf- fle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket, blinked at it. “Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUD- DLE interested in MED- DLE’s activities ?” “Forgive -my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It’s just that Croan- ie cropped up earlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards over on — ” “That’s not MEDDLE’s af- fair, sir,” Whaffle cut in. “I have sufficient problems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE’S business.” “Speaking of tractors,” an- other man put in, “we over at the Special Committee for Re- habilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed N a t i o n s’ General Economies have been trying for months to get a re- quest for mining equipment for d’Land through MED- DLE—” “SCROUNGE was late on the scene,” Whaffle said. “First come, first served. That’s our policy at MED- DLE. Good day, gentlemen.” He strode off, briefcase un- der his arm. “That’s the trouble with peaceful worlds,” the SCROUNGE committeeman said. “Boge is a trouble- maker, so every agency in the Corps is out to pacify her. While my chance to tnake a record— that is, assist peace- loving d’Land — comes to CULTURAL EXCHANGE naught.” He shook his head. “What kind of university do they have on d’Land ?” asked Retief. “We’re sending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite an institution.” “University? D’Land has one under-endowed technical college.” “Will all the exchange stu- dents be studying at the Tech- nical College?” “Two thousand students? Hah! Two hundred students would overtax the facilities of the college.” “I wonder if the Bogans know that?” “The Bogans? Why, most of d’Land’s difficulties are due to the unwise trade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand students indeed!” He snorted and walked away. RETIEF stopped by the of- fice to pick up a short cape, then rode the elevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed a cab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw them lined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be half an hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar and ordered a beer. A tall young fellow bn the next stool raised his glass. “Happy days,” he said. “And nights to match.” “You said it,” He gulped 113

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half his beer. “My name’s Karsh. Mr. Karsh. Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this place wait- mg. . “You meeting somebody?” “Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect — Never mind. Have one on me.” “Thanks. You a Scoutmas- ter?” “I’ll tell you what I am. I’m a cradle-robber. You know — ” he turned to Retief — “not one of those kids is over eighteen.” He hiccupped. “Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?” “Lots of times. You’re meet- ing the students, are you?” The young fellow blinked at Retief. “Oh, you know about it, huh?” “I represent MUDDLE.” Karsh finished his beer, or- dered another. “I came on ahead. Sort of an advance guard for the kids. I trained ’em myself. Treated it like a game, but they can handle a CSU. Don’t know how they’ll act under pressure. If I had my old platoon — ” He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. “Had enough,” he said. “So long, friend. Or are you coming along?” Retief nodded. “Might as well.” AT the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first of the Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped to attention, his chest out. “Drop that, mister,” Karsh snapped. “Is that any way for a student to act?” The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned. “Heck, no,” he said. “Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go to town? We fellas were thinking — ” “You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean... no! Now line up!” “We have quarters ready for the students,” Retief said. “If you’d like to bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laid on.” “Thank s,” said Karsh. “They’ll stay here until take- off time. Can’t have the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas about going over the hill.” He hiccupped. “I mean they might play hookey.” “We ve scheduled your re- embarkation for noon tomor- row. That’s a long wait. MUD- DLE’S arranged theater tick- ets and a dinner.” “Sorry,” Karsh said. “As soon as the baggage gets here, we’re off.” He hiccupped again. “Can’t travel without our baggage, y’know.” “Suit y o u r s e 1 f,” Retief said. “Where’s the baggage now?” “Coming in aboard a Croan- ie lighter.” “Maybe you’d like to ar- range for a meal for the stu- dents here.” 114 by Keith Laumer

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“Sure,” Karsh said. “That’s a good idea. Why don’t you join us?” Karsh winked. “And bring a few beers.” “Not this time,” Retief said. He watched the students, still emerging from Customs. “They seem to be all boys,” he commented. “No female students?” “Maybe later,” Karsh said. “You know, after we see how the first bunch is received.” Back at the MUDDLE of- fice, Retief buzzed Miss Fur- kle. “Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are bound for?” “Why, the University at d’Land, of cotirse.” “Would that be the Tech- nical College?” Miss Furkle’s mouth puck- ered. “I’m sure I’ve never pried into these details.” “Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle?” Retief said. “Personally, I’m curious as to just what it is these students are travelling so far to study — at Corps expense.” “Mr. Magnan never — ” “For the present. Miss Fur- kle, Mr. Magnan is vacation- ing. That leaves me with the question of two thousand young male students headed for a world with no class- rooms for them. . .a world in need of tractors. 'But the trac- tors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obli- gation to Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage on Lovenbroy.” “Well!” Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows. “I hope you’re not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!” “About Mr. Magnan’s wis- dom there can be no question,” Retief said. “But never mind. I’d like you to look up an item for me. How many trac- tors will Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE pro- gram?” “Why, that's entirely MED- DLE business,” Miss Furkle said. “Mr. Magnan always — ” “I’m sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.” MISS Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left the office, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the Corps Library. In the stacks he thumbed through cata- logues, pored over indices. “Can I help you?” someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow. “Thank you, ma’am,” Re- tief said. “I’m looking for in- formation on a mining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.” “You won’t find it in the industrial section,” the librar- ian said. “Come along.” Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-lit section lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, plugged it into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armored vehicle. CULTURAL EXCHANGE 115

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f mMm m [llJj ifdlSoi

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“That’s the model WV,” she said. “It’s what is known as a continental siege unit. It car- ries four men, with a half- megaton/second firepower.” “There must be an error somewhere,” Retief said. “The Bolo model I want is a trac- tor. Model WV M-l — ” “Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade for demolition work. That must be what confused you.” “Probably — among other things. Thank you.” Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. “I have the infor- mation you wanted,” she said. “I’ve had it for over ten minutes. I was under the im- pression you needed it ur- gently, and I went to great lengths — ” “Sure,” Retief said. “Shoot. How many tractors?” “Five hundred.” “Are you sure?” Miss Furkle’s chins quiv- ered. “Well! If you feel I'm incompetent — ” “Just questioning the pos- sibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Five hundred tractors is a lot of equipment.” “Was there anything fur- ther?” Miss Furkle inquired frigidly. “I sincerely hope not,” Re- tief said. Ill LEANING back in Magnan’s padded chair with power swivel and hipu-matic con- tour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled “CERP 7-602- Ba; CROANIE (general).” He paused at a page headed Industry. Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles of Bacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each and sipped the black wine medi- tatively. It would be a pity, he re- flected, if anything should in- terfere with the production of such vintages . . . Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and put through a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the Commercial At- tache. “Retief here, Corps HQ,” he said airily. “About the MEDDLE shipment, the tractors. I’m wondering if there’s been a slip up. My records show we’re shipping five hundred units. . “That’s correct. Five hun- dred.” Retief waited. “Ah... are you there, Re- tief?” “I’m still here And I’m still wondering about the five hun- dred tractors.” “It’s perfectly in order. I thought if was all settled. Mr. Whaffle— ” “One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,” Retief said. “Now Croanie subsists on her fish- eries. She has perhaps half a dozen pint-sized processing CULTURAL EXCHANGE 117

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plants. Maybe, in a bind, they could handle the ore ten WV’s could scrape up... if Croanie had any ore. It doesn’t. By the way, isn’t a WV a poor choice, as a mining outfit? I should think — ” “See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors? And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use the equip- ment? That’s an internal af- fair of my government. Mr. W baffle — ” ‘Tm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other four hundred and ninety tractors?” “I understood the grant was to be v/ith no strings at- tached !” “I know it’s bad manners to ask questions. It’s an old dip- lomatic tradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as a gift, you’ve scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some scheme cooking — ” {{jVTOTHING like that, Re- tief. It’s a mere business transaction.” “What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without a blade at- tached, it’s what’s known as a continental siege unit.” “Great Heavens, Retief! Don’t jump to conclusions! Would you have us branded as warmongers? Frankly — is this a closed line?” “Certainly. You may speak freely.” 110 “The tractors are for trans- shipment. We’ve gotten our- selves into a difficult situa- tion, b a 1 a n c e-of-payments- wise. This is an accommoda- tion to a group with which we have rather -strong busi- ness ties.” “I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,” Retief said. “Any connection?” “Why. . .ah. . .no. Of course not, ha ha.” “Who gets the tractors eventually?” “Retief, this is unwarranted interference !” “Who gets them?” “They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see — ” “And who’s the friend you’re helping out with an un- authorized transshipment of grant material?” “Why... ah... I’ve been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Bogan representative.” “And when will they be shipped ?” “Why, they went out a week ago. They’ll be half way there by now. But look here, Retief, this isn’t what you’re thinking !” “How do you know what I’m thinking? I don’t know myself.” Retief rang off, buzzed the secretary. “Miss Furkle, I’d like to be notified immediately of any new applications that might come in from the Bogan Con- sulate for placement of stu- dents.” by Keith Laumer

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“Well, it happens, by coin- cidence, that I have an appli- cation here now. Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.” “Is Mr. Gulver in the of- fice? I’d like to see him.” “I’ll ask him if he has time.” “Great. Thanks.” It was half a minute before a thick- necked red-faced man in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drab shirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered ex- pression. 46YUTHAT is it you wish?” ▼ ▼ he barked. “I under- stood in my discussions with the other. . .ah . . . c i v i 1 i a n there’d be no further need for these irritating conferences.” “I’ve just learned you’re placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. How many this time?” “Two thousand.” “And where will they be going?” “Croanie. It’s all in the ap- plication form I’ve handed in. Your job is to provide trans- portation.” “Will there be any other students embarking this sea- son?” “Why .. .perhaps. That’s Boge’s b u s i n e s s.” Gulver looked at Retief with pursed lips. “As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching an- other two thousand to Featherweight.” “Another under-populated CULTURAL EXCHANGE world — and in the same clus- ter, I believe,” Retief said. “Your people must be unusu- ally interested in that region of space.” “If that’s all you wanted to know, I’ll be on my way. I have matters of importance to see to.” After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. “I’d like to have a break-out of all the student movements that have been planned under the present program,” he said. “And see if you can get a summary of what MEDDLE has been shipping latefy.” M iss Furkle compressed her lips. “If Mr. Magnan were here, I’m sure he wouldn’t dream of interfer- ing in the work of other departments. I. . .overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the Croanie Legation — ” “The lists, Miss Furkle.” “I’m not accustomed.” Miss Furkle said, “to intruding in matters outside our interest cluster.” “That’s worse than listen- ing in on phone conversations, eh? But never mind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.” “Loyalty to my Chief — ” “Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the material I’ve asked for,” Retief said. “I’m taking full responsibility. 'Now scat.” The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. “MUDDLE, Retief speaking...” 119

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Arapoulous’s brown face appeared on the desk screen. '‘How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?” “Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.” In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. “Sorry if I’m rushing you, Retief,” he said. “But have you got anything for me?” Retief waved at the wine bottles. “What do you know about Croanie?” “Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you like fish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in mon- soon time. Over a foot long.” “You on good terms with them ?” “Sure, I guess so. Course, they’re pretty thick with Boge." “So?” “Didn’t I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over here a dozen years back. They’d’ ve made it too, if they hadn’t had a lot of bad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without ar- mor thev’re easy game.” M iss Furkle buzzed. “T have your lists,” she said shortly. “Bring them in, please.’’ nnHE secretary placed the papers on the desk. Ara- poulous caught her eye and grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room. “What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape 120 mash,” Arapoulous observed Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from time to time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous. “How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank?” Retief inquired. Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful. “A hundred would help,” he said. “A thousand would be better. Cheers.” “What would you say to two thousand?” “Two thousand? Retief, you’re not fooling?” “I hope not.” He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, asked for the dis- patch clerk. “Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know that contingent of Bo- gan students. They’re travel- ing aboard the two CDT transports. I’m interested in the baggage that goes with the students Has it arrived yet? Okay, I’ll wait.” Jim came back to the phone. “Yeah, Retief, it’s here. Just arrived. But there’s a funny thing. It’s not con- signed to d’Land. It’s ticket- ed clear through to Loven- broy.” “Listen, Jim,” Retief said. “I want you to go over to the warehouse and take a look at that baggage for me.” Retief waited while the dis- patch clerk carried out the errand. The level in the two bottles had gone down an by Keith Laumer

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inch when Jim returned to the phone. “Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on. Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols — ” “It’s okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim, I’m going to ask you to do something more for me. I’m covering for a friend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn’t want word to get out, you understand. I’ll send along a written change order in the morning that will cov- er you officially. Meanwhile, here’s what I want you to do...” Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous. “As soon as I get off a cou- ple of TWX’s, I think we’d better get down to the port, Hank. I think I’d like to see the students off personally.” IV KARSH met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “There’s some fun- ny business with my baggage consignment. They won’t let me see Itl I’ve got a feeling it’s not being loaded.” "You'd better hurry, Mr* Karsh,3 n Retief said- ^You’re scheduled to Mast off in less than an hour. Are the stu- dents all loaded!” "Yes, blast you! What CULTURAL EXCHANGE about my baggage? Those vessels aren’t moving without it !” “No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr. Karsh?” Retief said blandly. “Still, if you’re worried — ” He turned to Ara- poulous. “Hank, why don’t you walk Mr. Karsh over to the ware- house and . . .ah. . .take care of him?” “I know just how to handle it,” Arapoulous said. The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. “I caught the trac- tor equip m e n t,” he said. “Funny kind of mistake, but it’s okay now. They’re being off-loaded at d’Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He said they weren’t looking for any students.” “The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage was consigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office will have a man along in a lit- tle while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eye out for the luggage. No telling where it’s gotten to.” “Here !” a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A di- sheveled figure in a tight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving. “Hi there, Mr. Gulver,” Re- tief called. “How’s Boge’s business coming along?” “Piracy 1” Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puff- ing hard. “You’ve got a hand In this, I don’t doubt! 121

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Where’s that Magnan fel- low?” “What seems to be the problem?” Retief said. “Hold those transports ! I’ve just been notified that the baggage shipment has been impounded. I’ll remind you, that shipment enjoys diplomatic free entry!” “Who told you it was im- pounded?” “Never mind! I have my sources !” Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. “Are you Mr. Retief of CDT?” one said. “That’s right.” “What about my baggage!” Culver cut in. “And I’m warn- ing you, if those ships lift without — ” “These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Com- mission,” Retief said. “Would you like to come a1 'mg and claim your baggage, Mr. Qui- ver ?’’ “From where? I — ” Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears. “A.rnwm *ots?” “The only shipment I’ve held up seems to be some- body’s arsenal,” Relief said. “Now if you cla5m this is your ba gg gage . . “Why, impossible,” Gul- vev said in a s t r a i n e d voice. “Armaments? R’dicu- lous. There’s been an r- ror . . AT the baggage wrol'oi^e Gulver looked, ghur*1 • at the opened cases of guns. 122 “No, of course not,” he said dully. “Not my baggage. Not my baggage at all.” Arapoulous appeared, sup- porting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh. “What — what’s this?” Gul- ver spluttered. “Karsh? What’s haopened?” “He had a little fall. He’ll be okay,” Arapoulous said. “You’d better help him to the ship,” Retief said. “It’s ready to lift. We wouldn’t want him to miss it.” “Leave him to me!" Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. “I’ll see he’s dealt with.” “I couldn’t think of it,” Re- tief said. “He’s a guest of the Corps, you know. We’ll see him safely aboard.” Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identical drab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group. “Take this man,” Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at him dazedly, reached up to rub his head. “We take our hospitality seriously,” Retief said. “We’ll see him aboard the vessel.” Gulver opened his mouth. “I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books in your lug- gage,” Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. “You’ll be busy straightening oirt the details of the mix-up. You’ll want to avoid further compli- cations.” “Ah. Ulp. Yes,” Gulver by Keith Laumer

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said. He appeared unhappy. Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave. “Your man — he’s g o i n g too?M Gulver blurted. “He’s not our man, proper- ly speaking/’ Retief said. “He lives on Lovenbroy.” “Lovenbroy?” Gulver choked. “But. . .the. . . I../9 “I know you said the stu- dents were bound for d’Land,” Retief said. “But I guess that was just another aspect of the general confu- sion. The course plugged into the navigators was to Loven- broy. You’ll be glad to know they’re still headed there — even without the baggage.” “P e r h a p s,” Gulver said grimly, “perhaps they’ll man- age without it.” “By the way,” Retief said. “There was another funny mix-up. There were some tractors — for industrial use, you’ll recall. I believe you co- operated with Croanie in ar- ranging the grant through MEDDLE. They were errone- ously consigned to Loven- broy, a purely agricultural world. I saved you some em- barrassment, I trust, Mr. Gul- ver, by arranging to have them offloaded at d’Land.” “D’Land! You’ve put the CSU’s in the hands of Boge’s bitterest enemies!” “But they’re only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn’t that correct?” “That’s. . .correct.” Gulver sagged. Then he snapped CULTURAL EXCHANGE erect. “Hold the ships!” he yelled. “I’m canceling ths student exchange — ” His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monster transports rose from the launch pit, followed a mo- ment later by the second, Re- tief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver. “They’re off,” he said. “Let’s hope they get a liberal education.” V RETIEF lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tall figure appeared on the knoll above him and waved. “Retief!” Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief, slapping him on the back. “I heard you were here — and I’ve got news for you. You won the final day’s picking competition. Over two hundred bushels! That’s a record !” “Let’s get on over to the garden. Sounds like the cele- bration’s about to start.” In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Re- tief and Arapoulous made their way to a laden table un- der the lanterns. A tall girl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up to Arapoulous. “Delinda, this is Retief — today’s winner. And he’s also the fellow that got those workers for us.” Delinda smiled at Retief. taa

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*Tve heard about you, Mr. unhappy with me. It seems Retief. We weren’t sure about I’m not ready for important the boys at first. Two thou- assignments at Departmental sand Bogans, and all confused level. I was shipped off here about their baggage that went to the boondocks to get a lit- astray. But they seemed to tie more experience.” like the picking.” She smiled “Delinda, look after Re- again. tief,” said Arapoulous. 4T11 “That’s not all. Our gals see you later. I’ve got to see liked the boys,” Hank said, to the wine judging.” He dis- “Even Bogans aren’t so bad, appeared in the crowd, minus their irons. A lot of “Congratulations on win- ’em will be staying on. But ning the day,” said Delinda. how come you didn’t tell me “I noticed you at work. You you were coming, Retief? I’d were wonderful. I’m glad have laid on some kind of big you’re going to have the welcome.” prize.” “I liked the welcome I got. “Thanks. I noticed you too, And I didn’t have much no- flitting around in that white tice. Mr. Magnan was a little nightie of yours. But why upset when he got back. It weren’t you picking grapes seems I exceeded my author- with the rest of us?” ity.” “I had a special assign- Arapoulous laughed. “I had ment.” a feeling you were wheeling “Too bad. You should have pretty free, Retief. I hope had a chance at the prize.” you didn’t get into any trou- Delinda took Retief’s hand, ble over it.” “I v/ouldn’t have anyway," “No trouble,” Retief said, she said. “I’m the prize.” “A few people were a little END ★ ★★★★★★★★★ ★★★★★★ Don’t miss the August GALAXY MAGAZINE! A Complete Short Novel of Distant Stars THE DRAGON MASTERS by Jack Vance Also stories, articles and features by George O. Smith, Fred- erik.Pohl, Jim Harmon, Willy Ley, Jack Sharkey and many others. August GALAXY still on sale— get your copy today! bv Keith Laumer 124

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IF • Fmiure HUE AND CRY The place where readers and editor meet . . . Dear Editor: Just read Jots and Tittles. You’re one up on me — I don’t even know what a jot is. Hav- ing just come into reposses- sion of part of my 1952-53 col- lection of SF magazines (8c having proceeded to plow into them voraciously) I am in a better position than the aver- age younger reader to under- stand the change that has taken place. And I can under- stand why no one wants a let- ter column any more. Simply — what for? To read that Joe Blow, Irma Grinkle and Icha- bod Schmerdlikov all think you publish a pretty good magazine? Who needs it? This is Hue 8c Cry? No, this is plain old-fashioned egoboo, interesting to you but not to the readers. If that’s all that’s in the mailbag, then best lay Hue 8c Cry to rest. However — now we push up our sleeves and go to work — I gather that you’d rather resur- rect the body. Well, come to think of it, I can’t tell you how to do that, but I can tell you what I think is killing it /him her. 1. Lame or pedantic edito- rials. No, yours wasn’t this issue. And yes, I realize how difficult it becomes month after month. I’m sure you read all the other SF maga- zines. How many editorials are an end in themselves? They pick (or should I say pick on?) a subject and then talk it to death. By the time the editor has finished it, it’s a complete classroom lecture, with no need for a question- and-answer period. Or how many editorial* piddle through a page or so while the editor mealy-mouths a few

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trite comments on this month’s issue? A good healthy percentage of the letters in the lettercols of the ’'good old days” dealt with the “bright, sparkling” (your words, not mine) editorials. 2. Indifferent answers to letters. Yes, some of yours fall into this category. Ain’t no- body can answer a fan like Ray Palmer and Sam — Mines or Merwin? I’d have to look it up. Anyway, they didn’t pass the buck. And they weren’t above telling some nut to go soak his head in for- maldehyde. Which brings us to 3. Your gray hairs are show- ing. Dad. Ten to twenty years ago you were all roughly in the same age bracket. A twen- ty-year-old fan could write to a twenty-five-year-old editor as he would to an old pal. No worries about whether the let- ters sounded immature. “This Is my old buddy, Joe. I’m gon- na tell him that story stank. His judgment was way off on that one.” Now Dad, where are we going to dig up a kid who’ll tell F*R*E*D*jE*R*- l*K P*0*H*L ! ! ! that his judgment was off and he should go soak his head? No- body’s gonna take a poke at dear old Dad while he’s sittin’ on the porch in his rockin’ chair. All right, all right, cease and desist, Dad. I can see you've risen from the chair; sow come down off the porch and take a poke at me. Don’t look to the other youngsters for help. Can you take it, Dad? You can call me names, too. But the one I like best is — (Name omitted; see below) Dear Editor : If you publish my letter of the 20th, please, just use my initials. “P.C” * You want free-swinging an- swers? But sometimes the freest-swinging comment a fellow can make is just to say — no comment! Editor . * * * Dear Editor: Ho, “bright sparkling let- ters” the man wants. But DearMisterEditorSir, it’s been so long since we’ve had a chance to sparkle and we’re so badly out of practice. Part of the trouble is that while the editors have not minded when the readers sharpened their wits against one another they took a certain degree of exception to having the men- tal fang of said readers whet* ted against their magazines. Does this mean that the hum- ble reader can occasionally wittily pan some portion of your magazine and have his golden words see the light of day? If so, the good ol’ days may well return again. Pat Scott Box 401 Anacortes, Washington * Sure. Say what you like — just so it’s interesting. (And printable.) If you touch us on

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the raw we won’t object in the least. All we’ll do, we’ll reach out and whomp you on the head with the rung of this here rocking chair. Editor . * * * Dear Editor: The impossible happened. If got a letter column. This must have sparked something, for immediately it began to change for the better. Book reviews would be real- ly, and I mean really , wel- comed back again. Roger Cox c/o Lt. Col. B.C., Cox 01309348 Hq. Frankfurt Mil. Dist. APO 757, N. Y. C. * * * Dear Editor: I’m afraid I have nothing but compliments for you this month, but I keep telling my- self that they can’t keep up the good work at Digest Publications much longer. Old Fred will slip sometime, and then I’ll be able to lower the boom. Really your stories get better all the time and won- der-wise you’ve got them all beat. You’ve recaptured some of the spirit of good ol’ Plan- et, and that is surely quite a feat. (You have even got them beaten in one respect: Your illos are even worse than theirs used to be.) Oh, incidentally, why don’t you print street addresses in H&C? Guess I’ll sign off with a little poetry (?) this month: There once was an editor moved His great magazine to im- prove. And since Fred took over //’ s been a mover, So, guys, let’s stay in the groove ! Dale E. Randles, Jr. 650 Gretchen Road Chula Vista, California * * * Dear Editor: I liked the drawing of Re- tief and the Flap-jacks in the current If. How about some stories from Poul Anderson? I don’t like the heading of the cover. I wish you would put If in big letters. . .but keep up the good work. Jimmy Porter Springfield, Tennessee * Anderson’s coming up next month. Cover’s changed this month. Anything else you want, Jimmy? Editor . * * * Dear Editor: The thing that strikes me the most about If is the poor reproduction. ’Fess up, it’s lousy. The covers have been quite poorly reproduced, though the pictures them- selves were okay. Rating the last three Ifs, in eachish I put Laumer’s story HUE AND CRY 127

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in first place. I really like Relief. Keep him as a regular feature. Reader Sarant is too de- manding. Those writers he listed don’t write much any more. Heinlein’s on his list — I’d flip if I saw a RAH in Galaxy or //. Douglas Mackey 1825 North Main Hutchinson, Kansas * Better drag out the old trampoline. You have about sixty days to practice flipping before the next issue hits the stands. Editor . * * * Dear Editor: Where are the new authors, you ask. Let me tell you. One of the fan clubs ran a fiction contest for amateurs this year. Cash prizes, almost a hundred bucks. (Some of us care enough about stf to put up our own money to improve the state of the art.) There were fifty entries, mostly from organized fan- dom. Here is what happened: About half trapped in the dead end of short-shorts with surprise endings. Seventy per cent don’t know what a story is. (Specifically: An incident is not a story, neither is a series of incidents without continuity between them.) Some could write character- ization (I recall with gusto and glee a 14-year-old girl who did it with dialogue), but what good are characters with- out a story? Some have a rare gift for communicating mood and feelings, but all too often overdo it, as though they had just discovered the dictionary. In simple words, then, they fall prey to all the problems of beginning authors. They can do part of it, but not all. A dead loss? Don’t be silly, there were about ten that came out, by the scoring sys- tem used, as “the type written by an amateur close to selling, or by a pro who bangs out a dud under the influence of a hangover.” A flaw or two, but not too many. There were more, four of them in fact (in my own not so modest opinion as prelim- inary judge — punishment for thinking of the idea) which came pretty close to this month’s issue of //, except for Leiber, of course. But, and a Jupiter size “but” it is, too, two were less than 1,000 words, and who buys those un- less the author’s name is Fred Brown? Conclusions? You bet, and this is likely to cause a shriek of agony from the hard-heart- ed editor. A question: If a new writer is overjoyed at comment and criticism from just another amateur, what wouldn’t they give for a few words from an editor scrib- bled on the back of the rejec- tion slip? 128

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Ah, what a dream. You could gain a place in the ama- teur writers’ hall of fame for the price of this little time. (“Time? What’s that?” he says with a sigh.) Just tell them a little direction, and yo might find all sorts of new writers. Alas, what a job, finding tame pro to do this for you. Will you shed a tear? Clayton Hamlin 28 Earle Avenue Bangor, Maine *We do buy stories from fans — there are around a doz- en in inventory right now. We do buy stories under 1,000 words — and not only from Fred Brown — provided they are stories. (That’s hard to do.) And we can*t write per- sonal notes with all, or even very many, rejected manu- scripts. It isn’t really because we’re hard-hearted, or lazy either. Figure it out ypurself. We get something around 4,000 manuscripts a year. Mul- tiply that by, say, 10 minutes each — or whatever you think would be necessary to write a note on each one. (And we’ll let you in on a little secret: It is not merely the time spent to write one note, but the time spent on the follow-up cor- respondence that inevitably results, that really begins to hurt.) Still, there’s something in what you say, and you’ve giv- en us an idea. Starting now,'// is going to make it a point to publish at least one first story in each issue. How long we!ll keep it up is up to you; at least a year or so, we hope forever. This isn’t a contest; no prizes; no entry blanks; they’ll be considered just as any other story is considered and paid for in the same way. But — this month we present the first sale made by Joseph Green, Once Around Arctur - us. (He has made several since, by the way.) Next issue, The Man Who Flew by Charles B. Cunningham, Jr. Etc. So. . .let’s see what happens next. And for another slant on the same problem, see the next letter. Editor . * * * Dear Editor: In order to search out new fan writing talent, and to in- spire a renewed interest in the field of writing science fic- tion, the publisher of Inertia is sponsoring The First An- nual Phann Fiction Contest. There will be three grand prizes, all of which are to re- ceive special awards, plus hav- ing the chance for profession- al publication. For details, please write me. B. Joseph Fekete,, jr. 36026 Center Ridge Road Apartment rr3 North Ridgeville, Ohio * If and Galaxy neither par- ticipate in nor sponsor this contest, but we will consider prize-winning stories for pos- sible publication. Editor.

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* * * Dear Editor: With that editorial you threw your readers quite a curve. The trouble is, the en- tire problem is more than the prevention of the war and/or its possibility. The problem fully stated has two factors: how can we prevent a war of the greatest magnitude? I imagine you’ll get a num- ber of Answers based on the solution of the first factor, the prevention of the war. But it is not the nature of the human race to fit itself into any one set of characteristics, and for this reason you can’t eliminate war or the possibili- ty of war. Nor can you expect men to use less than their most potent weapons. Accepting this as so, we will consider the second fac- tor. What do I mean by mag- nitudes of disaster? Well, assume that you are a starv- ing man. If you have only one egg and lose it, you’ll die, but if you have two eggs and lose one, you’ll still live. In both cases the disaster is the same; the loss of an egg. The deci- sive and only difference lies in the per cent of the whole the loss represents. The mag- nitude of disaster depends upon the per cent of the whole lost; a greater per cent means a greater magnitude, a lesser per cent, a lesser mag- nitude. All this can be applied to worlds. If Earth is destroyed while it is the only home of mankind, it is the End. Its destruction becomes an event of much less magnitude when it is only one of many human inhabited worlds. Through the conquest of space we will soon be making our mark on other planets and when we do we’ll be solving the problem. In less years than you have fingers we will no longer have to worry about total destruc- tion. Keeping in mind the idea that we will not be able to prevent war, the conquest of space gives us further oppor- tunity to deduce its magni- tude beyond providing us with more eggs. When (not if) the next war is fought it may be good strategic and tactical policy to do most of the fighting in space, for I am fairly certain that no planet can stand a determined attack from space. One's best chances for defense will lie in stopping the enemy before they arrive. Moreover, a space fleet should be able to mini- mize the amount of devasta- tion a nation can perpetrate on another of the same planet. All in all, now’ that we’re shopping for Answers, I think the conquest of space is our best, if not our only, buy. Be- sides, we don’t even have to sell anybody — it’s already be- ing carried out! J. R. Parks 921 4th Ave. Rochelle, 111.

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