Astounding v37n01 (1946 03) (cape1736)

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Germs Reduced up to 96.7% in Tests Fifteen minutes after a listen ne An- tiseptic gargle, tescs showed bacterial reductions on mouth and throat sur- faces ranging up to 96.7%, and up to 80% one hour after ^ Listerine Anti- septic gargle. SECONDARY INVADERS’ How Listerine Antiseptic can help to head off a Cold or lessen its severity TOP ROW. left to right: Pneumococcus Type III. Pneumococ- cus Type IV. Streptococcus Viiidans, Friedlander's Bacillus. BOTTOM ROW, let! to right: Streptococcus Hemclyticus. Bacillus Influenzae. Micrococcus Calarrhalis, Siaphylococcui WHEN you feel a cold coming on, it’s likely to be a sign that a virus has in- fected you and that millions of germs called the "secondary invaders” are threatening a mass invasion of your tissues through throat membranes. That’s the time to "baby” yourself a bit and get started at once with the Listerine Antiseptic gargle regularly. Here's why: Kills "Secondary Invaders ” Listerine Antiseptic reaches way back on throat surfaces to kill millions of the "sec- ondary invaders”. . . the ugly germs, ac- cording to some authorities, that cause so much of the misery you know so well. Often this prompt, delightful precaution may halt the mass invasion of these germs and nip a cold in the bud, so to speak. Fewer Colds in Tests If your cold has already started, the Lis-1 terine gargle, taken early and often, may help reduce the severity of the infection. Bear in mind Listerine’s impressive record made in tests over twelve years: Those who gargled with Listerine Antiseptic twice a day had fewer colds and usually milder colds than those who did not gargle . . . and fewer sore throats. So, when you feel a cold coming on, eat sparingly, keep warm, get plenty of rest, and gargle with Listerine Antiseptic. It may spare you a lot of trouble. Lambert Pharmacal Co., St. Louis , Mo. THE SAFE ANTISEPTIC FOR ORAL HYGIENE

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m nays year race can port in the next fen years qupposb financial matters are con- IJ stantly on your mind. Suppose you know that there’s prac- tically no cash reserve between you- and trouble. It would be surprising if your face didn’t show it. But suppose that you’re putting aside part of every thingyou earn . . . that those dollars you save are busy earning extra dollars for you . . . that you have a nest egg and an emergency fund. Naturally, your face will show that, too. There’s a simple and pretty accurate way to tell which way your face is going to go in the next few years: If you are buying, regularly, and hold- ing as many U. S. Savings Bonds as you can, you needn’t worry. Your face will be among the ones that wear a smile. Buy all the Bonds you can... keep all the Bonds you fay? STREET Cr SMITH PUBLICATIONS/ INC. This is an official U. S. Treasury advertisement— prepared under auspices of Treasury Department and War Advertising Council

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Editor JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR, ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION to. I. S. M. 99. CONTENTS MARCH, 1946 VOL. XXXVII, NO. 1 SERIAL PATTERN FOR CONQUEST, by George 0. Smith 0 First of Three Parts NOVELETTES WE KILL PEOPLE, by Lewis Padgett .... 82 LADY DOG, by A. Bertram Chandler 119 DEPTH, by G. N. Howard 156 SHORT STORIES ADAPTER, by Murray Leinster 49 GUEST IN THE HOUSE, by Frank Belknap Long 67 A LOGIC NAMED JOE, by Will F. Jenkins . . 139 ARTICLE UNPREDICTABLE, by Jack Williamson ... 09 Co»cl«8lor» READERS’ DEPARTMENTS THE EDITOR’S PAGE 5 IN TIMES TO COME . 155 THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY . « . .155 BRASS TACKS . . 1™ COVER BY TIMMINS Illustrations by Kildale, Kramer and Williams The editorial contents have not been published before, are protected i.j copyright and cannot be reprinted without publisher s permission. AU stories in this magazine are Action. No actual persons are designated by name or character. Any similarity is winddenui Monthly publication issued by Street * Smith Publications. Incorporated. 122 East 42nd Street, New York 17, N. Y. Allen L. Urammer, President: (Jerald H. Smith, Vice President and Treasurer; Henry W. Ralston, Vice President and Secretary. Copyright. 1946, in U. S. A. and Great Britain by Street A Smith Publications, Inc. Reentered as Second-class Matter. February 7, 1938. at the Post Office at New York, under Act of Congress of March 3, 1878. Subscriptions to Countries in Pan American Union. $2.75 per year; elsewhere, $3.25 per year. We rannot accept responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts « artwork. Any material submitted most include return postage- $2.50 par Year Is 0. S. A. Prl»t(< l« n Mitt the B. S. A. 25e per Copy NEXT ISSUE ON SALE MARCH 19, 1940

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Concerning The Atomic War When the Second Atomic War starts — the first began on August 6th, and ended very shortly — it will bring into play a weird and terrible system of delicate international balances. In the first place, any way you play it, the United States is Target Num- ber One. If the would-be aggressor wants to gobble up his neighbor, the United States must be eliminated be- fore it’s safe to carry on a private fight anywhere. Several recent world wars have demonstrated conclusively that if the United States is not inca- pacitated at the start, the aggressor eventually feels the full weight — the finally crushing weight— of American disapproval. Therefore, in an atomic war, the United States must be para- lyzed with the first blow, whether the U. S. is the principal target or not. But it’s a positive certainty that, however badly the American indus- trial machine, transport machine, po- litical, industrial and economic ma- chine may be smashed, the stored atomic bombs will be safely tucked away in a few hundred deeply buried, widely scattered burrows. The United States, completely smashed, will be the most deadly military power on Earth. Weil have more atomic bombs than anyone else; we’ve started accumulat- ing them now. That fact imposes some peculiar limitations on the actions of the would-be aggressor. The United States can’t he invaded. The only hope any aggressor might have of profiting, of even coming out of the war in vaguely coherent fashion, will be that the terrible venge- ance of the United States does not strike. Any invasion would automati- cally sign, seal, and deliver notice as to just who it was that murdered the 40,000,000 Americans who died. The attacker dare not invade. The robot atomic rocket bombs must not in anyway reveal their source. They can come in across the North Pole, head- ing due south to New York, and due south to San Francisco, from some attacking nation due south of the North Pole. They may be made by machine tools purchased in Switzer- land, cut from iron bought in Sweden, bearing vacuum tubes made in Hol- land, in sockets assembled in Chicago. But they won’t bear any marks of the user. They probably will even be wiped free of fingerprints. The United States won’t be defeated in war. It won’t even be murdered. It will be assassination in the dark. Leaving a strange corpse armed wfth a terrible weapon — and aching with a terrible ferocity to use that weapon on the rats that wiped out 40,000,000 Americans. And not knowing who committed the crime. The aggressor’s hope will be that we blame the wrong nation, attack some other nation or nations, and thereby loose a world chaos from which the aggressor can, perhaps, pick up some juicy fragments. Think, for a moment, of the hor- rible tension that will grip the whole planet — the frantic, futile, boiling ter- ror in every city on Earth, in every national capitol in the world. The United States is going to strike back — but at what nation?! The sheer, absolutely intolerable tension of those nightmare hours. . . . Americans in deep-hidden atomic launching sites raging to strike back . . . nations around the world on hair-trigger, tension-screaming nerves . . . every one, everywhere, waiting for someone, somewhere and anywhere, to make just . . . one . . . move. . . . It can’t last long. When the explo- sion is over, the aggressor, if he suc- ceeded in escaping identification, stands an excellent chance of coming ( Continued on page 178) CONCERNING THE ATOMIC WAR

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Pattern For Conquest by GEORGE O. SMITH First of three parts. The Earth has been menaced by galactic con- querors before, in science-fiction. But not quite this way — and not with quite these results. For instance, consider What is the purpose of war ? How determine the winner t Illustrated by Klldale I. Tlie signal officer leaped from his position and made a vicious grab at the thin paper tape that was snaking from his typer to the mas- ter transmitter. It tore just at the entrance slot. The tape-end slid in; disappeared. The master transmitter growled as the tape-end passed the scanner. Meters slapped up against the over- load stop and two of the big rec- tifier tubes flashed over. Circuit « breakers came open with a crash down in the power room, and up in the master modulator room the bell alarms rang, telling of the de- struction of one of the tuning guides from overload peak. The signal officer paid no atten- tion to the damage his action had caused. He grabbed for the tele- phone and dialed a number. “I want confirmation of messages forty-eight and forty-nine,” he snapped. “What fool let ’em get this far?” ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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“What happened ?” asked the superior officer mildly. “I got forty-eight on the tape before I came to forty-nine,” ex- plained the signal officer. “I grabbed the tape just as it was hitting the master transmitter. The tape-end raised hell, I think. Default alarms are ringing all over the building. But who — ?” “It was my fault — I'll confirm in writing — that forty-eight was not preceded by an official sanction. You were quite correct in stopping them at any cost. As soon as the outfit is on the air again, send 'em both.” “Yeah, but look — ” “Orders, Manley.” “I’ll follow ’em,” said Signal Officer Manley, “but may I ask why ?” “You may, according to the Book of Regs, but I’m not certain of the reason myself. Frankly, I don’t know. I questioned them myself, and got the same blunt answer.” “The whole terran sector has been slaving tor years to keep this propo- sition from happening,” grumbled Manley. “For years we have been most careful to stop any possible slipup. Now I find that the first time it ever gets down as far as my position and I leap into the breach like a hero, I’m off the beam and the stuff is on the roger.” “I’ll give you a Solar Citation for your efforts,” offered the superior ruminatively. “I know what you mean. We’ve been try- ing to keep it from happening by mere chance. And all of a sudden comes official orders, not happen- PATTERN FOR CONQUEST stance, but ordering it. Let’s both give up.” “The gear is on the air again,” said Manley. “I’ll carry on, like Pagliacci, roaring madly to our own doom. But first I’m going to have to restring the master. Shoot me a confirm, will you ? I don’t expect to use it, but it’ll look nice in some time capsule as the forerunner of history.” Within a minute messages forty- eight and forty-nine were through the machine, up through the master modulator room and out in space, on their way to Mars and Venus, respectively. The Little Man looked up at Co- ordinator Kennebec. The head of the Solar Combine looked down with a worried frown. This had been going on for some time. The Little Man had been, in turn, plead- ing, elated, demanding, mollified, excited, and unhappy because the ruler of the Solar Combine could not understand him fully. He was also unhappy because he could not understand the head man's mean- ing, either. The Little Man had three cards in his hand. He was objecting vio- lently, now. He was not angry, just positive of his. desire. He put two of the cards on the desk before Kennebec, and agreed, most thor- oughly, that these were what he wanted. The third card he tossed derisively, indicating negation. This one was of no use. Kennebec shrugged. He picked them up and inserted the unwanted card between the other two. He did i

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it with significance, and indicated that there was a reason. The Little Man shrugged and with significance to his actions, ac- cepted the three. If he could not have the two without the third, he’d take all three. He saluted in the manner that Kennebec understood to be a char- acteristic of the Little People’s cul- ture. Then he turned and left the office, taking with him the three cards. As he opened the door, he was almost trampled by Kennebec's daughter, who was entering on a dead run with a bundle of trans- mitter tape trailing from one hand. Patricia looked down, made a mo- tion of apology to the Little Man, whose head came just even with her hip, and then turned to her father as the Little Man left the scene. “Dad,” she said, “here are press flashes from Mars and Venus. Singly, either one of them pleases, me greatly. Simultaneously I can't take it.” “Sorry, Pat. But this isn't a personal proposition.” “But it means trouble.” “Perhaps.” Patricia snorted. “It does mean trouble and you know it. How are you going to avoid it?” “I’m going to assign Flight Com- mander Thompson to the task of keeping or combing them out of one another’s hair.” “And if and when he’s success- ful,” smiled Pat derisively. “I as- sume that Thompson will be awarded the Solar Citation for bravery and accomplishment far above and beyond the call of flesh ?” “He’ll have earned it,” smiled Kennebec. “Let’s see what the sis- ter worlds have to say.” “Not much — yet. Neither one of them seems to be aware of the other’s action — yet. I’ll bet the Transplanet Press Association wires will be burning when they all find out.” “TPA is going to suppress any word of dissension,” said Kennebec. “Um-tn-m — seems that Terra, as usual, has a bear by the tail. Why couldn’t he have picked less dan- gerously ?* “Knowing nothing of the Little People’s culture, I can’t say. I don’t even understand him most of the time excepting that I have at- tained the idea that something is very important and must be done immediately. What it is I don’t really know, but I gather that it concerns the integrity of a number of stellar races including that of the Little People.” “Sounds like corny dialogue from a bum soap opera,” said Patricia. “It’s a sorry day for civilization when it must depend upon a deal like this.” “I’m certain that they understand. The Little Man reviewed the rec- ords. Given the apparent under- standing of mere records that he has — in spite of not being able to understand me or any other Solar- ian — he must know that we’re all playing fireman in a powderhouse. He is going on through with it in spite of what he must certainly know.” “I feel inclined to take a vaca- ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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tion at Lake Stanley or Hawaii until this blows over.” Kennebec laughed. “It won’t be that bad, and besides, you’re a part of this and no matter where you go, you’ll be in it. Might as well give up, Pat. You can’t run now.’* “I know,” answered Patricia wistfully, “but I'd like to keep out of the way of any flying glass.” Stellor Downing was Martian by birth and by six hundred years of Martian-born forebears. His fam- ily could trace its line back to the first group of Terran colonists that braved the rigors of Martian life before technology created a Mar- tian world that was reasonably well adapted for human life. Downing, being of hard nature, cold and calculating, and murder- ously swift, should probably have been dark and swarthy with beet- ling brows and a piercing stare. But Downing lived on Mars, where in spite of the thin atmos- phere, Sol’s output was low. Down- ing had light hair, a skin like the baby-soap ads, and pale-blue eyes that looked as innocent. A lot of people had been fooled — but not Martians. Stellor Downing’s rapid rise up through the ranks of the Solar Guard was legendary on Mars. His swinging gait was more or less known to all theater-going Martians, and the sound of his voice over the radio was familiar. He wore a double modine belt, with one of the nasty weapons on each hip — where they crossed over his stomach, a dull silver medallion held them together. The medallion was the sharp- shooter’s award. Stellor Downing came on the spaceport escorted by six or seven officials. He talked with them until it was time for take-off. Then they all became more serious. “We have no idea what this mis- sion is,” said one. “But if you do it honor, you’ll get that other star.” “That’ll make you a Flight Co- ordinator,” added another. “I can’t make any promises,” said Downing. “I’ll do my best.” “Terra must be really in a hole to call on you,” laughed a third. “You’re by and far the best flight commander in the Guard.” Downing lifted his eyebrow. “I’ll admit that I’m not the worst,” he said cheerfully. “I hope you’re right about the other.” He turned to his orderly and gave a sign. The orderly lifted a whistle and blew a shrill note that cut the thin air of Mars. Three hundred men entered twenty-five ships, and the spaceport was cleared. Radio messages filled the ether, as the ships were checked before take-off. Then as the clamor- ing of the radio died, a more power- ful transmitter in the flight com- mander’s ship gave the order to lift. The center ship, bearing the red circle of Mars with the five stars ringing it, lifted first, followed by the next concentric ring of ships. The third ring followed in close formation and then the last. In a great space cone, the flight closed into tighter formation and streaked PATTERN FOR CONQUEST

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straight upward and out of sight. Sfceilor Downing was on his way to Terra. Flight Commander Clifford Lane was driven onto Venusport in a cream-colored roadster that was either spotless enamel or mirror- finish chromium as far as the eye could reach. In the car with Cliff Lane were four women whose glit- ter was no less flagrant than the car's. The slight olive-tint to their skin made their very white teeth flash in the sunshine as they smiled at their passenger. This was Venus — living at its highest temperature. The car rolled to a stop beside Cliff Lane’s com- mand and they all climbed out. It was with a generous display of well-browned skin. Lane’s costume was no less scanty than the women’s. The modine over his right hip was chased with silver and engraved , the holster was hand-tooled and studded with five small emeralds. “What are you going for ?" asked one of the women. “Don’t you know?” teased the one beside her. “Cliff is going to Terra to court Patricia Kennebec.” “I think we should kidnap him.” “You’d be sorry,” laughed Cliff, waving the official order in front of her. “Maybe we can bribe him. Tell you what, Cliff, you get this job done and you’ll probably get a promotion. If you do, we'll all chip in and get that insignia on your modine holster changed to six full l# stars. But to do it you’ll have to come back to us — single.” Cliff laughed. “And if it takes me more than six months, you’ll all be off elsewhere.” “But what’s Patricia got that we haven’t?” wailed one. “Him,” grinned another. “No, we’ve got him — now.” “Any time someone wants some- thing else, you might as well give it to them, because they’ll get it one way or another.” “Look, kids,” interrupted Lane, “we’ve been talking this up and down for three hours. Now it’s time to take off. Scram, like good little lovelies.” Cliff bade them a proper good-by and herded them back into the car. It started and rolled slowly away amid feminine calls. Its course was erratic, for the driver was handling the car by instinct; her head being turned back over the front seat to watch Lane, too. Had she been on a road instead of a broad, shining expanse of tarmacadam, trouble would have met her more than half- way. Cliff waved a last good-by and turned to face a group of kine- photographers. “Hi, Hal. Hello, fellers.” “Hey, Cliff, will you wipe your puss or don’t you care if Venus sees their Favorite Son in lipstick ?” Lane laughed and wiped. “On me it doesn’t look good,” he agreed. “What’ll you have?” “We’d like shots of you giving the last order, entering the ship, and then wait until we can get set up on the edge of the field. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION

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We want a pan shot of the com- mand hitting the ether.” “O.K. That we can do.” He turned to the group of unit commanders and said. “The usual, fellows. Straight up and away. Hey, Hal, pan the gang, will you? As a hotshot I’m slightly cool if they aren’t behind me.” “Great stuff,” grinned Hal. The kinephotogs spread out, took their shots, and then closed up for the final order. As the space door clanged shut, they raced for the edge of the field and waited. With an instantaneous rush, the lead ship, bearing the green triangle of Venus surrounded by the five stars of the flight commander, took off in a slight swirl of airswept dust. Then at a separation o.f ex- actly three tenths of a second, the other twenty- four ships leaped into the sky and formed a long spiral in space. The specks that were lost in the sky were Clifford Lane and his com- mand heading for Terra. II. The Little Man had a name. Once in his own tiny spacecraft and surrounded by his cohorts, he was addressed in his own semi- speech, semimental means of com- munications. “You have succeeded, Toralen Ki?” “As best I can.” “Not perfect?” asked Hotang Lu. “As long as the lack of communi- cations exists, there can be no trans- fer of real detailed intelligence be- PATTERN FOR CONQUEST tween the two races. They have no mental power of communication at all, of course, and since we use our mental power when we wish to carry over a plan or abstract thought, we fail when we are con- fronted as we are now. There are no words in our audible tongue that have the proper semantic meaning.” “But you did succeed in part?” “I have succeeded so far as gain- ing their co-operation. They will assign to me or to us, rather, the necessary personnel and material to complete the task.” “Then we have succeeded.” “In a sense. To carry this con- cept over was most difficult. As long as we have their consent, every- thing will work out in time.” “You have succeeded in convinc- ing them that the Opposites must be used ?” Toralen Ki smiled. “The Oppo- sites we picked are violent enemies.” “Good 1” “It could be better. I’d hoped that they would be mere opposing personalities. It is not necessary that people of opposite personality be bitter rivals for everything.” “But the greater the opposing forces, the greater the strength of the mental field.” “In this case,” said Toralen Ki thoughtfully, “they insist upon in- cluding a third party, of equal rank, to act as referee, or mediator. It will be his task to keep the Oppo- sites from fighting one another.” “They were quite concerned ?” “Definitely. It was most diffi- cult to convey to them the fact that the future of their — and all, 11

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for that matter — race depends upon absolute co-operation between the mental opposites we have picked." “Once the suppressor is de- stroyed, communication with this race will be easy. Then they can be told." Toralen Ki shook his head. “Fate is like that. To carry out the plan properly, they must co-operate. In order to tell them what they must do, the suppressor must first be de- stroyed. And were it not for the suppressor in the first place, the mental capability of this race would require no assistance from the like of you and Tor any other member of any other race. The Loard- vogh were very brilliant, Hotang Lu. To hurl suppressors of mental energy through the Galaxy was a stroke of genius." Hotang Lu smiled sourly. “I suppose it is a strange trick of fate to have the fate of the entire Galaxy hanging upon an act of co-operation between two bitter rivals. Espe- cially when the means to explain fully also hangs upon the outcome of their co-operation. I am re- minded of an incident in my boy- hood. I sought work. I had no experience. They wanted men with experience. In order to get the experience I must work — but they wouldn’t put me to work without experience. But it will be easier once the initial step is taken,” said Hotang Lu. “I know it will. It will be so much easier once they understand our motives, at least. Had they proved non-co-operative, we would 12 have been completely stopped. As it is now, we can foresee the proper culmination of all of otir plans. We will win, yet!" “To our ultimate victory,” said Hotang Lu, taking a sip from the tall tube before him. Toralen Ki followed the other, echoing the words. “It is fortunate that they have evolved as far as. they have," said Toralen Ki, after the toast. “Deal- ing with a completely ignorant race is more difficult. These people have a proper evaluation of technical ideas. Therefore they will under- stand the proper course without having it forced down their collec- tive throats.” “With their already available knowledge of the super drive, it indicates their ability. Have they colonized any of the nearer stellar systems yet?” "Several. But the urge is not quite universal, yet. Only the ad- venturers and the malcontents seem to go. They will spread though, if they’re not stopped within a reasonable time.” “Time . . . Time — ” muttered Hotang Lu. “Always time. Must we fight time forever?” “Fighting time is most difficult when you are behind,” remarked Toralen Ki. “When you are ahead, it is no longer a fight.” “We must move swiftly and yet we can do nothing to cause haste. Confound it, must a man always be pinched between the urgency and the impossible?” “Certainly. It makes one feel the ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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ease of life during the tijnes of no- stress.” “Some day I hope to see a period of no-stress that is longer than one tenth the duration of the trouble before and after it.” “You may,” smiled Toralen Ki. “But there will be no after.” “Gloomy thought. I'll forget it, thank you. But to change the gloomy subject, I suggest that we contact Tlembo and let our ruler know that we have, in part, been successful.” “Right. I wish we were artists. So much can be conveyed to others by mere pictures.” Hotang Lu shook his head. "How could you possibly sketch the oper- ation of a suppressor? Perhaps they could do it, for they seem to have advanced the art of thought- conveyance through pictures to a high degree. But recall that no Tlemban ever considered the art a necessary one and so we lack the technique.” “I know.” “After we contact Tlembo, when can we say we are to start?” “I think they convey something about two days. We await the ar- rival of the contingents from the other planets.” “More time wasted.” “Think of the eons before this and the eons that will follow. And then think of how utterly minute your two days are. They will ar- rive, but quickly enough.” Flight Commander Cliff Lane heard the recognition gear tick off, and he whirled to look at the scan- 14 ning plate. “The devil,’1 he growled. “Sir?” “What is he doing here?” “I don't understand, sir.” Cliff smiled wryly. “Sorry. I thought this would be more or less pleasant.” “Isn’t it?” “That trace,” he said, pointing to the squiggle on the scanning plate, “happens to be the recogni- tion trace of no one other than Stellor Downing.” “Oh,” said the orderly. “I didn’t know.” Lane grinned. “Then you’re the only one that doesn’t. Any of the rest of this outfit know it on sight. Take a good look at it, Timmy, and the next time you see it, do your best to do whatever that is doing, but do it quicker, neater, and with more flourish. Understand ?” “Yes, sir.” Lane strode into the operations room, and looked over the plotter’s shoulder. “What’s he doing, Link ?” Lincoln made some calculations on a paper, plunked the keys on his computer for a moment 'and then came up with an equation. He showed it to Lane with a grimace. “Landing,” said Lane cryptically. Lincoln nodded. “Can we beat him in ?” “I think so — if we get the jump on him.” “There are just two landing circles on Mojave that aren’t dusty,” said Lane. “One of them is not far from the field office building. The other takes a full hour of travel before you can check in. I don’t like to walk.” ASTOUNDING SCI E NOR • F l CTIO ti

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“Right. I’ll see what we can do.” “Good.” One-tenth of a light-second away, an aide entered Stellor Downing’s cabin. “Recognition, sir,” he said. “Flight Commander Lane, from Venus. I thought you’d like to know.” “What’s his course ?” clipped Downing. “Mojave.” “Tell the tech to drop interferes. Tell navigator to correct course for blitz-landing, and tell pilot to streak for landing Circle One. Also broad- cast crash-warning.” “Right. We’re going in if we have to collide to do it, sir?” “We’ll have no collision. Lane wouldn’t care to scrape any of his nicely painted little toys.” “On the roger,” said the aide, leaving immediately. Two flights of ships changed course. Down on Mojave, in the control and operations tower, signal officer Clancey’s face popped with beads of cold sweat. He sat down heavily in a chair and : “Tony! Get me the chief!” “What’s wrong, sir?” asked Tony. “This desert ain’t a big enough landing field to take on Lane and Downing. Not all at once.” “Lane and Downing!” Tony streaked for the telephone. He called, and handed the phone to Clancey, who plugged it into his switchboard, putting it on his own headset so that he could hear both the chief and the. operations. PATTERN FOR CONQUEST “Chief. Look, this is too hot to handle. Lane and Downing are both heading for Mojave.” “I know.” “Do you ?” asked Clancey sarcas- tically. “They’re heading for Mo- jave. They’re racing for Number One. And they’re due to arrive within three or four milliseconds of one another!” “Hell’s Rockets ! exploded the chief. “Get ’em on the air and tell ’em they’re under orders.” “There isn’t any air. One of ’em dropped interferers.” “Official?” “Unofficial.” “O.K. Record the fact and then go out and watch. It’s out of your hands if they can’t hear you. As long as you have a record of inter- ference it’s not your cookie. It belongs to them.” “Mind if I head for a bomb- shelter?” grinned Clancey. “Oh, they’re both smart. That’s one fight that never hit an innocent bystander.” “ — yet,” added Clancey. “Well—?” “It might be the first time I died, too,” objected Clancey. “You don’t want to live forever, do you?” “Wouldn’t mind.” “Nuts. There must be something good about dying. Everybody does it.” “But only one ; never again.” “Well, play it your way. I sort of wish I could be there to watch, too.” “Just tell mother I died game. So long, chief. I hear music in the 15

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air right now, and hell will pop directly.” Like twin, high-velocity jets of water, the two space flights came together, rebounded off of their in- dividual barrier-layers and mingled in a jarring maze of whirling ships. In a shapeless pattern they whirled, and they might have whirled shape- lessly all the way to Mojave, except for one item. From Downing’s lead ship there stabbed one of the heavy dymodine beams, its danger area marked with the characteristic heterodyne of light. It thrust a pale green finger into the sky before it, and as it came around, the other ships moved aside. That was the breaker. The flights re-formed into twin interlocked spirals that thrust against one an- other with pressors and tore at one another with tractors in an effort to break up the other’s flight. Lane snapped : “That’s a stinking trick.” “He’s warning — ” “Oh, nice of him to heterodyne it. I wish I had a roboship. I’d drive it into his beam and tell him that he clipped my men—” Stellor Downing grinned at his unit commander. “I told you he’d duck,” he said loftily. “Wouldn’t you?” “Nope. I'd drive into it and see if he’d shut it off before I hit it.” “Supposing he didn’t shut it off?” “Don’t ask me,” said Downing. “If he did, it would be to spare the men with me. If I ducked at the last minute, it would be for the same reason. If we were alone, I wouldn’t dive into a beam— but we might try a bit of rivet-cutting.” The unit commander’s face whitened a bit. That was an idea he disliked. And yet some day he knew they’d get to it. Just as prac- tically everybody knew it. The hard ground of Mojave whirled up at them, and the twin spirals flattened out. Like a whirl- ing nebula, they spun, slowing as they dropped. Clancey groaned from the top of the tower: “There ain’t room for fifty ships in Circle One. There ain’t room for six ships fighting one another. Holy — ” The spattering of force-beams, tractor and pressor, died as the last hundred feet of altitude closed in. The ships, still wabbling slightly, slowed their spinning around and curved to drop vertically for fifty feet. The ground shook — And there was left but one dust- less landing circle at Mojave — the other one. Windows in the control tower cracked, a fuse alarm rang furiously, and somewhere a taut cable snapped, shutting off the fuse alarm for lack of juice. The lights went out all over the Administration Building, and every ceiling dropped a fine shower of plaster freckles. They landed on empty desks and open chairs. Seven thousand employees of Mojave were crammed out on the view-area, wiping the dust from their eyes and shaking their heads. And through the dust, weaving their way between the ships of ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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either command. Cliff Lane and Stellor Downing advanced upon one another. Out of a cloud of dust came Lane. Downing emerged from the other side and faced the Venusite. ‘'You fouled me,” snarled Down- ing. "Who, me?” asked Lane saucily. “I broadcast a crash-warning.” "You should have done it before you dropped inter ferers. All I know is that you disputed my course.” “So I did. So what?” Lane reached for a cigarette. lie did it with his left hand, though he knew that Downing wouldn't draw his modines while either hand was occupied. Downing was fair, any- way. “So you didn’t get what you wanted — again.” “Neither did you.” “All right. Are you happy ? Got to have the best, don’t you ?” growled Lane. “Can’t stand to see anybody take even a toothpick that you can't have two of.” “If you were more than a drug- store cowboy . . . brother, what a get-up.” Lane flushed. “My clothing is my own business.” “It’s very fetching. Chic, even.” "Shut up, dough-head. I'm not forced to wear an iceman’s uniform so people won’t think — ” “What’s the matter with me?” gritted Downing. “You might at least put on a clean shirt,” drawled Lane, tossing his cigarette at Downing. “Oh, swish — ” That did it. Lane's right hand PATTERN FOR CONQUEST streaked for his hip after a warn- ing gesture. Downing’s two hands dropped and came up with the twin modines. Only a microtime film record would ever tell the quicker man. Their weapons came up and for- ward and the dust of landing Circle One was shocked with a sharp elec- trical splat. III. “And that’s your job, Thomp- son,” said Kennebec. "And tliat’s enough,” responded Thompson. He wiped his face. "Oh, I’ll issue the proper orders. They’ll receive them — and any trace of insubordination on the part of either of them will be cause for reprimand. Public reprimand.” "But the reason behind all this? I don’t understand.” "Nor does anyone else. Look Thompson, the Little Man has a super ship out there on Mojave. It is a real bear-cat. Packed into space smaller than this office is enough stuff to hold off the Guard for a week. That’s premise num- ber one. “Number two. They have some sort of telepathic means of com- munications. "Number three. They came here for help. Why, I may never tell you until it’s analyzed by the ex- perts. But they came here for help. A machine, bomb, some means of hell and destruction or other must be destroyed. It must be located, too. Using some means of analysis on our card files, voice 17

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records, identification quizzes, and so forth, they decided upon Lane and Downing as the mainsprings. They’ll have none other. Now why or wherefore isn’t for me to decide. If they want Lane and Downing, they’ll get Lane and Downing and none others. At the very least, we’ve got to play their game as long and as well as we can play it. I want to have the Solar Guard equipped as well as that ship is, and this is the way to do it.” “Why don’t they go out and de- stroy this thing themselves?” asked Thompson. “I wouldn’t know. You know as much as I do.” “They may fear the cat race.” “If I had their stuff, I’d fear nothing.” The telephone rang and Kenne- bec lifted it. He listened and then hung up slowly. “Your job — ” he said. “Lane and Downing are making a run- ning fist fight to see who lands on Circle One. If you go a-screech- ing fast, you might be able to make it by the time they hit.” “Right — ” and Thompson left unceremoniously. He hit the street, landed in his car, and was a half block away, siren screaming, before he realized that he had a passenger. It was Patricia. “Huh?” he asked foolishly. “Well, the engine was running, wasn’t it?” “I didn’t notice.” ‘Tine thing.” "You must have heard.” "Who hasn’t. Conve on, Billy. 18 A little more soup. I know that pair and they won’t waste time.” Thompson poured more power into the car and it increased in speed. The way was cleared for him, though it took some expert driving to cut around and through the traffic, stopped by the demand- ing throat of the official siren. Thompson roared up the main road to Mojave, sent the guard- rail gates flying dangerously over the heads of onlookers, and sped out onto the tarmacadam. The dust of the rough landing was just starting to rise as Thompson slid into the outskirts of the circle of ships. His car skidded dangerously on locked wheels, and he used the deceleration of the vehicle to cata- pult himself forward. He landed running and disappeared into the circling dust. He could be certain that Lane and Downing would be at the center of this whirling mass. Lane blinked. Downing shook his head in disbelief. Both re- charged their modines and — ‘That’s about enough!” snapped Thompson, coming through the dust. “You pair of idiots.” They whirled. “No, you didn't miss, either of you.” He waved his own modine. The aperture was wide open. “But I’ve got a job to do and you aren’t going to spoil it on the first try. I'd hate to rpeort to Co-ordinator Kennebec that I’d failed — doubly. And that all there were to his plans were two hardly scarred corpses,” He tossed his weapon on the ASTOUNDING RCIKNOE -FICTION

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ground and nursed his hand. “You’re the fool,” said Down- ing. “Don’t you know you can’t absorb the output of three on one of ’em?” “I did,” snapped Thompson. “Though I’d rather use a baseball bat on both of you.” “We didn’t intend to hurt any- body,” explained Lane. “Good. Now that that’s over, you might play sweet for a while, doing penance for burning my hand.” “You mean we’re going to work together?” asked Lane in disbelief. “And you’re going to act as though you liked it.” “I won’t like it,” scowled Down- ing. “Just make it look good. You’ve got a job to do, and once it is done you can go rivet-cutting for all I care.” “It's an idea.” “All right. But listen, you pair of fools, Patricia is coming through this haze you kicked up. Take it easy.” “Pat !” it was a duet. “Yeah, though you should both call her Miss Kennebec after this performance.” “You leave her out of this,” snapped Lane. “After one more statement. You fellows can fight all you want to, but remember, if you’re fighting for Pat, just consider how she’d feel to A, if as and when A chilled B to get rid of B’s competition. Now let’s behave ourselves — and if you’re asked, this was a fine shindy ; a real interesting whingding.” PATTERN FOR CONQUEST Clancey saw the four of them emerge from the aura of dust and he held his head. “Look at ’em, chief. It ain’t goin’ to last I know it ain’t. Mis’s Kennebec holding an arm of each of them and Mr. Thompson chatting to all three from behind.” “Clancey, this may be the calm before the storm. But from what I hear, both of them will be a long way from Sol when the tornado winds up. They're heading for the Big Man’s office right now. He’ll tell ’em.” “I think I get it,” said Lane. “He wants us to analyze it. That's why this motion of our heads to the thing.” “You may be right.” “This is a long way from here, though. I don’t quite get it” Kennebec explained his reasons for playing the Little Man's game. “O.K., chief. I’ve heard of this cat race,” said Downing. “You have?” “Only malcontent rumors. Tramps, adventurers, and the like are inclined to take runs like that for the sheer loneliness of it — and the desire to set foot where no man ever stood before. It’s about the limit of run with even a Guard ship. I suppose any rumors can be dis- counted, but I’ve been given to un- derstand that they are a rather nasty kind of personality.” “Being cats they would be,” added Lane. “Not necessarily,” objected Thompson. “We are basic primate- »

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,\ i/j-{ fK m culture, but we don’t behave like apes.” “No?” asked Kennebec with a sly smile. “O.K” “Now,” said Kennebec. “They’ve chosen you two for the job in spite of our explanations that you are slightly inclined toward dangerous rivalry. Why they insist I do not know. Be that as it may, gentle- men, you have this project. You have twenty-five ships each, all armed to the best of Solar tech- nique. You’ll have to play it close to your vest, I gather, since this machine or bomb is at present run- ning through their system. There- fore I order you, officially, to re- frain from any competitive action until this project is completed. The ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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Little Man has detectors to- 'locate the thing, you’ll each get .pins of them. Track it down and analyze it. Destroy it after you could re- produce it. Thompson, your only job is to remind this pair of worthies that their prime job is to finish this project.” “It may be not too hard,” smiled Thompson. “I won’t have any trouble.” “Look, Downing, if this thing is as important as they claim, we’re fools not to work together. Right?” “As corny as it sounds — the fate of races depends — I believe the Little Man. Until this fool project is over, no fight.” “Shake.” Downing made a “wait” gesture. He picked up an ornate dinner candle from the mantelpiece and lit it. He took cigarettes, offered one to Lane, and they shook hands. -And they lit their cigarettes in the same candle flame. And Thompson said to Kennebec : “A pair of showmen.” “And the best flight commanders in the Guard, confound it!” Stellor Downing, out of his Mar- tian uniform and wearing the dress uniform of Terra, piloted Patricia Kennebeck through the tables to a seat. “Stop worrying,” he laughed. “I suppose I should,” she ad- mitted. “Then please do.” “I will. It isn’t complimentary to you, is it?” “I wouldn’t worry about that.” “All right. But I still think I’m fostering trouble for both of you.” PATTEBN FOH CONQUEST “By coming out with me tonight? Lane asked — but he was late. He can’t object to my making plans first, can he?” “He admitted that he had only himself to blame.” “Then?” “But I can’t help thinking that I’m the cause — ” “Look, Pat. Analyze us. Cliff is Venusite. His family went to Venus about six hundred years ago — probably on the same ship that mine left for Mars on at about the same time. Lane’s impetuous and slightly wildman. I’m more inclined to calculate. Dance ?” “Yes — that was a quick change of subject, Stell. How do you do it?” “The music just started— and my basic idea in coming here was to dance with you.” “How about ordering? They’ll get the stuff while we’re dancing.” “Everything’s ordered,” he smiled. He drew back her chair, offered her an arm, and led her to the dance floor. Downing’s dancing was excellent. He was precise, deft, and graceful despite his size. The orchestra fin- ished the piece, and then with a drum-roll introduction led into the classic “ Mars Walts” The step was long and slow and though some of the other couples drifted off the floor to await some- thing more springy, they finished the long number with a slight flourish. Another drum-roll, and: “Ladies and Gentlemen,” said the announcer, “that number was in honor of si

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Stellor Downing, number one Flight Commander of the Martian sector of the Solar Guard !” There was a craning of necks to see the Martian, and Downing politely saluted before he retreated to his table. “And in this corner . . . pardon me, I mean over here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Clifford Lane, the top Flight Commander of the Venus sector 1” The necks swiveled like the spec- tators at a tennis match and the spotlight caught Cliff, standing at the door with a woman on each arm. At a word from the manager, four large, square-shouldered men in tuxedos accepted two tables. Base lines for defense — But Lane merely nodded affably in the bright spotlight. “Thanks, and now, professor, that light is bright. Play, George. The Cara- manne if you please.” “But I can’t dance the Cara- manne,” objected the girl on his right. “And I wouldn’t dance it in public,” said the girl on his left. “Well, we all know someone who can and will,” laughed Cliff. He led them to Downing’s table, shook hands with Stellor and underwent a ten-second grip-trying match. He introduced them all around and then asked: “Downing, may I steal her for a moment? I think she’s the only one present that can hang on while I take care of the Caramanne.” “For a moment,” said Downing. The four men in tuxedos blinked and shook their heads. The man- 22 ager took a quick, very short drink. It was a draft of sheer relief. The pulse-beating rhythm of the native dance of Venus started with rapid tomtom, and then carried up into the other instruments. With the floor to themselves, Cliff and Patricia covered most of it in the whirling, quick-step. “A fine specimen of fidelity you’d make,” she laughed. “Well, you were busy. I had to do something.” “You seem to do all right. They’re both rather special.” “Know them?” “Only by nodding acquaintance.” “Well, any time you have time to spare for Cliff Lane, just let me know and I’ll toss ’em overboard and come running.” “And in the meantime?” “And in the meantime, I’m not going to rot.” The dance swung into the finish, which left them both breathing hard. Lane escorted Patricia back to the table, where Downing sat silent. As they came up, a third man approached. Lane seated Patricia and then greeted the new- comer. “Hi, Billy. Lucky, we’ve got a girl for you, too.” Thompson breathed out. “Oh,” he said surveying the situation. Both situations looked him over and smiled. “Lenore, and Karen, this is Billy Thompson. He’s in divi- sion.” “Which division?” asked Lenore. “Subdivision,” grinned Thomp- son. “I’m the guy they got to comb these guys out of each other’s hair.” ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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“Poor man,” sympathized Karen. “You gals match for him,” laughed Cliff. Pie tossed a coin. “Heads!” called Lenore. “You lose — take him,” chuckled Lane. Lenore put her arm through Thompson’s. “Nope,” she said brightly, “I win.” The spotlight hit the table. “We might as well finish this,” laughed the announcer. “I present the referee . . . pardon me, folks, I mean the top man of the Terran sector; Flight Commander Billy Thomp- son !” The music started, and all three couples went to dance to a medley of Strauss’ waltzes. IV. “It was all sort of whirligig, like,” explained Patricia. “We didn’t get home until along toward the not- so-wee large hours of the morning.” “I know,” responded her father dryly. “The whole gang of you were raiding the icebox at five.” “The rest of them left shortly afterward.” “All of them?” “No, Stellor outsat them and lin- gered to say goodnight.” “What do you think of Stellor?” "I’ve always thought highly of Stellor. He’s got everything. He knows what he wants and he knows how to get it.” “And Cliff Lane?” “Cliff is strictly on the impulse.” “I wouldn’t say that,” objected her father. “After all. both of them got where they are because of their ability.” “Well, Cliff gives the impres- sion that he just thought of it,” “Of what?” “Of whatever he was going to do next.” “A good thing nobody ever asked you to decide between them.” “It would be difficult.” “Well, it won’t be necessary. They’re leaving after the next change of watch.” “So soon?” “The Little Man gave the impres- sion that all of us were fighting for time.” “I see. You do believe that this is important?” “I can see no other reason for it.” “Um-m-m. Well, I’ll be down to see them off.” “All of us will.” “I was worried, last night. I could see a beautiful shindy in the offing.” “And it didn’t get bad at all?” “No,” answered Patricia in sur- prise. “I think Cliff saved the day by showing up with a couple of women. I wouldn’t have wanted to sit between the two of them all by myself. That would have been strictly murder. And I wouldn’t have wanted to see Stellor off with- out saying farewell to Cliff. Stellor got here first with the plans — I was strictly a fence. I didn’t know what to do. So I did it. And everything turned out fine.” “You can hope that it will al- ways turn out fine. What’ll you do if one of them turns to some other woman ?” pattern for conquest 28

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Patricia laughed wryly. “I'd lose both of them, Dad. Believe me, I would. The other would barge in and set sail for the woman just as sure as I'm a foot high.” “But . . . but . . . but — ” “I don’t really know — nor do I care too much.” “Anticipating me? You mean you don’t know which one really wants you and which other is just here for sheer rivalry?” Patricia nodded. “They don’t, either,” she said sagely. “It is a good thing that we have time. Time will out, as you’ve always said. Time will get us the answer. Right now I’m neither worried about time, or even not having my mind made up on a future. I’ve got a number of years of fun ahead before then.” “Bright girl,” laughed Kennebec. “Now let’s get going. We want to see them off, don’t we?” Two hours later, seventy-five of the Solar Guard’s finest ships ar- rowed into the sky above Mojave. In the lead, determined by a toss of the coin, was Stellor Downing’s command. Thompson’s outfit, run- ning to his own taste, encircled the Downing cone at the base in a short cylinder, while bringing up the rear was Cliff Lane’s long spiral. An hour out of Mojave, the flight went into superdrive and left the Solar Combine far behind in a matter of minutes. By the clock, it was weeks later that the Solar Guard’s flight dropped down out of superdrive and took a look around. The Little Man, in 24 Thompson’s ship, used his own in- struments and indicated that the yel- low star — it was more than a star at their distance — dead ahead was the one they sought. “Downing,” called Lane. “How’s your power reserve?” “Like yours, probably.” “We’d better find a close-in, hot- ter-than-the-hinges planet where they won’t be populating and charge up, what say?” “Good idea. Better than the orig- inal plan of charging in flight. If it’s close in, it’ll have ceased revolution, probably. We can hit the twilight zone and rest our feet a bit.” “O. K. I’ll put the searchers on it.” “We’d better take it by relays, though. A fleet that’s planeted for charging isn’t in the most admirable position for attack.” “Reasonable. You charge, Thompson’ll guard, and I’ll scout around.” “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” growled Downing. “You and Thompson will both guard.” “Afraid ?” “No, you idiot. I’m jealous as hell. I don’t want you to take all the glory.” “And that’s probably the truth,” laughed Lane. “Take it or leave it.” Thompson interrupted. “This sounds like the leading edge of a fight. Stop it. We’ll play it safe — Downing’s way.” “O. K.,” assented Lane cheerfully enough. “Thing that bothers me,” mut- tered Downing, “is the fact that if ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

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this bunch have any stuff, we’re be- ing recorded on the tapes right now.” “So?” “And if they're as nasty as the Little Man claims, they’ll be here with all of their nastiness.” “All right,” snapped Lane. “We’ve got detectors and analyzers, haven’t we?” “Uh-huh. But we’re a long way from home base. What we’ve got we've got to keep— and use. They can toss the book at us and go home for another library. Follow ?” “Yup. Located a planet yet?” “Haven’t you been paying atten- tion ?” “No. You’re in the lead. I’m merely following as best I can.” “Then sharp up. We’re heading for the innermost planet now.” “Go ahead — we’ll go in to see. Then Lane and I will scout the sky above to keep off the incoming bunch, if any,” said Thompson. It was an armed watch. Down- ing’s flight landed and set up the solar collectors. From the ships there came a group of planet- mounted modines which had little to offer over the turrets in the ships save adding to their numbers. The other two flights dropped off their planet-mounts, too, since they were of no use a-flight and might even become a detriment if trouble demanded swift maneuver. Then a regular patrol s'chedule was set up and alternately Lane and Thompson took to the sky to cover the area. The detectors were over- hauled and stepped up to the theo- retical limit of their efficiency, and pattern for conquest couplers and fire-control systems were hooked in and calibrated. It took nine days by the clock to get the camp set up, and Down- ing’s flight was almost recharged by the end of that time. As Thompson’s flight went in for re-charge, Downing and Lane dis- cussed the camp. “I say leave it here,” said Lane. “Might be handy.” “When ?” “I don’t have any real idea. But we’ve got one hundred and fifty extra dymodines planet-mounted down there. I say leave it there until we get this problem off our chest.” “Expect trouble?” scoffed Down- ing. Lane nodded. “I expect this to end in a running fight with one of the two of us making a blind but accurate stab in the dark and get- ting that machine the Little Man talks about. If the going gets tough, we can hole out here for some time with the solar collectors running the planet mounts.” “Wonder why the cat race hasn't come up,” mused Downing. “It isn’t sensible to permit any alien to establish a planethead in your system.” “They might not even know.” “Unlikely.” “Look, though,” offered Lane, “we came in sunward, almost scorching our tails. The solar cen- troid of interference might make any flight detection undistinguish- able from background noise.” “Yeah ? Remember that we came in over the edge of the sun from 25

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somewhere. We were out in space mostly.” “Then you answer it — you asked it!” The catmen came as Thompson’s flight left the camp and Lane’s ships dropped into the charging po- sitions. They came in a horde, they came and they swarmed over the two flights that were patrolling. In a wide circle, the Solarians raced just outside of the camp. The planet mounts covered the sky above, and a veritable arched roof of death-dealing energy covered the twenty-five ships of Lane’s flight. The space between the Solar circle and the catman circle was ablaze with energy, and the ether was filled with interference. Even the subether carried its share of crackle, and the orders went on the tone- modulated code instead of voice. Solid ordnance dropped, and ex- ploded through the crisscrossing of the planet mounts, and the planeted ships ran their charges down in- stead of up by adding to the fury over their heads. They were sitting ducks and they knew it. But unlike the sitting duck, these could shoot back. And they took their toll. Then without apparent reason, the flight of catmen left their whirl- ing circle on a tangent and streaked for space. Behind them lay nine smoking ships — prey to the Solar Guard. But they had not gone in vain. There were seven of the Solar Guard that would fly no more — 26 seven ships and a total of one hun- dred and seventy-five men. “Whew. They haven’t any sense at all,” snarled Downing. “Either that or they value their lives rather poorly.” “Must be. I wouldn’t know. But usually a vicious mind doesn’t value life too highly.” “I wouldn’t be too certain of that.” “All right. I won’t belabor the point. I don’t know. It just seems — ” The next ten days was under rigid rule. Lane’s ships charged, and the last day was spent in re- plenishing the charges lost in the short but torrid fight. “Now,” said Lane, “what’s with this hell-machine that the Little Man mentions?” “The detectors do not detect,” objected Downing. They confronted the Little Man with the nonoperating detector. He shook his tiny head and worried vis- ibly. He puzzled over it, juggled the circuit controls, and then threw up his hands in bafflement. He spoke to Hotang Lu: “The field must be so great that the detector is paralyzed.” “It is more than likely. Remem- ber, it was working on Tlembo. It was working on ... on ... I have not the word for their star. Many many light-years away it is good. Close by— it must be paralyzed.” “Then we must make it less sensitive.” “Do you know how?” “I did once, long ago. But I ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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have forgotten my techniques and my ability lags because of lack of practice.” ‘‘And I devoted myself to the arts instead of technology. A revered master at the problem of mental culture ; I cannot invade this gadget with tools.” Hotang Lu smiled. ‘‘You might try psychoanalyzing it.” “Yes, if it contained but one mem- ory-pattern,” laughed Toralen Ki. “They’d have done better to have sent a plumber and an electrician than we two failures.” “At this point, we must attempt to convey the idea of a search for the master machine.” . “It will not be hard. This race will search rather than return home with an incomplete mission. The rivalry that exists between the lead- ers insures the success of our plan despite any set-back.” Toralen Ki and Hotang Lu faced Lane and Downing. All four shook their heads in complete misunder- standing. Then Hotang Lu sketched a crude diagram of the catmen's star-system. He indicated the master machine and also indi- cated their search for it and its ultimate destruction. Lane gritted his teeth. “How hig?” he asked aloud, and pointed from the machine to several bits of equipment in the ship. Toralen Ki said : “Don’t know.” Hotang Lu nodded in agreement and tried to convey their ignorance of the size. “I gather that they've never seen it” VATTBfiM CONQUEST “Chances are if they’d seen it they’d have bopped it themselves,” observed Downing. “Reasonable attitude.” “Well, we have about ten to the twenty-seventh power square miles of blank and utter nothing to curry- comb for a dingus of some sort.” “Blank and utter nothing — hell! I wouldn't mind blank and utter nothing. We could comb it if it weren’t for sun, planets, asteroids, meteors, noise-impulses from no- where-in-particular, just plain hell, and a crew of wild-personalized catmen.” Lane paused to take a deep breath. “As it is, the latter is the most complicated of the bunch mentioned. We can't spread out in a space-lattice and comb. We’ve got to do one of two things. Either we enlist the help — or get freedom of search — of or from the catanen or we comb in a large and armed body.” “That's a nice problem. Either way.” “As has been mentioned before — ‘Take it or leave it l’ ” “Mind explaining how you go about getting chummy with a race that took a swing without asking questions first?” “That's partly our fault. We just invaded.” “We couldn’t spend a few months getting chummy first. We needed power — and bad.” “All right,” agreed Lane. “But they didn’t know that. And it’s all right with me because I’m leery of letting anyone know that I'm vul- nerable. Especially people I don't know and therefore cannot trust.” vt

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“Have we got what it takes to barge in there and settle down ? Can we hold them off until we can make it clear that we don’t want their stinking planet ?” “Have we ?” “If we do right now, there’ll be a lot of us that stay there tor good.” “How many of us are expend- able?” “AH of us as long as that dingbat is destroyed.” Lane grimaced. “And how im- portant is it?” Downing gave an “I don’t know” wave of his hands, “We might go looking for trouble. Lane.” “Meaning catch us a single ship- load of catmen and let ’em go, well filled with cream and a fine expla- nation ?” “Might even get a rat or two for them.” “Meaning?” Downing grinned maliciously. “Guilty conscience?” he taunted. “Forget it, hothead.” “Don’t make cracks, Iceberg. O. K., forget it. It’s probably the best idea yet. How do we bait a cat trap?” “Cream— or catnip.” “Very funny,” interrupted Thompson. “Exceedingly amusing. You make me laugh, haha,” he add- ed in a flat, disgusted tone. “Shut up,” chorused Lane and Downing. “All right. Then stop making light of this. Bait a cat trap. You’ll just have to pirate the planet lanes and catch you one.” “The trouble with you, Thomp- son, is that you have no sense of humor.” Thompson subsided. He real- ized that this light banter was a cover-up for a deeper feeling. De- prive them of niggling at one an- other in a light way and they might take to it in a more serious vein, “It is agreed, then, that we grab us a boatload of catmen and indoc- trinate them with Solarian good will and propaganda.” “It is,” said Downing. “Time’s a-wasting. Let’s grab.” V. Like a contracting funnel, the Solar Guard closed down on the catman ship. They crowded the catman spacer, forced him into a pocket, and then started to drive him their way. But unlike a pocketed ship, the catman slashed back. An invisible beam came from somewhere on the craft. It slashed out, closed down upon a midsection of the nearest Solar Guard, and ripped the belly out of the ship. It was both brutal and sickening. One moment the Solarian craft was forcing the cat- man ship to give space or collide. The next moment the mid section had been gouged away; ripped out as with a vicious claw or a set of cruel, gigantic teeth. The crushed midsection was flung free of the stricken craft and as the ship col- lapsed over its open belly, and died, the catman slashed at another and another of the Solarians. “Superdrive!” exploded Lane. The slashing catman got one more ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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ship before the Solar Guard went into the superdrive and raced away. "Did you record that ?" asked Lane. "Tried to. The recorder blew." "So did all of them. "Creepers ! What a nasty thing to have around.” Thompson said: "One of my techs is repairing a recorder now. He thinks he can give the wave analysis.” "How?" "He finds that certain of the crys- talline structures in the wave re- corder are de-crystallized.” "Meaning what ?" demanded Lane. "Meaning that certain frequen- cies hit the nuclear resonance of the crystalline structures. I’ll let you know." "Let us know quick,” said Down- ing. "If we can analyze it, we can either reproduce it or shield against it.” “Cats at seven o’clock, forty de- grees !” exploded the observer in Lane’s ship. "Anywhere else ?” demanded Lane. No answer. "Fight ’em,” snapped Lane. There were six catmen converg- ing on Lane’s command. The rest of the Solar crew flung around and headed for the local fight. Lane’s dymodines flashed out and were stopped cold by barriers. "Crash stations!” ordered Lane. "Prepare for total destruction !” The six catmen got above Lane’s ship and drove him downward with pressors and an occasional light — it must have been very light — touch 30 of the belly-tearing beam. Above the six were the sixty-odd Solarians fighting to get through and fighting a useless battle. "We can’t damage ’em,” snarled Lane. “Superdrive — right through ’em !” He almost made it. His ship rammed up under the stellar drive, came level with the screen of cat- men, and almost made it through. But four of them reached forth with the belly-tearing beams and took separate parts of his ship. The warning creak of plates caused the pilot to stop. Lane’s ship was thrust down be- low again. "Superdrive — away !” Lane’s ship turned and dropped. The action was too fast for the Solarian crew, and he left them far behind. But the catmen were right with him all the way. "Cut it," said Lane in a tired voice. "Let ’em play. Save our strength for later when we can do something.” They went inert. No drive, no sign of fight, no objection. A side-force hit them, slapping the ship sidewise about fifty feet. It jarred the ship’s delicate mech- anisms into a short fluster of unreal alarms and ringing signals, but the sturdy stuff was not permanently damaged. Still no response from Cliff’s ship. They poked him down brutally with a pressor and then jerked him back up again. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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More alarms and more nosebleed among the crew. They caught the ship in force- zones and played catch with it from one catman to the other, poking and thrusting. They ripped off one of the turrets with the snatcher. Then they stopped. And they waited. Quietly they hung above Lane’s ship, watching, watching, watching. A full, solid, nerve-breaking hour they waited, and the men in Lane’s ship waited, wondering. “Try it !” snapped Lane. The ship leaped into motion, driv- ing to one side. Snatchers raced out and caught the fleeing ship, dragged it back, and again they went through the push- ing, pulling, tossing program. And then again they stopped with a few, final perfunctory pokes and shoves. “They’re catmen, all right,” snarled Lane. The rest of the Solar Guard came up, and once more they tried to break through the screen to free Lane’s ship. Lane shook his head. “Pilot. How long under super- drive before we hit the speed of light?” “Seven minutes.” “Then drive straight down. I don't think any beam can exceed the speed of light. Once we get up there, they can’t reach forward after us, at least.” Lane’s ship dropped. And the catmen followed, maintaining their distance with superior balance and accuracy. A minute passed. Two. Three. Four. Five. And then at an even six, a snatcher reached for- pattbrm for conqubst ward and took Lane’s ship by the empennage and shook it enough to rend a few seams. “O. K., cut it,” he said wearily, “I wonder what they want of us beside to play cat-and-mouse?” There were three more sessions of the cat-and-mouse trick, sepa- rated by hour intervals. Then the six catmen, their nature satisfied, took hold of Lane’s ship in a cluster of snatcher beams. Lane heard the plates give as the fields-of-foctw closed down. He closed his eyes, breathed a short prayer, and waited. Stellor Downing called Thomp- son. “Back to One,” he said. “Giving up?” “Can you think of anything to do?” “No.” t “Well, let's get back where we can plan.” Thompson assented. It was re- luctant, however, and a day later, when they landed on One at their camp, he faced Downing. “Sort of solves your problem, doesn’t it?” “Look,” snapped Stellor Down- ing. ‘Tve got a few feelings and a number of nerves. Lane and I were not deeply in love with one another. Yes, it solves a lot of problems, Thompson, but don’t taunt me about it, or I’ll take a modine to your throat, see?” “We might have tried again,” in- sisted Thompson. “We might have tried for a month. We couldn’t even touch them. If you’re intimating that I gave up quick — ?”

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“You weren’t leaning over back- wards.” ‘Quoting an old, famous fable, ‘sometimes it is better to fall fiat on your face.’ ” “Meaning ?” “We’ve got whole skins. They were after captives, not meat. They wanted the same thing we do but they got 'em first.” “So?” “So we take whatever wave anal- ysis we have and try to figure ’em out. If we can reproduce any of that stuff, we’ll go back.” “Hm-m-m.” “Look, Thompson, as far as this job is concerned, your job of keep- ing Lane and myself out of one another’s hair is over. One head of hair is gone, see.” “And what do you intend to do about it?” “I intend to carry, on. Now for- get about the fact that a personal grudge of mine has been taken out of my hands and let’s get on to working out some means of fighting back. Lane is gone. I’m trying not to gloat. But you’re not helping. So stop it.” Toralen Ki shook his head in a worried manner. “One is gone.” “A substitute?” “I fear that any substitute may not be as good.” “Nonsense, Toralen. Were there a better man than either, we’d have selected him; if either had not ex- isted, a lesser man would have suf- ficed.” “The right kind is so very few,” complained Toralen Ki. 32 "We can find one. We will have to return to their planet to do so, and it will be harder for us — but it can be done. No good general has only one plan of battle.” “But so much depends — Ah well, despair is the product of the inferior intellect. We will, we must carry on.” Hotang Lu opened his large case. “I will contact our superiors im- mediately and ask their advice.” “Yes,” nodded Toralen Ki. “Also ask them if they have the answer to the less-sensitive detector, yet.” Hotang turned the communicator on and waited for it to warm up. Ilis hand dropped into the case and came up with another small instru- ment of extreme complexity. “Once the suppressor is de- stroyed,” he said with a smile of contemplation, “we can use this on them.” “And that means success !” breathed Toralen Ki. “From that time on, our plans — ” “Wait, the communicator is op- erating,” said Hotang Lu, waving a hand. He reached for the com- municator's controls and started to talk swiftly, pressing his head against the plate above the voice- transmitter. Flight Commander Thompson handed Downing a sheaf of papers. “There’s the wave analysis,” he said with pride. Downing looked them over. “You’ve go’t the technical crew. Can we reproduce all or any of it?” “Only by tearing down a couple of modine directors. The boys can ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION i

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convert the spotting, training, and ranging circuits — they’ll use the components — and rebuild the thing to generate barriers. The snatcher is easy. We’ll just juggle the main modulating system of a tractor gen- erator. That comes out so simple I feel slightly sick at not having thought of it myself.” “What is its analysis?” asked Downing. “Couple a force beam with a tractor focus-zone generator. The tractor, you know, operates on the field of focus principle. A rough sphere at the end of the beam — any- thing in that field is drawn. The snatcher merely applies the field-of- focus idea to the side-thrust of a force beam. You raise the power several times and anchor it with a superdrive tube coupled so that the thrust is balanced against a spa- tial thrust instead of the ship. That tears the guts out of anything.” “I have an idea that you might be able to cut instead of tear if 5-011 include some nuclear-resonant fre- quencies in the field of focus gen- erator.” “Is it necessary?” “Might be interesting,” said Downing. “They tear. If we land on them with something that quick- ly, precisely, quietly, and almost painlessly slices a sphere out of one of their ships, they may be im- pressed.” “You have something there. I’m going to tear into some of the planet- mounted jobs. We are now sixty- three ships. I can make one snatch- er out of every dymodine that’s planet-mounted out here. Shall I?” PATTERN FOR CONQUEST “How long?” “Ten hours each.” “Six hundred and thirty hours. Twenty-six days and six hours.” “We’ll make it in twenty days. By the time the boys get to Num- ber Ten or Twelve they’ll be work- ing shortcut and on production-line basis and the piece-time will drop.” “Twenty days is long enough, be- lieve me. We'll toss in my gang and Lane’s gang, too. They can go to work on the modine directors and make barriers out of 'em if you claim they’ll work.” “They’ll work.” “Then let’s get going. The Little Guys are tearing their hair as it is.” Thompson nodded. “But look,” said Downing, “donV. rip up any dymodines ahead. Coo- vert slowly. If the catmen attack, we’ll need all we can muster to fight ’em off.” “Right.” “And as for Cliff Lane — he isn’t dead until we prove it, see? So far as I know, he might be getting an education in cat-culture right now.” Thompson looked at Downing for a long time, saying nothing. Then he turned and left, still without com- ment. Cliff Lane and his ship were herded down to the ground. His ship was surrounded by the six catmen, their beams pointed at him, waiting. For an hour they waited, using all the patience of the feline. It got on the nerves of the humans, and they wanted to do something. Their trouble was that they didn’t quite know what to do, S8

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Cliff, after the full hour had ticked off, said: “I’m thinking of the cat that got a neuropsychosis over mice because one came out of the hole and kicked him in the face.” “Think it’s wise ?” “Never was very fond of cats,” admitted Lane glumly. “I find them even more obnoxious when I see them employing intelligence. That makes it worse — ” “But just going out — ?” “D’ye want to sit here for months ?” “Think they would?” “Probably. At least, long enough to have us tearing out each other’s hair.” “But — ” “But nothing. Have we got the planet-analysis yet?” The aide pawed through the de- livery basket on Lane’s desk and came up with a sheet of paper. He read : “Pressure sixteen point three. Temperature eight-one, humidity thirty-seven. Air: Oxy twenty-one, nitrogen all the rest — with a trace of course, of COz. Pollen count not too bad, bacteria count about nor- mal, but the spore count is zero.” “No spores?” “Nope.” “Gosh,” smiled Lane. “Imagine a world where they can’t smother a steak with mushrooms!” "So what are you going to do?” “Me? I’m going out there and tell ’em what they’re missing. Im- agine— no mushrooms!” “I’m just thinking of what a nice world this would be to do tropical research. I’ve even seen fungus growing on steel.” 34 “No, you haven’t. Bakelite I’ll buy, but when the stuff grows on steel it is growing on the dust that has collected. Well, tell the boys in the back room to cover me as I emerge.” Lane un dogged the spacelock and the rams pulled it back out of the frame. Riding on the front of the automatic runway, Lane stood in an indolent attitude, the thumb of his right hand hooked over the belt just one-half inch from the butt of his modine. His other hand held a cigarette. As the runway hit the ground, Lane took a last puff of the cig- arette, stepped to the ground and dropped the glowing butt. He crushed it with his heel, and then took five forward steps, looking about himself with open curiosity. The catman ship directly in front of him opened its spacelock and one of the catmen emerged. Lane walked forward boldly to inspect this alien creature. He acted as though he were not a prisoner, but a visitor — and it was probably that attitude that saved him from further cat-and-mouse, for the cat- man seemed unsure of the next move. The catman was more man than cat, just as the human — in the cat- man’s nomenclature an apeman — the human was more man than ape. He stood erect. His legs were long and excellently muscled. His shoul- ders were broad and sloping, and his arms were well rounded. The temperature was high — to Lane’s liking, being Venusite — and the scanty uniform of the catman ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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matched the shorts, high-laced boots, shoulder straps and cape of the Solarian. The Catalan's hands were long and spatulate, and the fingernails were as broad as Cliff’s. The retractile claws were gone — de- leted in a hundred thousand years of evolution. Gone were the fur and the tail and the slitted eyes, and all of the other basic cat-characteristics. The whiskers were gone also, and the ears were no longer mobile, but on each side of the head just as the human’s. They were still pointed on top and resembled, or at least re- minded Cliff of a cat’s ears modified in human mold. Catman ? Well, there was something dis- tinctly feline about the creature, humanoid though he seemed. He was lithe, and instead of walking forward, he prowled. There was a quick alertness — not visible, but felt — to the Catalan's every move. Yes, this creature was definitely of feline evolution. And Cliff Lane walked forward boldly. He smiled inwardly, gain- ing confidence from the fact that he was still alive and unharmed. Prisoner he mtght be, but he was no humble prisoner. He was proud and haughty, and he was not taking any guff. He strode forward to hasten the first meeting between Primate and Feline on the common ground of civilization. VI. The Catalan's steps faltered. This alien, that had come from some dis- tant star, was definitely primate in evolution. He knew primates — they had primates on Sscantoo, here — and primates were nasty animals. They were filled with curiosity — mass curiosity — that had been the basis for a platitude on Sscantoo: “Curiosity saved a mansee.” When you killed or wounded a primate, the woods would fill up with curi- ous, chattering hordes of his fellow- primates. It made life rather dan- gerous unless you were prepared to fight your way out. And this curious fellow was none the less a primate in spite of the fact that his face bore the stamp of civilization and he wore clothing. He was curious — even more curious than one of the Sscantovian apes. He walked forward boldly in spite of the fact that he was a prisoner and must know that fact. The catman wondered how bold the primate would have been if his ship had landed of its own free will — or had landed despite the objections of his six ships. If he were bold now, a prisoner, he would be downright arrogant as a victorious captor. Linzete, the catman, stopped. He didn’t like primates, and the idea of confronting a primate armed with intelligence as well as the nat- ural instincts of the apeman both- ered him. At Linzete’s commandatory mo- tion, Cliff Lane stopped. But not until he’d taken a full step beyond the catman’s command just to show him. Twenty paces apart they stood, eying one another. PATTERN FOR CONQUEST AST— 2A 35

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Giff smiled. Linzete’s eyes glittered. Cliff shrugged. This was getting nowhere. Linzete took a step forward, and Cliff stepped forward two steps. Linzete seemed pleased. This primate, he thought, is no larger nor does he seem stronger than I. I do not believe that he is as quick. “A move out of you ” thought Lane, “and I'll clip you! ” Linzete stooped and picked up a pebble from the ground. He put it on top of another pebble, and then stepped back and to one side by fifty paces. He waved Cliff a waiting motion, and then with a lightning motion Linzete drew his side arm and fired. The sharp crack of electrical dis- charge split the air. A dazzling pencil of energy spat forth and the pebble disappeared in a blinding coruscation. Lane laughed. Linzete scowled. That sound was very much like the chanting and c&chinnation that went on among the primates when they were amused. Cliff Lane stooped, picked up a pebble and threw it high above Lin- zete’s head. The modine came from Cliff’s holster, poised for an instant while it spat energy, and then was thrust back home again. The mo- tion was a flowing swift thing of muscle and timing, and the end-re- sult was the explosion of the pebble in midair. The flash and the explosive report of tortured air and matter caused Linzete to blink. When his eyes s« opened again, the primate’s weapon was holstered. Linzete’s breath came out in a sharp hiss. Lane shrugged and remembered the hiss of an annoyed cat. Sound in the air caused both of them to look up. A small ship was circling the open spot, and it landed not far from Cliff. Clad in spot- less white — spotless and seamless white — from toe to fingertip, and an inverted bowl of clear glass or plastic, the catman emerged from his open craft and came forward. On his back was a small tank and valves for air, obviously. Cliff puzzled for only a moment. The white-clad one lifted a square case from the plane and, coming for- ward boldly, snapped down a port- able set of legs and opened the door in front of Cliff. From the cabinet he took slides of glass. He took Cliff’s hand be- tween his gloved fingers and pressed the human’s fingers to the slide. He caught the human’s breath on an- other slide. He made a convulsive motion with his face, and Cliff smiled and coughed on another slide. From the cabinet he took a scalpel and with a deft motion — and before Cliff could act — the doctor took a neat slice out of the small finger of Cliff’s left hand. He doused the cut immediately; the substance re- moved the pain, at any rate. He took a sample of Cliff's blood, scraped the skin of Cliff’s forearm, and clipped off eight or nine of Cliff’s crisp black hairs. Then he closed the cabinet and ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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sealed it, From the plane he took a Cliff Lane’s ship on the outside, and large spray, and setting it up turning the spray into the spacelock aground, the doctor proceeded to and liberally drenching the runway stand, turn, and generally bathe in and entrance of the Solarian vessel, the atomizer output. He sprayed Cliff nodded understanding! v. the outside of the cabinet with it. He didn’t even object to being and then proceeded to work the sprayed himself, for the stuff was ground and air over, spraying in aromatic though a bit sticky when ail directions, including the other it started to dry. catnian, Linzete. The doctor fin- The doctor took off. isb.ed his proceedings by spraying “Wonder what he’ll find,” mused 8T PATTERN FOB CONQUEST

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Cliff. And then a large white craft landed. It was completely inclosed, !*nd the driver's compartment was set off from the rest. “The paddy-wagon,” grinned Cliff. Clad as the doctor had been, four catmen came from the craft bearing sprays. One of them ap- proached Cliff and motioned for him to follow. Cliff nodded, but turned and called back: “Let ’em sterilize to their heart’s content, fellows. After all, we want their co-operation!” He entered the large ship as the other three catmen entered the spacelock of Lane’s ship and went to work. Within fifteen minutes, Cliff Lane was residing in a sterile, spotlessly white room. The windows were sealed and the door was air-tight. A portable „ atmosphere-cleaner ; purred in one corner, freshening the air and cooling it. From a speaker in the wall there came music — of a sort — and through a double window in the wall Lane and the catmen indulged in mutual inspection. A large block of paper hung on an easel, and a heavy black crayon lay in the tray. Cliff nodded. Heavy black crayon so that his sketchings could be seen from the distance. He smiled, scowled at the music, and then started to sketch. The Little People had not been able to convey the reasons for their desires to the humans, but human and catmen were not possessed of any form of telepathy to augment > their communications. Cliff was a fair cartoonist, and he progressed well. at The catmen began to understand. The days sped past, marked only by the clock and the chiming of watch-change bells. Dymodines re- turned from their mountings on the living rock of the innermost planet, they entered the ships of the com- bined commands, and were convert- ed, one by one. The machine shops in the bellies of the ships hummed and racketed, and the stockroom stores went down. The scrap pile outside on the airless face of One grew as the dymodines were con- verted ; parts of no use were tossed out. The catmen did not molest them. Not once during the twenty days of labor was there any report, or any sight of the catmen. If the catmen were using scanners on them, the catman scanner used fre- quencies never tried by humans, for the detectors gave the spectrum a clear ticket. Yet the strain was there, and the men worked furiously to convert the dymodines to snatchers, because they knew that until they were fin- ished, they were a group of sitting ducks. Dymodines had been blocked by the catmen — and that left them unarmed. Then on the twentieth day, Stel- lor Downing gave the order to lift and head for the fourth planet. In a close formation, the sixty- three ships arrowed into the sky, hit superdrive, and headed away from the sun. They arrived above Four and be- gan to look for trouble. They cir- cled the planet twice, took a few ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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tentative stabs at the ground with their improved snatchers, and gen- erally let it be known that they were there and seeking either their fel- low or knowledge of his where- abouts. The recognition detectors flashed Lane’s trace, and they put direction- finding equipment into gear. They circled above the field upon which lay Cliff Lane’s craft. There was no sign of human life there. The spacelock was closed, and it could not be known whether from the inside or from the out- side. Signals gained no answering flash, but the complete confidence with which they circled this field did get them an answer of sorts. Beams flashed up, and spattered against the barriers of the flight. A pair of extra heavy battlecraft leaped out of underground slides and drove up into Downing’s flight. The heavy beams lashed about, and four of Downing’s ships folded over their torn midsections. Then Down- ing’s ship answered fire. It was not spectacular. The sphere of energy was not visible, nor was it heterodyned. It closed upon the midsection of the heavy battlecraft. It cut, quietly and with lightning swift precision. It moved, swinging on a force beam and tak- ing with it a sphere of the battle- craft’s middle — a- perfect sphere, mirror-finished on the plates, gird- ers. and equipment that met the sur- face. The energy ceased and the perfect sphere dropped toward the planet. Smoke poured from the gaping hole, and the battlecraft buckled, folded, and exploded like a bomb. Bits of broken ship spread far and wide, and the main mass fell back upon the spaceport. It lay there, inert, smoke trick- ling from its shapelessness. It was a blackened monument to two hundred thousand years of civ- ilization. The other battlecraft sped on through the flight unscathed. It looped high in the space above Downing’s flight and crossed around, looped away and came back on the level against Thompson’s group. It drove in through the flight, lashing sidewise at Thomp- son’s ships. And four of them reached out and sliced four large spheres from the battlecraft. Shredded, the ship died in the air. It disintegrated, and it rained metal parts for fifty square miles — a rain of smoking, shapeless masses of deadly steel. “More?” snapped Stellor Down- ing. Blatantly, the flight landed on the field, covered the other ships, and then waited for a move. As Down- ing said, “It’s their move this time !” The white ship landed in their midst. From it came Lane and his crew. The crew entered their ship, but Lane remained, waiting for Downing. In the crook of his arm he held a small, white-furred crea- ture. and he stroked it gently with his free hand. “Just lucky.” grunted Downing. “You talk big.” retorted Lane. “But stay back, Downing. You’re contaminated.” PATTERN FOR CONQUEST

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“Meaning ?” "You’re alive with deadly bugs/' "Nuts. So are you.” "No I’m not. I’ve been sterilized within an inch of my life. Look,” he said, holding up the Sscantovian equivalent of a guinea pig. "Cute — but so what?” “I’ve got the catmen scared of all Solarians — and from here on in, I’d hate to be any race that bucks us. Take hold of this animal, just for a moment.” Stellor Downing put his hand on the creature’s back. He held it for a moment and then let go. Lane put the little animal on the ground and stood back. "Well?” "Wait a minute, will you? Even potassium cyanide takes time to kill—” The little creature was running around, sniffing the ground and ob- viously looking for food. For three minutes it searched quietly, and then with a plaintive mew, it sat on its haunches and scratched its back. The plaintive cry became louder — and tufts of hair came from the back where the hind paw was scratching. The creature scratched furiously — and succeeded in de-hairing its back, in the shape of Stellor Down- ing* s hand! "What in — ?” "Wait.” Downing looked at his hand in a sort of horror. The scratching increased, and bits of skin followed the pattern of the bare patch. The plaintive cry be- came strident in a tiny voice. The little animal stopped scratching, turned over on its back and wrig- gled in the dirt of the spaceport. It wrenched itself back and forth sharply, and with squeals of pain. Its four feet opened and closed against its stomach, and the whites of its eyes gleamed. A black patch appeared on the pink of the abdomen, and the paws scratched at the spot. It grew, and the pig cried continuously. Cliff Lane took out his modine and blasted the suffering pig with a shake of his head. Both he and Downing were a lit- tle sick. "What—?” "Fungus. As I gather it, the Solar sector of the Galaxy is alive with a violent evolution of fungus. We live in it, we breathe it, and we — eat it. They cringed in horror at what they found on the micro- scope slides, and this is the fourth pig I’ve killed. But I’m completely fungicided now, and I can handle ’em. But you see. Downing, you are alive with fungus spores looking for a place to live. They can’t live on you, but what few that do escape the bactericidal action of the skin find it quite easy to go to work on an animal that has never been re- quired to strive for life against fungi.” "Are the whole race like this ?” "No. Not entirely. But they haven’t our strength against such — not by a jugful. They’re right on the edge of the Solar sector, as I get it. They have some fungi, but it’s nothing like the stuff we have on Terra. I think that Sol may be the ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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center — the evolution may well have started there, mutated there, and anything that grows elsewhere may be spore-born on the Arrhenius The- ory to the rest of the Galaxy. Brother, we’re tough !” “Well, what have we accom- plished besides killing guinea pigs, discovering a set of new weapons, and blasting the guts out of a couple of their best craft?” Lane smiled. “I’ve succeeded in carrying over to them the problem of why we’re here. They do not understand any more than we do, but they’re willing to let us seek out the machine.” “What about blasting their ships ?” “Won’t bother them too much. They’ll rather enjoy the develop- ment of the slicing cut — after all their human appearance, they’re still cats. They like to fight silently, and slash quietly, and then to slink away in the night. They’re strictly predators, and their evaluation of life is rather low.” “So?” “You may have to prove your prowess with a bit of fighting, Downing. Personal. I mean.” “Wei!—” “And you may not. You’ve al- ways accused me of being brash, bold, and impulsive. All three of 'em got me across to this gang. I’ve always accused you of being quiet, shy, and coldly-calculating. They’ll like those features, too.” Three white-clad doctors sur- rounded Downing with their sprays. “That stuff they have is better than the glook they sprayed me with,” remarked Lane. “But it doesn’t smell as good and it is in- clined to sting a bit. They devel- oped it after making me live in a glass-inclosed laboratory for about two weeks.” Downing submitted to the spray with scratching and shrugging. “Tell me,” he clipped, “how’re the women ?” “Cats,” grinned Lane. Downing grunted. “Sounds like ‘sour grapes’ to me.” “Frankly, they ain’t bad, Down- ing. But a guy can’t do much when he’s living in a laboratory.” Downing laughed. “People who live in glass houses shouldn't.” “Shouldn’t what?” “Shouldn’t — period !” “Well, I intend to return after we get this thing off of our chests. This gang is not human. They aren’t the kind you could trust, but they are interesting. It is really something to see their civilization— and to see just how catlike they behave. They never laugh. Their exhibition of amusement is a deep- throated purr. And when one of ’em gets his feet stepped on, he hisses like a couple of cats squaring off on the back fence.” Thompson came up, followed by the spraying doctors. “This is all very fine,” he said. “But we’ve wasted a lot of time. The Little Men are getting quite nervous.” Downing looked at Lane. “I*m sort of glad you turned up,” he said flatly. “Especially with per- mission to hunt that thing.” PATTERN FOB CONQUEST 41

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Lane smiled bitterly. “If I hadn't turned up, Downing, you’d have spent the next fifteen years combing this system for confirma- tion, wouldn’t you?” “Naturally. Now let’s find that machine. I’ve got a little project of rivet-clipping ahead.” Thompson intervened. “Seems to me that you’ve both accomplished plenty. Lane here gained the con- fidence of the catmen and Downing has the fleet equipped with heavy stuff.” “Who?” asked Lane. “I have a hunch that it was your doing, Billy.” “And any confidence-getting he did was strictly fear of our natural environment coming here,” re- turned Stellor Downing. “All right, break it up.” “We’re all to return here as soon as we get the machine destroyed,” said Lane. “They want to know what the answer is, just as we do. I have a hunch that finding the ma- chine itself will tell us plenty.” VII. Toralen Ki turned from the com- municator. “Hotang,” he called. “They have the answer!” “Good. Then our time has not been wasted ! For now we have the other one back.” “The technicians on Tlembo have just given me full and complete in- structions on how to lower the sen- sitivity of the detector to a proper level.” “Not shielding?” asked Hotang Lu skeptically. 42 Toralen Ki laughed. “What man- ner of shielding would stop the suppressor wave? Nothing, I know. Absolutely nothing can deflect or stop it.” Toralen opened the detector case and started to fumble inside. He was not deft, and the tools from the equipment case did not fit his hand. But in an hour he had made the changes suggested by the tech- nicians on Tlembo— but aided finally by one of Thompson’s crew of technicians who went to work on the thing with dexterity but complete ignorance of its principles of operation. Then with the one detector in operation, in Thompson’s ship, the flight took off and began to take the last measures necessary to the completion of their task. Hour after hour they went, out into the space beyond the last planet of the catmen, and out and out, running slowly so that they would neither collide with the machine nor overrun it. It was a matter of days. “Dead ahead,” said Thompson on the communicator. “Target?” asked Lane. “Meteor, it looks like.” “Might he camouflage,” suggested Downing. “Remember if it must be destroyed, it is a sign that those who made it knew that it would be against the wishes of somebody “Did either of you think that it might be a good thing?” “You mean the machine might be benign ?” “Yes,” answered Thompson. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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“That’s why you are going to analyze it before we destroy it/' said Lane. “Yes?" “If we destroy it and discover it is benign, then we can reproduce it. Follow ?’* “Excellent idea," said Thompson. “Kennebec thought of that?" “Kennebec is a smart man," said Lane. “He wanted the stuff in the Little Man’s ship — stuff none of us can understand yet. He agreed to come out here and blast the machine. But he considered it likely that the Little Man was making a cat’s-paw out of the human race and he wanted to repair any damage done as soon as we found out we’d made a mistake." “Did you ever think that the in- terval between destroying this and getting the reproduction in working order might be just time enough?" demanded Thompson. “Yup. I’ve figured all of that. But I’m following orders, Billy. I’m going to wreck that thing as soon as you tell me you can repro- duce it.” Downing interrupted. “You’re going to do it? I am." “Want to bet?" snapped Lane. “Cut it," said Thompson. “Make you a deal," said Lane, ignoring Thompson. “Go on." “I order you to stop it," snapped Thompson. “Go fly a kite,” growled Lane. “Look, Downing, I’ll fight you for the privilege of destroying that ma- chine.” PATTERN FOR CONQUEST “Deal. How?” “When Billy has his pictures and data, we’ll take off in our fleeters. The idea will be to see who can blast the thing first — no holds barred, right?" “It’s one way of finding out who’s the best flier," agreed Downing. Toralen Ki looked up at Thomp- son. Billy smiled. He made mo- tions, conveyed the idea to the Little Man that Downing and Lane were going out to destroy the machine personally. Toralen Ki fumbled for the meaning and then understood. He agreed vigorously, nodding and smiling. “The Little Man here says to go ahead," Thompson said, into the communicator. “I’m supposed to be a buffer until this mission is com- plete— it will be complete when that machine is blasted. Everybody knows that you fellows are going to go rivet-cutting sooner or later — might as well have something to do it over." “Thanks," sard Downing dryly. “And the guy that loses makes a public announcement of his inferi- ority, see?” “I’ll be listening to you," came Lane’s taunting laugh. “What you’ll be hearing is my acceptance,” returned Downing. Thompson left them quibbling and took his crew over to the me- teor that carried the machine. It was a real meteor, a huge one al- most a half mile in jagged diameter. A well penetrated it, sealed by huge metal doors. They breached the 43

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doors and resealed them, once they were inside, to pressurize the cavern. Then they went to work on the huge machine. It was bizarre. It was unreal and unearthly. Atomic generators powered it silently, pouring torrents of high power into its apparently senseless circuits. Great silvery crystals twisted and distorted slowly under piezoelectric stress, and sput- tered-silver contacts carried off the impulses to other circuits. Solid metal bars carried some sort of circulatory impulse from place to place — they were reminiscent of wave-guide plumbing but no micro- wave set-up could function in a system like this. Then, slowly, the thing appeared to have pattern. Whatever it was, the output of the slowly-distorting crystals was fed in or out of phase through filters and transmission bars to the topmost crystal. It was multi-faceted and obviously not a natural formation. It scintillated and pulsed rapidly, and the facets gleamed against the lights as the crystal throbbed in tune with the feeding currents. “This,” said Thompson, “is going to be reproduced later if for no other reason than just sheer curi- osity. Whoever built it is a little ahead of our time and I want to get caught up. Benign or malig- nant, it must be remade and studied.” Then for hours, Thompson's technicians went over the machine with a fine-tooth comb. Pictures — tridimensional shots, moving pic- tures, microtime film, and hand 44 sketches. Technicians measured po- tentials, made pictures of wave shapes from the oscilloscope pat- terns, and drew endless schematic diagrams. Metallurgists took min- ute samples of the metals, of the dielectrics, of the crystals them- selves, cutting bits out with micro- scopic modine beams. Then, as they ran out of things to measure, Thompson took one last look at it. “O.K., fellows,” he said, “can you rebuild it?” “To the last decimal place.” “It’s alien,” warned Thompson. “It’s still made of metal and crystal.” “O.K.” He turned to Toralen Ki and made suggestive motions. He turned off the main feed line, and the atomics thrummed to a stop. Then he suggested that now it was off, why didn’t they just take it back to Terra and not bother re- producing it. Toralen Ki shook his head — No. He waved Thompson to come along, and they left the machine in the meteor forever. “I’m finished,” said Thompson, “but wait before you blast. The Little Man seems to want me to confer with him for a moment.” Thompson’s ship took off. Tora- len Ki emerged from his stateroom with the instrument. He planted it on a table, turned it on, and strapped the plate to his forehead. He offered the other one to Thomp- son. Thompson understood. He knew that the Little People had a means of mental communication that aug- mented their speech. He accepted ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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the plate and strapped 4t on his own head. “Now,” said Toralen Ki, “I may at last converse with you and your race.” “What is the machine?” asked Thompson. “The others — they arc all right ?” Thompson nodded. “They are destroying the machine. Tell me, what is it?” Toralen Ki nodded in agreement. “Tell them to destroy it and then to return, for I must speak with them through this, now that the machine is stopped and I may. But destroy it, for the Loard-vogh may have remote control and if they have, it may be started again at any moment.” “Before I blast any alien ma- chine,” said Thompson, “I must know what it is. You insist that it be destroyed. How do I know that the machine is not benign ?” “The machine,” explained Toralen Ki. “is a device which suppresses the mental activity of all races with- in its field of radiation. It was built by a ruthless and predatory race to hold down the overall galactic mentality. It must be destroyed, for even though it is not running, full and complete regaining of the mental strength will not be possible until the machine is destroyed be- cause a certain amount of residual power exists in the radiating crystal.” Thompson smiled, nodded, and went to the communicator. “O.K., fellows, have your fun. Blast it!” Two ships circled Thompson's PATTERN FOR CONQUEST craft — two tiny ships, both as fleet as a beam of light and as maneuver- able as thought. They circled one another, winding away from Thompson’s ship in a tight twin- corkscrew spiral. “Twenty thousand years ago — of your years — this race planned to conquer the Galaxy. They were an old race then, a mad race, with dreams of grandeur. Their num- bers were countless, for they were spreading through their own sec- tion of the Galaxy like a mobile gas. “They struck trouble, twenty thousand years ago. They hit a race that fought them — that almost succeeded in holding them to their line. Unfortunately, they were too numerous. They won. And then they decided that it would take many thousands of years of work to conquer the Galaxy. And in those years, younger, lustier races might evolve. Races that by sheer youth and strength might outstrip them. And so they made and sent forth horde upon horde of these suppressors. “Your race,” continued Toralen Ki, “has never been able to use its full mental power. That is because of the suppressor.' True, you are a long way from the suppressor, but its power is fearsome and its effect is lasting. It passed through your system thousands of years ago and it held sway over your mental ability to now. “Your race,” said Toralen Ki, “is best equipped to fight the Loard- vogh.” “I don’t feel any more intelligent 45

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than I did before,” objected Thomp- son. “No, because you have been un- der the influence of the suppressor for countless generations. It has become an inherited trait. It will remain an inherited trait until the mentality of the human race is ener- gized, or triggered by a rather powerful wave of mental energy. “The Loard-vogh will enslave the Galaxy if they are not stopped. Our original home was overrun three thousand years ago, and fourteen times they have caught up with us. Again, Tlembo is being attacked, or perhaps it has not started yet. Fourteen planets named Tlembo lie in our history, and fourteen times have we combed the Galaxy waiting and seeking a race with the proper mental power and technical ability. It would have been useless to ener- gize your minds a thousand years ago, Solarian, for you had not the technical skill to accept it. The shock would have made you all mad. You believe me of superior intellect and knowledge because I have been able to make this machine. I am acknowledged the highest intellect among the Tlembians. I intend to sacrifice my intellect for humanity. The energizing will destroy me.” The meter in Lane’s ship ' read forty. Forty miles per second. Dead ahead was the lacery of the star field, clustered around the tini- ness of black that was the meteor of the machine. Somewhere in the invisibility of space was Stellor Downing, coming this way. He knew, because his detector said so. This was not only a test of oper- ator's skill, but of technical superi- ority, too. Detectors were not cali- brated to the last foot of distance, and he who had the best capability in the art of tuning a detector knew better where the other man was at any time. But it was also necessary to judge your opponent’s error. For a single error would destroy both. Downing’s ship came. It was there and it was gone. Missed by a matter of feet. And yet not a bead of sweat came. Neither had given ground. Lane grinned inwardly as his ship slowed for the turn. Dead ahead was the sealed door to the machine. He touched the button on his drive-rod, and the dvmodine flared forth, bor- ASTOCN DING SCIENCE-FICTION

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ing down the shaft and driving great scintillating clouds of super- heated gases up from the bowels of the meteor. The machine was blasted. “You stinking opportunist/' snarled Downing. “Mad ?” “That was — ” “One step ahead of you.” “You haven’t won — ” “Only succeeded. Now we can fight this out for good. Really want to play, Stellor?" “I’ll run you right into that hole in the meteor," snarled Downing. The two tiny ships approached on a converging course. Collision course, it was, and somewhere far ahead there was the meteor again. Downing was on the spaceward side, and edging sidewise into Lane’s course. Lane was pinched between meteor and Downing; edging out- ward into Stellor’s course and cal- culated to miss the meteor by sev- eral yards — if he did not give. At fifty miles per second they rocketed forward, approaching one another, and telling each other what was going to happen next. The communicator in Thompson’s ship told the story. Thompson heard it, and Toralen Ki understood it from Thompson’s mind. “They — Stop them !” “I cannot," replied Thompson, with a smile. “You must. They are necessary to our plan." “Plan?" “I am going to give up my intel- lect. Lane and Downing arc emo- PATTBKN FOR CONQUEST tional and psychological opposites. In one great burst of mental energy, my intellect will be expended. The shock wave from my mind will energize their minds. Their intel- lects will merge, making them emo- tional twins and psychological equals, each with the double pow^r gained by joining with the other. They must willingly submit to this mental combining, for then the wave of energy from their minds in twin transfer will awaken every human in the Solar sector of the Galaxy." “You’re asking them to give up their identities." “I am. And they must.” “They will never do it.” “You are stalling for time. Order them to cease. If either of them is killed, our plan may fail com- pletely. Both of them are of the highest order of intellect — and of opposite psychology. That is neces- sary— order them to stop — imme- diately!” Thompson laughed. “I am willing to die for civiliza- tion. They should — " Toralen Ki looked at Thompson, and his eyes widened in wonder, fear, and finally horror. “You are under control — the Loard-vogh !” Thompson smiled affably. “The Terran known as Billy Thompson left this body when the machine was blasted," he said. “Previously I could but urge and draw him into agreement with me. And you, Toralen Ki, are also necessary to the plan.” Thompson’s one hundred and 47

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eighty pounds of fine body came forward. Thirty-seven- pounds* of Little Man shrank back in fear. Not fear of life — but fear for civiliza- tion. And as Thompson’s body reached for Toralen Ki, the radiation alarm blared. It registered; dymodines had been fired and simultaneous hits had been made. Toralen Ki’s free hand snapped the power of the telementor over full. Physical weakling though he was, he was aided mentally by the power in the mental transfer ma- chine. He invaded Thompson’s mind and fought the Loard-vogh intelligence that he found there. Waves of mental energy spewed forth, and Hotang Lu came run- ning to aid his friend. Stricken rigid, Thompson almost ceased to breathe; his heart faltered. For Toralen Ki and the alien Loard- vogh were using all of Billy Thomp- son’s mind against each otlher,- try- ing to drive the other out, calling upon more and more, even to the point of short-circuiting some of the voluntary sectors. It was battle, silent and fierce. And the waves of mental energy spread in a vast radiation pattern as Toralen Ki and the Loard-vogh fought for the possession of Billy Thompson’s mind and body. TO BE CONTINUED. IRON: RARE METAL. Iron produced by Westinghouse Research Laboratories during the war at the “mass production” rate of 1,000 pounds per year, was, to the metallurgical industries, as important as the Bureau of Standards time signals are to naviga- tion. Plain, ordinary iron — only actually “plain” iron, in the sense of pure iron, is rarer than diamonds, fine pearls, or pure gold. Iron has one of the most complex spectra known, and as a yardstick for spectrograph ic work is almost ideal, because it has many lines, closely scat- tered over the entire spectrum. Furthermore, because these lines are scattered, because iron is widely available, the lines have been measured with great accu- racy by many laboratories. They serve \s standard reference lines against which other lines can be measured, as an astronomer measures the position of a planet against the background of known stars. Iron, unfortunately, also has one of the most nastily complex chemistries known. It’s gregarious, and brings all its friends along when it goes through a chemical process. It’s exceedingly difficult to get iron free of impurities— but exceedingly useful if it is. “Four-nines” iron — 99.99% pure — was produced by electrolysis of most specially purified iron salts, under super-special conditions. The final product of this contained some carbon and oxygen; these were largely eliminated by very nearly boiling the iron in an atmosphere of highly purified hydrogen, using electronic heating that could introduce no impurities. 48 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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The Ethical Equations were a curious sort of business. For instance, the only ethical thing to do might turn out to be insubordination! The development of the space- constant adapter is one of those things that lias somehow had very little publicity. The Space Patrol Board was cagey when it happened, though, and with reason. It was shortly after a space-battleship of an alien race had been made avail- Adapter by MURRAY LEINSTER Illustrated fay Williams able for examination by the Patrol, with surprising consequences. (Cf. “THE ETHICAL EQUA- TIONS," Astounding, June, 1945.) and the Ethical Equations had been elevated from abstract theory to somewhat suspicious validity. You know the general idea of the Equa- tions, of course. Basically, they are a logically valid association of ethics with probability, and prove that favorable coincidences tend to follow actions of a certain pattern, and unfavorable coincidences follow those of other patterns. They are a mathematical demonstration of the soundness of the old adage, “Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever.” The Patrol had had ADAPTER 49

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the utility of the Golden Rule rammed down its throat — fortun- ately, through its practice by Jimmy Holmes, Lieutenant, Junior Grade, of the Patrol itself. It didn’t serve to make Jimmy popular with the High Brass. However, for some time after, the Patrol was in what could best be described as a dither, which tapered off into no worse than a tizzy on the one hand, but rose to incoherence on the other. The Engineer Section ran around in circles, emitting subdued yelps of joy at the new gadgets it was get- ting, adapting, and adopting from the alien ship, and the others it suspected it would presently achieve. The staff was upset, but already some of the younger am- bitious officers were boning up on the Equations and debating the ef- fect of a halo of righteousness on their future careers. The more eminent, elderly members of staff were planning a commission for the Study of Policy On Contact with Nonhuman Cultures and trying to shove each other into innocuous desuetude on it. Only Jimmy was really happy. He’d been taken from his assign- ment on the Luna radio-location station and was officially second- in-command of TCC 107 — TCC means Traffic Control Craft — and there were eight men in the crew. And on a certain happy day his skipper, two whole years his senior, went off to Niagara Falls on a thirty-day honeymoon leave, and Jimmy was left in full command. And the stage was set. 60 Gatuna is one of the smaller asteroids, and in fact there are only two smaller ones which have the dignity of names. It had been sighted from the liner Gatuna on the Earth -Mars run, out in one of the spaces where there normally aren’t any stray chunks of matter rolling around. The skipper of the Gatuna took telephotos and a scan- ner-beam analysis, piously named it after his ship, and duly reported and forgot it. Its orbit was fol- lowed by the Luna radio-location station after its establishment, but it had seemed fated to become just another of the seven thousand-odd celestial objects which it is easier to observe mechanically than to keep track of by computation. Then, years later, on the third day of his unqualified command of TCC 107, Jimmy Holmes was given a batch of assorted supplies and told to hustle out to Gatuna with them. There was, it appeared, an experiment party of the Engineering Section out there doing something or other, and they needed this stuff at once. A small space can like Jimmy’s was the obvious messenger. Eight days later Gatuna turned up in his vision screens, all rugged and irregular and with a wide belt of those ropey masses of frozen rock which have been found on at least a third of all the surveyed asteroids, and which nobody has ever explained satisfactorily. The traffic buzzer hummed stridently in the tiny control cockpit. Jimmy grunted, and turned it down. A traffic buzzer works on static fields, and it will report any drive tube ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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or normal motor within its range, unless both machines are grounded. Jimmy took over from his quar- termaster, started to make a loop around the asteroid, and spotted the Massen hut of a work party a quar- ter-way around. He killed forward momentum, dived with a nice ap- preciation of what his little ship would do, and brought up all stand- ing just five yards from the hut. The fluorescent symbol of the Engi- neer Section glowed from the wall. "E-vacuate cargo compartment,” said Jimmy, in the sing-song of small space-can tradition. “Top men on watch to wrangle outside.” The ground, here, was solid nickel iron, and the magnetic grapples held the TCC firmly. Jimmy climbed into his spacesuit. He was outside in seconds. Tight- fit locks — which are practically molds of standard service space- suits and fit so closely over them that no air space is left — are fast, because they don’t have to be pumped. The loss of air is negli- gible. His two men followed him out. The little cargo hatch dropped open and the three of them hauled at the cables and marched to the Massen hut with a trail of bulky objects floating behind them. Gravity was practically zero, but magnetic soles made walking possible. There was another suit lock in the hut. Jimmy went in. The in- side was warm and brightly lighted. He opened his face plate and said politely : "Reporting with supplies, sir.” There was no answer. But after a moment there were gobbling noises from a loud-speaker. They were ungodly noises. Unearthly noises. Unhuman noises. Then the same loud-speaker said : “What is that? Who said ‘ report- ing with supplies’ and what is that other stuff?” Another voice came out of the speaker, rather wearily: “It sounded to me rather like a turkey- gobbler ivith the hiccups. But it doesn’t seem probable, out here.” The gobbling came again. It had no vowel sounds and no consonants, but it varied startlingly in pitch between gobbles, and the gobbles themselves varied in duration. They stopped short. “Lieutenant Holmes, Junior Grade, reporting with supplies,” said Jimmy distinctly. “I wouldn’t know about the gobbling, sir. I’m In the Massen hut, and I heard it on the speaker.” The loud-speaker said relievedly: “Oh — We'll be there in a couple of minutes, lieutenant. Pile up the stuff and we’ll sort it out. Tie it to something, by the way. There’s no gravity.” “So I — ” began Jimmy. But the gobbling began again — and then was abruptly cut off in mid-gobble. He closed his face plate and went out through the suit lock again. He waited, and as he did so regarded the TCC io? with enormous pride. She was rather small and distinctly rotund, but she bore honorable scars. The space cans which do the dirty work of the Patrol are never quite in perfect repair. It is a tradition 01 ADAPTER

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or the Service that they should be somewhat battered and somewhat grubby. But she was Jimmy’s first if temporary command. He was vastly proud. Five minutes later he saw three spacesuited figures. Reaction pistols guided and propelled them in flight. They landed and their magnetic soles made contact. They stood erect, seemed to stare at Jimmy, and then motioned toward the lock. Again he went through in seconds. . You simply step into the mold, put your space boots in stirrups, and lean back into one half of it. The other half closes upon you and opens almost instantly, and you're through. Jimmy stepped out to hear the speaker: “He had his phone turned off. Is that space-can tradition f” Jimmy flushed, and another voice said: “Shut up.,! The suit lock heaved and a space- suit came in. The lock made sough- ing noises and heaved once more. A second spacesuit. Then the third. Their helmets came off. The leader nodded. “Hello. Glad you came. Is the invoice complete, or did we have some items disallowed?” Jimmy handed over the invoice. He held himself stiffly at attention. The Engineer Section is highly in- formal among its own members, but very stiff-necked with the rest of the Patrol, and these were senior officers. “For once, everything we asked !” said the leader. “M3' name is Fallon, 52 by the way, lieutenant. Commander Fallon. What did you make of that gobbling ?” Jimmy shook his head. One of the others — Jimmy knew him later as Lieutenant commander Bliss — said hopefully : “Lieutenant Holmes, did }'ou notice anything at all odd about the . . . all . . . aspect of this place as you came up to it?” “No, sir,” said Jimmy. “We’d almost enough power,” said Bliss woefully. “Something should have showed ! IE that extra generator doesn’t step us up to the critical point, we might as well go home and twiddle our thumbs !” The third man said meditatively : “Er , . . lieutenant, you don’t by any chance fancy )'ourself as an imitator of barnyard fowl, do you?” “No, sir,” said Jimmy stiffly. “The gobbling noise was outside, sir. It cut off just as you said you’d be back shortly.” “So it did — ” Then Bliss said startledly. “It cut off as I threw the switch of the adapter !” The three of them looked at each other. They grinned. They solemnly shook hands. Jimmy stood at attention, but Fallon said 'ex- uberantly : “Rest, lieutenant. This is beau- tiful! Who’s going to go back and turn it on again!” Carter, the third man, put back his helmet and went to the suit lock. Fallon began to wriggle out of his spacesuit, beaming. Bliss slipped out of his like an eel. “Tell your men to go back on ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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board and wait, lieutenant. The supplies can wait until we see about this." Jimmy, blushing privately, turned the stud of his helmet phone and gave the order to his men outside the hut. It was acknowledged. Just then the speaker said in Carter’s voice : “Landing now.” Bliss explained offhandedly: “We’re out here, lieutenant, to try a trick Carter dreamed up. The visitor — the spaceship that came from nowhere — had some weird gadgets that used principles we thought could be differently applied. We’re trying a new application of one of them. In theory it should change some of the constants of space. Mass does that, of course. Magnetism ditto, and even electro- static stress. But we’ve been look- ing for rather more marked effects. Apparently we hadn’t enough power and we asked for a step-up gener- ator, but that gobbling, now — ” “Landed and ready ” said Carter’s voice. “Go ahead,’’ said Fallon. “It’s on” said the speaker. Nothing happened. The speaker was silent. Then Jimmy said: “Nothing was coming out of the speaker when I entered, sir." “Mm-m-m,” said Fallon. “I was last man out, before, and I’d been talking to the others. I suppose I left it turned on. We’d tried what we thought was a hopeful hookup, but when nothing happened we were too disgusted for speech. So ...Ah!" 54 Gobblings broke in. They were different, now. There were two sep- arate gobblers in action at the same time. One went on almost con- tinuously, and another chimed in and cut out again. Then there was a pause and a third, much fainter, gobbled briefly. Carter's voice came out of the speaker : “One of those birds, besides hic- cups, had asthma. Satisfied?” Fallon grunted. “It ' comes only when the adapter’s on, anyhow. Come on back. You might as well turn it off again. We have to debate.” Bliss said softly: “Won’t Painted Jaguar be sur- prised ?" Fallon choked with laughter. Then he said to Jimmy : “This is an historic moment, lieu- tenant, so it should never be told about as it really happened. It would make for irreverence — and nicknames for admirals are frowned upon. Remember ! Now get out of your suit and join us. I think this rates a drink.” He opened a cupboard and brought out glasses. “We’ll wait for Carter. After all, he dreamed it up. But — think of it! Fleet Service picked up an alien spaceship and patched it up and sent it home again, but we’ve picked up aliens!" Jimmy’s eyes grew round. “You mean, sir — ” “It is beautifully obvious!" said Fallon zestfully. “We thought we’d change the constants of space, ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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and we thought if we changed them enough we might make a new space — a sort of miniature universe — around our space-constant adapter. So we picked out Gatuna in case of accident. But we hadn’t quite enough power, so we only tuned to a different space that already exists! Long radiation would be the first to fit the constants of two dissimilar spaces. Our space phones use it. When our adapter’s turned on, long radiation is common to two spaces — and the other space has things in it that gobble over long radiation! You see?” Jimmy swallowed. He looked en- viously at his senior officers. He would almost — almost — have liked to be one of them. But no junior grade fleet lieutenant, in even temporary command of the most battered of space cans, would really change his lot for anything else. Jimmy's wavering was only momen- tary. Fallon sent a space radio message to Base asking assignment of TCC107 to temporary duty on Gatuna. It was Jimmy’s idea, and he urged it yearningly. But he had good reasons. If not enough power on the adapter tuned long radiation to two spaces at once, then adequate power might tune electrons themselves, with their wave lengths down to .05 angstrom. And that would mean the physical transfer of matter from one space to an- other. But there was substance in the space the adapter was tuned to, because of the gobblings. And two things cannot occupy the same ADAPTER 6pace at the same time. Where- fore— The reasoning was good. So when the new generator was hooked up, the TCC107 took off. She went off four thousand miles and Fallon sent a space radio signal that actuated a relay on Gatuna. The asteroid seemed to flicker, faintly but visibly. He sent a second signal, and the asteroid winked out — ceased to be. For half a second, space was empty where it had been. Then it came back. The TCC107 dived back to the restored hunk of nickel iron and stone which was an extremely minor planet. Bliss went out over the adapter, to gather up the recorder placed there. Bliss went to ground — by reaction-pistol power — over the second, and Fallon over the third. Jimmy landed the space can by the Massen hut and was inside and pulling out photographs before the others came back. Gatuna was just over three miles long in one direction, and one mile in thickness, so that nobody could get very far away, however. He heard Fallon observe : “I’m just thinking that it was lucky we were dealing with space, and not with matter, or the power we had wouldn’t have had much effect.” Carter’s voice came, equally loud < and equally clear from the other end of Gatuna. " I’m going to cut out the last generator so we’ll hear if our little trick stirred up our feathered friends.” Bliss arrived, and came through M

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the suit lock. The recorder he’d picked up had to come in through the parcel lock, of course. Jimmy put the photographs in the fixer, and waited for them to come out. The speaker suddenly emitted bedlam. Hoots, gobbles, whistles, and every conceivable sort of or- ganized sound came out of it. They speeded up to what was practically a blur of sound. They slowed to a vast deliberation, each note sus- tained and loud. The noises, as noises, seemed to be trying to ac- complish something. Bliss turned down the volume. “It would seem,” he said, when he got his helmet off, “that we created some small stir.” Gatuna was literally millions upon millions of miles from any other object in the universe of which the Earth is a part. It was remote and isolated beyond imagin- ing. On its rent and twisted sur- face the sun shone coldly, hardly more than a bright star. Mars was on the other side of its orbit. Saturn was at nearly as great an angle. Jupiter was a flyspeck with a barely perceptible disk. There was nothing nearby. Nothing ! But a multitude of gobblings came out of the speaker. Carter came out of the suit lock, jerked off his helmet, and rubbed his ears. “Our fine feathered friends are throwing fits,” he said. “What do the pictures show ?” Jimmy unrolled the recorder pack and held the film strip up to the light. Fallon came in and instantly reached for it, his helmet still sealed. 5« He was looking as he wrenched it' off. He whistled. The other film packs came out and were spread out on the table. The four of them looked. There was silence in the Massen hut while the now-muted noises came out of the speaker. They were incredible, those gobbl- ings. They were unearthly. They were agitated. They were excited. And there is no word to describe their urgency. “There’s nothing in sight on the films,” said Fallon. “Nothing near- by, anyhow. There’s a sun, not too far away, and I suspect some of these star images are actually planets. But I should think it would be safe for us to stay on Gatuna while we turn the adapter on full-strength again. Agreed?” Jimmy sat at the control board of TCC107 while the extra gener- ator was again hooked in to the space-constant adapter. It was strictly a terrestrial device, that adapter. The alien spaceship from which its basic principle had been learned had had tractor and pressor beams. Those beams, necessarily, meant alteration in the local con- stants of space, just as a gravity field alters the qualities of space about its central mass, and as a magnet alters space about itself. Blit the basic principles of space- constant alteration had been in- volved in the design of a tractor- beam projector. The Visitors had designed the beams as weapons and apparently had not seen beyond their immediately practical possi- bilities. But the Engineering Sec- ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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tion of the Patrol wanted to under- stand them. They wanted to play with every potentiality the basic principles might contain. The ex- periment on Gatuna was a case in point. Nobody could possibly an- ticipate the result. Any prediction would be a guess. So three Engi- neering Section men had come out to try it, millions of miles from the nearest solid object and — in the cur- rent positions of the planets — not even near a traffic lane. The little ship’s space phone was turned on so that Jimmy could communicate with each of the three on the asteroid’s surface while they, of course, could talk freely with each other even in emptiness. The eight- man crew of Jimmy’s command was alerted and at action stations. But the ship remained grounded — anchored by her magnetic grapples. The distance to which the space- change effect would extend was not known. If the ship was needed, it could take off after the effect had shown up. Carter’s voice came through the speaker close by Jimmy’s ear. “All set, everybody ?” Fallon commanded : "Go ahead!” An instant’s pause. “ Here goes!” The generators took hold. There was no novel sensation at all. But the vision screen altered. Where the plate showed sky above Gatuna’s surface, new stars appealed in addi- tion to those already pictured. For an instant, they were dim. Then, as the generators’ power rose, from the first impedence-value, they grew brighter. They reached and sur- passed the familiar constellations. And suddenly the familiar stars dimmed and swiftly were extin- guished. There was an utterly new sky. Jimmy realized that the traffic buzzer by his ear was buzzing stridently. He swallowed. “It looks ” said Bliss’ voice calmly, “as if it worked.” Fallon’s voice, as loud as the rest : “ From where I am, it looks like a perfectly normal universe. Stars of the usual colors and apparently the regular spectral types. There’s one queer thing. A devilish blue- white dare just broke out. If it hadn’t happened so suddenly. I’d say it was a nova. It’s still daring and still expanding. It couldn’t be so far — ” “Nothing like that here,” said Carter. “I do see what must be a fairly nearby sun, and two or three things that may be planets. One may have an actual disk. I can’t be certain.” Jimmy said with a little difficulty : “The traffic buzzer is sounding. That means there’s a drive tube or motor working somewhere not too far away. It’s not on Gatuna, because the generators didn’t set it off. They’re grounded. It isn’t.’* Fallon snapped: “Direction?” “It would be nearly overhead at the adapter,” said Jimmy. He added carefully : “That would be in the general direction of the local sun.” ADAPTER 57

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Gobblings broke out again. One gobbler only, very deliberately spac- ing its notes. A pause. A long pause. Then frantic, frenzied noises, running the gamut of a dis- sonant scale. “The angle’s changing,” said Jimmy, dry-throated. “It's either very near or moving incredibly fast.” “It wouldn’t be where I see this dare?” demanded Fallon. “It sounds like our fine feathered over the little ship. Collision alarm. A moving body of appreciable size within fifty miles. “Collision alarm, sir,” said Jimmy formally. “Whatever it is, it’s ap- parently the thing that has a drive tube or motor.” “Not the dare, then,” said Fallon calmly. “ Eventful sort of place, this. I’m coming, lieutenant. Stand by. Carter, to cut ” Bliss said dryly : “I’ve got a ’scope on that dare.

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Fallon. 1 con see it from my post too. It isn't an explosion. Ifs luminescence. Rings of light spread- ing out and enlarging from a cen- tral point. They light up some sort of surrounding nebulosity. I never saw anything like it before. The first dare is dying out/' Jimmy turned off the collision alarm. He said tautly : “The spaceship — if that’s what it is — passed directly overhead, sir.” The gobblings gave somehow the effect of desperation. Carter’s voice cut through them. “I haven't cut the adapter, though I can. I admit I'm curious." Jimmy reported again. “The supposed spaceship has changed course. It’s the change I’d make if I were going into a power- orbit around Gatuna, sir.” Fallon grunted: " Hold everything. I'm on my way." Seemingly only seconds later he came in the suit lock. He said curtly : “I saw the thing as a speck. It is in a power-orbit not more than a few miles up. It’s steering all over the sky — the craziest orbit you ever saw — unless the creatures in it think we’re likely to shoot at them.” Bliss’ voice through the speaker once more. “ Another dare out from the sufi. It's the same thing — waves of luminescence radiating out from a center. It looks like chemical lumin- escence to me, which sounds insane. The drst dare you saw, Fallon, seems to have gone out. The second is already dimming.” The gobbling suddenly ceased, with an effect of despair. “They may hear our voices, sir,” said Jimmy awkwardly, “on the space phone. It’s taking a chance, but they may suspect we are trying to communicate with them, so they are trying to communicate with us. They may hear my voice now. If I take off the ship and go out to them — ” “They haven’t tried to blast at us with anything,” said Fallon. “Probably you’re right. Carter ! Bliss ! We’re going to try physical contact with that thing circling Gatuna. If anything happens to us, cut the adapter and report to Base and ask orders.” Carter’s voice was angry : " Swashing your rank around, eh?" Bliss said dryly: “But I get it for an instant in my 'scope. You’re going to be surprised. Bring it back, Fallon. It's interest- ing." Fallon muttered, “What the devil?” and nodded to Jimmy. “Take her up, Mr. Holmes.” TCCioy rose from Gatuna into alien skies. There were the four of them, all spacesuited, regarding the object the little space can had brought back in the grip of its magnetic grapples. The TCC107 lay forty yards away. The Massen hut was but ten yards this side. The thing from space — which had come in unresisting — lay in a little depression in the blackened metal surface of Gatuna. It was thirty-odd feet long, of which ten ADAPTER

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feet was a globe of welded steel. The rest was unfamiliar but recog- nizable— drive tubes and fuel tanks and a control bank operating from a star-shaped stern antenna. The working parts of a device designed for navigation in empty space were not inclosed. They were open to emptiness. There was no unwelded seam nor any crack by which any- thing in the ten-foot globe could emerge to make adjustments or repairs. There were no more gobblings. There was only the faint humming of the space-phone receivers in the helmets, and occasional startlingly distinct noises of movement inside the men’s spacesuits, or contacts of those suits with solidity. “A robot , of course ” said Bliss. “And no feathers ” added Carter dryly. “This gadget is a scanner, though, and this sends the images back. It’s remote-controlled, of course ” “ What we’re all thinking,” said Fallon, “is that it's a sort of tor- pedo, a weapon. But this” — his space-gloved hand pointed — “is a compass. Apparently it picks up and amplifies a magnetic field and feeds its results to the control bank that handles the drive tubes.” Their helmet phones emitted a single gobbling note. A relay clicked and something moved. There was another, differently-pitched gobbling and another relay clicked and another control moved. A third, fourth, fifth — In succession, single notes sounded in their helmets, and successive relays moved. “Looks like a demonstration,” said Fallon. “ They probably bo:v images of us from their scanner. , at that” Jimmy said uncomfortably: “If I may say so, sir, if this is a torpedo, and if they mean it to destroy us. they could set it off any time.” “You mean we should dismantle it,” said Fallon curtly. “We shall.” “No, sir,” said Jimmy awkwardly. “I meant to point out that they didn't want to destroy us, and still don’t.” A gobbling came. Two notes, a pause, two notes, and then four notes. One relay in the spidery array of exposed machinery clicked over faithfully after each sound. Then three notes, three notes, a pause, and nine notes one after the other. Then four notes, four notes, and sixteen notes together. “Squares,” said Bliss dryly. “They’re gobbling elementary math at us. I want to see into the relays that sort out those gobblings to ap- propriate controls” Jimmy moved to be in the field of what was plainly a scanner at- tached to the extraordinary thing. He clapped his gloved hands to- gether. Five times. Five times. Then twenty-five times. There was a long pause. Gobbles. Six, and six, and thirty-six. “Good work, lieutenant,” said Carter. “They skipped the square of five, since you gave it to them. They’re communicating interest- ingly but not very informatively .” Desperate gobblings came in the space phones, and every relay in ASTOUNDING SCIBNCE-PICTIO (f

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sight worked madly. The gobbling ceased, and two notes, two notes and four came, then three and three and nine — and then the gobbling which clicked all relays madly. Jimmy said diffidently: “It looks, sir, as if they’re telling us that they are rational creatures, by reeling off a series of squares. And then they tell us they want this thing to work again.” “Ah!” said Fallon. “We’re go- ing to take it apart to see what’s wrong with it.” Jimmy said : “I . . . think I know what it is, sir. That compass arrangement. It would detect magnetic fields and feed the result to the controls. Gatuna is largely nickel iron, sir, like the core of Earth. It would have a magnetic field. It appeared very suddenly in this space. If this . . . torpedo, sir, was on its way somewhere, and was intended to veer into anything with a mag- netic field, it would swerve toward Gatuna. Perhaps it did. But per- haps it couldn’t turn sharply enough, so instead of crashing into the asteroid, it went into a power- orbit the size of the smallest circle it could turn.” “If it was intended ” said Carter, to operate so far from its control board that there’d be a long time- lag, you might be right, lieutenant.” Jimmy sweated inside his space helmet. “If ... if we human beings,” he said embarrassedly, “had sent out a space torpedo to destroy an enemy, sir, and something appeared in our space which captured our ADAPTER torpedo and we hadn’t time to get | another made and on the way, I think — ” Fallon said dryly: “Are you by any chance quoting the Ethical Equations at us, lieu- tenantt They were very useful once, we all agree. But there is a gen- eral order in force, since that Visi- tor appeared, that any artifacts of an alien culture must hereafter — with all due precaution — be placed physically at the disposal of the Patrol Board. A cockahoop Fleet lieutenant sent the devil of a lot of highly useful isotopes off into empty space not long since. The Engineers would have liked to have them. That won’t happen again!” “The . . . creatures who control this, sir,” said Jimmy unhappily, “haven’t threatened us. They’ve . . . really appealed to us. If they have an enemy, and this is their defense — ” “As humans,” said Fallon curtly, “we are necessarily neutral in non- human quarrels. And we have our orders — not specific for this case, but definitely applying. We are going to disassemble this contriv- ance and take it back with us.” “But we’re not neutral, sir,” in- sisted Jimmy miserably, “if we in- trude into their space, capture a weapon, and make it useless!” Fallon’s head turned inside his space helmet. His expression could not be read, but his voice was crisp. “You are under arrest, lieuten- ant,” he said shortly. “Return to your ship and remain there! We’ll handle this!” Bliss and Carter were silent, 61

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Jimmy marched to the ship’s suit lock. He vanished inside it. Sec- onds later he said formally into the space-phone transmitter in the con- trol cockpit: “Sir, it is Space Patrol tradition that an officer ordered to his ship is automatically released from charges and arrest. It is also Space Patrol tradition that an officer cannot be accused of disobeying an order if he does not receive it. My space phone goes off now 1” There was a click in the helmets of the men on the asteroid's surface. The TCC107 lifted. It maneuvered over the bulky robot. It lifted again. Gravity was negligible here, but inertia had to be counted. The little space can struggled up and away. It sped for the alien sky. Helmet phones hummed, where three men were left behind. Carter’s voice said : “Notv his little heart will break because he’s been insubordinate. I’ve been worrying about that, too, Fallon . But why do it- this way ? I think he was right.” “ And so do I,” said Fallon blandly. “But disobedience of or- ders is a sight more serious in a commander than a lieutenant junior grade. Skippers of little space cans are expected to be cocky, ft’s tra- dition. Have you ever seen a good man in the Service who hasn’t been under charges ?” Bliss observed: “They don’t get to be admirals.” “Now, who,” demanded Fallon, “wants to be an admiral?” Then his voice changed. “The thing in my mind is that the line that robot was 62 traveling on is between the brightest planet and the area where we saw those dares. You see?” The TCC107 was the tiniest of specks. Gobbles came through the space phones. Tentative, somehow hopeful gobbles. Then firmer, as- sured ones. The tiny speck which was the TCC107 and its burden seemed to split into two. More gobbles. Brief and somehow specific ones. “'He headed out,” said Carter, “at right angles to what would be the magnetic lines of force of Gatuna. / like this boy, Fallon. If our fine feathered friends know their stuff, their robot should head right away and go on about its business.” “I,” said Fallon, “am curious to know what will happen when that robot hits the area where we’ve seen dares. Any more of them, Bliss?” “Yes,” said Bliss’ voice in the helmet phone. He was bent over a portable 'scope. “The rings of light expand a good deal faster than they did. That should mean that what- ever it is, is nearer.” “We wait,” said Fallon’s voice in the space phones. The three clumsy, suited figures stood on the nightmarclike metal soil of Gatuna, anchored to it by magnetic soles. They watched what would have been the northern sky, if there had been a north and south on the tiny asteroid. A flare showed suddenly among the alien stars. Even to the naked eye it was, now, a series of expanding rings of some- how cold and horrible light. The TCC107 came to a brisk landing behind them. It settled on ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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its grapples and was still. Jimmy's voice said formally: “Reporting, sir, space phone re- paired. Ready for duty." “Watch the sky where we’re watching ” growled Fallon. “ We’ll take up your insubordination later." “Yes, sir,” said Jimmy in a small voice. They waited. And watched. And waited. From time to time small gobbling noises sounded in their ears. When it happened, it did not seem at all probable. The sky was black with the complete blackness of empty space. The thin rays of a far-distant sun smote starkly on the tortured, riven surface of Gatuna — long isolated in its own solar sys- tem, but now infinitely more remote from companionship in an alien cos- mos and beneath unknown stars. The stars were infinitely tiny pin- pricks of light, and their patterns were utterly unfamiliar. There was no Milky Way. To trained eyes, indeed, it was evident that this galaxy was small by comparison with that of which Sol is a part. And it was remote beyond comparison. There were not even any nebulas in this sky, as indication of neighboring islands of space. No. There was one patch of nebulosity. It was, strangely, where a brilliant, flaring, but gradually dimming series of pulsating waves spread out from an apparently mo- tionless center. The scattered light from those spreading ripples was vaguely and very dimly reflected 04 from space nearby. It amounted to a trivial cloudiness against the black of emptiness beyond. There was even a shape to the cloudiness, but not a shape to which one could put a name. It was irregular like a cumulous cloud-patch, like a blob of — something. Stars behind it seemed slightly dimmed. “I don’t like that thing" said Carter suddenly in the space phones. “It’s too close to be a nebula. / have a sort of nasty feeling about the rings of light in it. I think I prefer our gobbling friends." Fallon grunted wordlessly. Suddenly there was a flare which — after only instants — abruptly had at its center a tiny spot of reddish light. Not bright, that new tint, but a clear reddish-yellow speck which looked hot and angry and belliger- ent. It winked into being. Then it spread. Swiftly. It dimmed from yellowness to a diffused red glow like something in a furnace. The lurid center died away, hut the red glow spread and spread. The glowing thing moved, its red- ness sweeping over it like swift de- struction. The entire substance of the shapeless mass glowed and writhed. It seemed to contort itself in some vast, soundless agony. It sent out billowing pseudopods of tortured color. It seemed to rend at itself. It writhed again, blindly and horribly, and went into gigantic pulsations which tore parts of itself free — each separated part continu- ing in miniature the spectacle of maddened suffering the parent mass portrayed. It went on for a long time. Grad- ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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ually, it tended to die. Once a flare began, and greenish ripples of light essayed to spread out, but they were overpowered by an increased angriness of the red which now seemed to contract and grow more fierce. It dwindled, and dwindled, and at last there was only a spasmodically heaving red glow which seemed to rouse itself to convulsive, futile stirrings. Then it went out. There was silence for a long time. Jimmy, staring at the vision-plate in the space can's cockpit, swal- lowed noisily. Bliss’ voice came with exceeding dryness from the space-phone speaker by his head:, " The robot we saw was designed to plunge at any magnetic field. It had a welded-steel head, with no detonator that we saw. 1 am think- ing, my friends! When it went into that thing, it made a dare — and then it turned red. I began to suspect that the Thing was alive, and that it liked iron. It fed on iron. A living thing that craved iron would have a magnetic held in place of senses. Iron might be drawn to it, or it to iron. And maybe those dares were Iron meteorites being consumed . Maybe the robot went into it, and its welded-iron coating was consumed, and whatever was inside it was released to get to work. And it killed the Thing. Our feathered friends meant it to. They needed it to. After all, if a Thing like that consumes iron, and their planet is like Earth in having an iron core — ” His voice died away. Fallon said shortly : “Mm-m-m. It would have relished Gatuna. And our spacesuits. It might have had a splendid time here. If we turned off our adapter after it struck, either it or part of it would have been turned loose in our space. Plenty of iron in our solar system! Even if we didn’t turn off the adapter, after it had consumed part of the machine it would have gone off by itself — ” Carter said with entirely false disapproval : “No feathers! Fallon, let’s go home! I heartily approve of the barnyard fowl of this universe, but I’d like to take a look at old Sol again, and I would like to raise hell with somebody back at Base just for old time’s sake. We can come back

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and talk to the gobblers later. Open- ing communication with them, after all, is an Intelligence Section fob!* tfGo turn the adapter off!’ said Fallon’s voice. He went to the TCC107. He went in the suit lock. Jimmy stood up and saluted stiffly. “Well?” said Fallon formid- ably. “You were quite right. I suppose you’ll make a report. Proud, aren’t you ?” Jimmy swallowed. “If you don’t mind, sir,” he said anxiously, “I’d ... I’d like to square it if I can. I ... I was insubordi- nate once before, and . . . there was a lot of row, and ... it might be thought I was trying to show off — ” Fallon blinked. “Your second performance, eh? Oh-oh ! — Your name is Holmes! That Holmes, eh ? Hm-m-m — And you’re not proud?” “No, sir,” said Jimmy. He added wretchedly. “I’ve got an unde who’s a politician, sir, and he’s always trying to push me, sir, and it’s a ... a handicap. If I can just avoid being noticed, I’ll be much better off in the Patrol, sir. But the . . . Ethical Equa- tions did work once before, sir. I . . . couldn’t help thinking they were just as important now. I’m . . . sorry, sir.” “Hm-m-m/ said Fallon. He studied Jimmy coldly. Then, pres- ently, he grinned slowly. “The Ethical Equations, which point out that coincidences aren’t wholly coin- cidental, also indicate that it is the duty of senior officers to keep junior officers from getting too good an opinion of themselves. While they are humble they do not happen, coincidentally, to make quite so many expensive mistakes. But you do not look particularly puffed up. So I will say that you did a good job, in spite of being the hardest junior officer to drive into in- subordination I ever saw.” Then he held out his hand. That ended ir, of course. The uses of the space-constant adapter are familiar enough to everybody, today, even though exactly the con- stants which lead to the cosmos of the gobblers haven’t been hit again as yet. The first adapter was a hit-or-miss affair. But this particu- lar story has never been told before. Too much praise for Jimmy would not only have made him uncomfort- able— he might have come to like it. So there was no official mention made of it at that time. But his two-year-senior skipper, reporting back to the TCCio’j, found a promotion awaiting him, and Jimmy Holmes kept her as his first command. Which, of course, was quite as much as was good for him, and much more than he’d hoped. And the complete details of the affair went into Space Patrol records and were duly noted — and largely disregarded — by the policy- making body. But they did have a certain tendency to make the Ethical Equations just a shade, a bare shade, more nearly an acceptable reason for doing things. So that was all right, too. THE END. G6 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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The guest wasn’t invited, but then , the house was really a guest — m the time era of the intruder. The guest’s great trouble was he didn’t know the difference between knowledge and mental agility — Guest in the House illustrated by Williams FRANK BELKNAP LONG Roger Shevlin set down his bags, shook the rain from his umbrella and wondered just how long it would be before he found himself consulting a psychiatrist. He’d made mistakes before — plenty of them. But he was essentially a man of sound judgment, and it was hard to believe he could have allowed himself to be talked into renting a twenty-room house. He was amazed at his own in- credible stupidity ; the lack of judg- ment he’d shown right up to the instant he'd signed the lease and re- turned the pen to the renting agent with a complacent smirk. A huge and misshapen ogre of a dwelling it was, with ivy-hung eaves and a broken-down front porch, and as Shevlin stood in the lower hallway staring up the great central staircase a shudder went through him. There was always a chance, of course, that the place would shed some of its ugliness amidst the changing colors of autumn and the sweet-warbled songs of meadowlarks and grass- hopper sparrows. GUEST IN THE HOUSE AST— 3A <17

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But Shevlin knew that no one would ever refer to the place he'd leased as a “house." It would al- ways be “that place the Shevlins settled in — the poor chumps!" or “Johnny, run over to the Shevlin place and see if Mrs. Shevlin has any butter to spare."- To add to Shevlin’s woes, the children had brushed right past him, and were losing no time in making themselves at home. Children could take root and sprout almost any- where and the Shevlin youngsters were hardy parennials six and nine respectively. Already the house was beginning to resound with yells, shrieks and blood-curdling whoops. A man should be proud to be the father of two such sturdy young- sters, Shevlin thought, and glared at his wife. “The place won’t look half so bad when I get those new curtains ironed out and hung up," Elsie said, and could have bitten her tongue out. “Thanks," Shevlin said, dryly. “I was waiting for that. Now, if you don’t mind, I'll go down in the cellar and mix myself a rum col- lins." “Why pick on the cellar," Elsie said, miserably. “There's nothing down there but a lot of rusty machinery which we’ll have to pay someone to rip out and cart away. The renting agent said the last ten- ant was a professor of . . . of — What did he say he was a professor of, Roger?” “Of physics," Roger grunted. “Perhaps if I go down in the cel- lar and surround myself with just 88 the right atmosphere it will work with me." Elsie stared at him. “What are you talking about?" “The homeopathic system of therapeutics,” Shevlin said. “If you have something bad, you dose yourself with more of the same until it either cures or kills you." A queer feeling of insecurity took hold of Shevlin when he saw the cellar. It was damper than he’d ever thought a cellar could be. And chillier. The machinery was damp, too. It was studded with little blebs of moisture and under the wetness was a rustiness which made Shevlin think of tin cans rusting in the sun, and an ax half-buried in a chopping block in an abandoned woodshed. Ah, well — a gloomy life and a stagnant one was better than being cooped up in a city apartment with two small kids running around in circles every time the doorbell rang. The machinery was really quite elaborate. So elaborate, in fact, that if Shevlin had been writing a book about machinery he’d have gone out and hired a ghost writer solely to avoid describing it. Shevlin took another sip of the rum collins and wished that he were out of the cellar and upstairs in the attic. Of one thing he was certain. It would be sheer insanity for him to remain in the cellar when he could roam all over the house with- out let or hindrance. Once as a child Shevlin had al- most tangled with a bulldozer and the experience had left an inefface- ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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able impression on his mind. He had no intention of touching the machinery, or becoming embroiled with it in any way. Clumsy hands he had. Clumsy hands and a clumsy head, early to rise and early to bed. He must have stumbled, though it was hard to see how he could have been so unsteady on his feet after just one rum collins. He had a vague recollection of making a frantic clutch at some- thing huge that glistened. He had a much sharper recollection of feel- ing that something move beneath his fingers. The whirring began immediately and didn’t stop. It was faint at first, very faint, but it increased so rapidly in volume that Shevlin had no time to leap back. For one terrifying instant he seemed to be standing on the brink of a colossal sandstorm, his ears filled with a dull roar that was half a silence. Then there was a flurry of scintillating metal particles, and something seemed to lift him up, and hurl him backwards through a cyclone of motion toward a tumbled waste of emptiness. When Shevlin struggled to a sitting position the floor was once more firm beneath him, and the ma- chinery had ceased to gyrate. For an instant the walls had seemed to contract in fitful gusts, but now there was nothing to indicate that a convulsion of incalculable magni- tude had taken place on the op- posite side of the cellar. He was beginning to think he’d suffered a vertigo attack and GUEST IN THE HOUSE imagined the whole thing when he heard his wife’s voice calling to him from the head of the stairs. “Roger, come up here quick! I can’t see out of the windows ! Roger, hurry!” Shevlin gasped, got swayingly to his feet and mounted the stairs in five long bounds that carried him well past his wife, who had retreated into the lower hallway, and was staring at him out of eyes that seemed to fill her face. “What do you mean, you can’t see out?” he demanded. “It’s like a fine, dazzling mist,” Elsie said, in a stunned voice. “You can see it best from the living room window.” The living room was filled with little dazzling dust motes that seemed to follow Shevlin as lie crossed to the window, pressed his face to the pane and stared out with utter incredulity surging up in him. “It can’t be an ordinary fog,” Elsie said. “It came up much too — Roger l'* “Yes, what is it?” Shevlin asked. “The other pane!” Elsie almost screamed. “A little man with a horrible, shrunken face looked right at me!” Shevlin swung about. “Oh, non- sense,” he said, anxiously. “You’re making a mountain out of a fog bank.” “But I tell you, I saw him! Oh. I did, I did! You didn’t, but I did!” “All right,” Shevlin said, his mouth tightening. “Shock does strange things to the mind. I most certainly didn’t see him, but I'm go- es

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ing right out now and puncture him before we follow him over the hill to the madhouse." He turned as he spoke and went striding toward the front door. Seemingly the door had soaked up a stickiness, for he had to tug and wrench at it, and the knob kept slipping out 6f his hand. But it came open at last, and Shevlin found himself on the porch staring wildly about him. As far as he could see there wasn’t anyone in sight. But he couldn’t see very far, for the fog was thicker than he’d ever imagined a fog could be. “Oh, my stars !" he muttered, through clenched teeth. “You’re just not used to our kind of weather," a wheezy voice said. “Climactic conditions change quite •a bit in a half million years." Shevlin caught his breath. Directly in front of him the fog had thinned a little, and — he could see the little man standing there. The little man wasn’t a dwarf exactly, but he was well below medium height and his cranium . bulged so that his face seemed much more shrunken than it actually was. It was sufficiently shrunken, how- ever, to resemble a tissue-paper mask which some besotted reveler had bought as a hand-me-down, daubed with rouge and worn once too often. He didn’t seem to be wearing much in the way of clothes. Or per- haps it would have been more cor- rect to say he had been ill-advised in the matter of clothes. From his scrawny chest to just above his knees a thin, one-piece garment — TO not unlike a sarong — clung loosely to his mummy-thin body, obscuring what it couldn’t conceal and taking a little of the curse off. But his shoulders were completely bare, his elbows stuck out and his legs were visible in all their crookedness. He was entirely unshod. “In another fifty years we’d have mastered time travel ourselves," the gnomish apparition said. “But now we shall have it right away.” “Yes, naturally," Shevlin said, blankly. “You’ll have it — right away.” “I’m confident we will,” the little man agreed. “You know the secret and will communicate it to us.” As though unaware that Shevlin had stiffened the little man bowed. “Perhaps I’d better introduce myself. My name is Papenek, and I’m probably the only man on earth who could cope with a development like this. You see, the house didn’t enter our time sector quite as fast as it left yours, so we had time to step up the beam and get a good look at it.” “You — ” “When we saw the house coming. Valt — he’s our Chief Monitor — sent for me immediately. ‘You can speak the language of First Atomic Age primitives as fluently as I can,’ Valt told me. ‘Take a tube and go right over there. If necessary, use persuasion.’ ” The little man smiled. “Valt provides for every contingency. He wouldn’t be where he is if he didn’t. But I’m sure persuasion won’t be necessary. You want to help us, don’t you?” ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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Shevlin had no clear recollection of leaping back through the front door and slamming it in the little man’s face. But he must have done so, because he suddenly found him- self inside the house with his back to the door and his stomach crawl- ing with cold terror. “Roger, what is it?” Elsie said, in a shrill, small voice. “What did you see out there? Why are you staring at me like that?” Shevlin turned abruptly, and twisted the knob of the door to make sure it wouldn’t open behind his back. “The little man I didn’t think was there is standing out on the front porch,” 'lie said. “He says the climate has changed a bit because we’re a half million years ahead of the clock.” “A half million — ” “Apparently the professor wired the house for time travel,” Shevlin said, moistening his dry lips. “Cruel and thoughtless people sometimes leave litters of unwanted puppies in damp cellars for the neighbors and the health department to worry about. I’m simply guessing, of course. But I’ve a hunch the professor just didn’t realize how close to success he was. When that huge clutter of machinery down in the cellar wouldn’t work he must have got disgusted and walked out on it.” Elsie screamed. The little man was standing just inside the door, his eyes riveted on Shevlin’s twitching face. “Wood is an extremely hard sub- stance to make permeable,” he said, GUEST IN THE HOUSE as though he were addressing a child. “It has never ceased to amaze me that the First Atomic Age could run its entire course without collapsing such dwellings in their entirety.” “It . . . it’s just beginning,” Shevlin muttered, a little wildly. “You mean the First Atomic Age. Yes, I rather gathered you hadn’t advanced very far into it. Certain- ly not as far as the Great Holocaust, which wiped out all but a pitiful remnant of the human race.” “One redeeming feature, though,” he added, as though he’d just thought of it. “The mutations which made our race possible began to occur right after the first atomic bomb was dropped.” For the first time Shevlin noticed that Papenek was clasping a small glowing tube about five inches in length. It wasn’t elaborate — in fact, a test tube filled with light wouldn’t have looked any different, except that there was nothing in- side the tube to account for the light. “Don’t be alarmed,” Papenek said, with a deprecatory gesture. “The house won’t collapse. I used the beam so sparingly that it didn’t even destroy the wall when I came through. As you can’t see, all it did was make the wall permeable. I could walk out just as easily as I walked in, but — I’ve certainly no intention of leaving just yet.” Wide-eyed, Elsie turned sharply. “You hear that? He’s going to visit with us!” Papeneck turned, and stared at Shevlin’s wife. “The tyranny of hysteria is the most crippling of all 71

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tyrannies because the normal mind has absolutely no defense against it/* he said coldly. “Fortunately we now know how to deal with such aberrations. Women are so highly replaceable that we have no scruples about — ” He was interrupted by sudden clatter on the great central staircase. Down it came first Shevlin’s only son and heir, Roger J. Shevlin, Jr., pulling after him a toy locomotive and three streamlined pullman cars. The cars bumped and careened perilously on every step and for an instant Shevlin was sure they would come uncoupled. It was curious, but just watching the train descend steadied Shevlin, so that his daugh- ter’s noisy appearance at the top of the stairs armed with his son's air rifle did not unnerve him too much. What horribly unnerved him was the expression on Papeneck’s face when Betty Lou Shevlin screwed up her face, and aimed the rifle straight down the bannisters at the little man from the future. BBBRRUPP. Though the bb shot hit Papeneck in the most delicate part of his anatomy he didn’t budge an inch. Surprisingly he just stood very still, his lips sucked in and a doughy knobbiness sprouting from his face. Then, slowly, his features picked themselves up from where they had landed and regrouped themselves where the doughiness was most pronounced, giving him the aspect of a tormented half-wit. “Children !”' he said, icily. “Y-you still have them, d-don’t you ?” Shevlin asked, a coldness en- circling his scalp. “Oh, yes, we still have them,” Papenek said. “I ... I suppose you treat them differently than we do, though. Give them haywire toys to play with that turn them into pitiful little, adult lunatics before they’re six.” Being an imaginative man Shev- lin had often tried to imagine what the children of the far distant future would be like. Despite his terror, despite the fact that Betty Lou was now tripping down the stairs in the wake of his son he couldn’t repress a certain curiosity as to the young of the species which his own descendants had sired. “No, we don’t,” Papenek said, a malevolent resentment in his stare. “The human infant has a long learning period. We ... we don’t try to telescope it. All we do is utilize it to teach a child the rudi- ments of civilized behavior. What amazes me is that you haven’t utilized it at all. Your children are far more primitive than young orangutans or chimpanzees.” " Are they?” Shevlin said, and something in his tone made Papenek tighten his hold on the tube and take another swift step backward. “I didn’t mean to seem patroniz- ing,” Papenek said. “You First Atomic Age primitives must have had a quite astonishing grasp of scientific imponderables in some respects. Perhaps I should say ‘hit-or-miss techniques.’ In a crude way you’ve outdistanced us. Pos- sibly a barbaric,- not to say, savage 72 ASTOUNDING SCIDNCB-FI CTION

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childhood has given you a certain mental resilience which — ” He was not permitted to finish. Betty Lou had dropped the air rifle, seized her brother by the arm, and was dragging him toward .I’apenelc as though she wanted something confirmed which she didn’t dare refer to in the presence of her par- ents. “I tell you he has!” she shrieked. “He has, he has, he has!” “Aw, he’s just a dwarf,” Junior protested. “Let him alone and he’ll sing ‘happy birthday to you’ from the Western Union.” It all seemed like a dream, but Shevlin knew it wasn’t. The bright, and shining faces of his brats were far too real and earnest. And now Betty Lou was coming right out with it, accusing Papenek of having little knobby outgrowths at the base of his skull. Like horns they were, jutting out a good inch and a half on both sides of his neck. Shevlin hadn’t noticed them be- fore. But now Papenek was finger- ing the growths, causing Elsie to .squirm in horror. “Directional organs,” Papenek said, almost belligerently. “I'm not surprised those little savages should l>e upset by them.” “Directional — ” “They’re vestigial in you,” Papenek explained impatiently. “Cats, dogs and birds have a highly developed directional sense which our own ancestors lost far back in the Miocene. In fact, the bodies of all animals contain vestigial horno- logites of organs that were once functional. Certain snakes, for in- stance, have tiny skeletal legs buried under their skins, so incredibly mi- nute as to present anatomical diffi- culties to a taxonomist.” “If he used any bigger words he’d choke himself,” Junior said. “If you’re talking about snakes you needn’t bother to tell us,” Elsie muttered. “Just show us. Turn your back, Betty Lou. He wants to show us his buried legs.” “Directional organs are vestigial in you,” Papenek said, ignoring the interruption. “But we’ve redevel- oped them.” “Oh,” replied Shevlin, his hands traveling to the bumps at the base of his own skull. “Oh, don’t,” Elsie pleaded wildly. PLOP. Just why Junior should have seen fit to thrust out his leg and trip Papenek right at that moment was a riddle which the child psy- chologists of the future might have been capable of unraveling. But Shevlin doubted that. He doubted it still more when he saw the look of fury on Papenek’s face. The little man’s features were so convulsed with rage that Shevlin feared his temples would burst. A scream from Elsie warned him that there was no time to be lost. Grabbing his son by the coat col- lar, Shevlin swung him about and started toward the stairs with him. He had little hope of reaching the top of the stairs before Papenek could regain his feet. It was more an act of appeasement than any- thing else, and like, most such acts GUEST IN THE HOUSE 73

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it failed utterly to achieve its pur- pose. He saw Papenek’s hand go out, but he wasn’t prepared for the blind- ing flash of radiance which shot from the tube. He himself wasn't touched. Only Junior was touched. For an instant Shevlin’s son was bathed in an unearthly refulgence. Then — Elsie was babbling and clawing at Papenek’s face, and a little wisp of smoke was hovering above a moist spot on the floor that might or might not have been Junior. “No, no — don’t,” P a p e n e k shouted, squirming and writhing under Elsie’s merciless assault. “He’ll come back. I just punished him a little. Do you think I’d ex- tinguish a child r “He'll come back?” Elsie’s voice was a shriek. “He’ll — ” “Certainly. I just stepped up the beam a bit. Right now his body has the same refractive index as the air about him, but he’ll waver back in about five . . . why, she seems to have fainted!” Five minutes later Shevlin stood with his arm about his wife’s sagging shoulders, watching his son wavering back. Not all of Junior came back im- mediately. First his face materi- alized, pale and startled, and then the back of his head, and then his small body, and finally his feet. His feet took their time in coming back. “I just didn’t realize what a shock it would be to you,” Papenek said. “You Atomic Age primitives had abnormally developed parental in- 74 stincts. When we lose children we certainly don't lose any sleep over it. We—” Something in Shevlin’s stare caused him to break off abruptly. Miraculously Junior didn’t seem to be any the worse for his experi- ence. Though the punishment had surpassed a sound spanking in severity there was nothing to indi- cate that it had left a lasting im- pression on his mind. As though to prove that it hadn’t he bent over and stuck out his tongue at Papenek the instant he was himself again. The little man seemed to reach a decision then. He moved closer to Shevlin and said, very quietly: “Perhaps you’d better take your children upstairs and put them to bed— or wherever you put them when you want to discuss serious matters in a quiet way.” “I’ll take them up,” Elsie said, just as quietly. “Stay here and talk to him, dear. Find out just how long he intends to stay. Before we make any plans we’ve got to find out what our chances are of staying alive in this house.” The next fifteen minutes were for Shevlin the most unnerving of all, for the instant Elsie’s footsteps died away the little man asked him the sixty- four dollar question. He'd been afraid all along that Papenek wouldn’t believe he knew no more about time travel than the man in the moon. If he told Papenek the truth — He decided to stake everything on Papenek’s capacity for recogniz- ASTO UNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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M: WJ. tutu.t K ■#$? ■S'' iug the truth when he heard it. He avoided looking at the tube as he made his reckless bid for survival. He kept nothing back, even though it meant sacrificing the niggardly respect which Papenek had for the resourceful primitive he’d pretended to be. • It was a long moment before Papenek spoke. For the first time the little man seemed visibly shaken, as though the GUEST IN THE HOUSE bottom had dropped out of some- thing that had flared with a blinding incandescence for him. “I’ve been incredibly blind,” he said. “I should have known that the father of such children would be incapable of inventing a time- traveling house.” Shevlin no longer felt angry — only cold. He suddenly realized that he’d put his cards on the table without weighing the advantages

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which might have accrued from playing them close to the chest. Not that he’d held a trump hand, ex- actly, but — Startlingly Papenek said: “My mind works better on a full stomach. Before we go down in the cellar and have a look at the machinery perhaps we’d better have something to eat. Have you any eggs or fresh meat I could heat up ?” “Eggs ?” Shevlin said, dazedly. “You mean you still eat — ” Papenek blinked. “Naturally we still eat. What gave you the idea we could live without food ?” “I ... I took it for granted vitamin concentrates would be the food of the future. Even in our age—” “Good earth, no!” Papenek said, impatiently. “It may take me a week — or a month — to learn the correct way of sending the house backwards and forwards in time. If I’m to be your guest I’ve no in- tention of foregoing the pleasures of the table.” Shevlin’s face looked a little ab- normal, as though it were reflecting his thoughts in an illicit way and not at all along the lines laid down by nature. “You’ll occupy the guest room, I suppose ?” “Why not?” Papenek said. “Oh, and while I think of it. I hope you have soft feather beds. If there’s anything I detest it's a coarse hair mattress.” Elsie looked down the long table, and pressed her palms to her temples. “He must have had spe- 7t cialized training in eating,” she said. Shevlin followed his wife’s stare, wondering how he’d managed to live through the past three days. Papenek had tucked a paper nap- kin under his chin, and was busily engaged in sucking his fifth egg. Having cooked the egg by stepping down the tube to its lowest potential, he seemed to consider it his duty to savor its flavor to the utmost. “There isn’t a great deal you can do to help me, Shevlin,” he said, looking up. “But you might at least stop whispering to your wife while I’m eating. It upsets my digestion.” Shevlin shut his eyes, ground his teeth together and thought back -seventy-two hours. Papenek climbing into bed, after first bouncing up and down in the middle of the bed to make sure it would sustain his weight. Papenek drawing up the sheets, demanding a heating pad, and telling Elsie to get out. “Your husband will see that I’m made comfortable. If there’s any- thing I detest it's a woman standing in the doorway wringing her hands while I’m getting into bed. Get out! GET OUT!” Elsie slamming the door, scream- ing back through the door : “Roger, there's some chloroform in the medicine cabinet! If you don’t come out smelling of chloroform, you can start looking around for another wife!” Papenek down in the cellar, very wide awake, bending over the ma- chinery. Hour after hour after hour. His ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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lean and competent little hands working feverishly away in the glow which came from the tube as he stepped it up and down at ten- second intervals. Papenek using both his hands and the beam, turn- ing occasionally to nod at Shevlin, gloating over his progress and mak- ing statements which filled Shevlin with steadily mounting dread. Papenek saying: “Of course we’ll go back immediately to your age and find the man and destroy him. If the secret leaked out, you First Atomic Age primitives might con- struct dozens of time machines and destroy our world completely. You almost destroyed your own world, so how can you be trusted with such knowledge?” “But when you’ve found him — ” Shevlin shuddered. “When you’ve done that you'll return to your age ?” “No, I can’t promise you that. It may be necessary for us to police your world for a while. In fact, you may be sure we shan’t allow anything to exist in the past which could possibly injure us here in the future. Even a minor infection should be cleansed at the source. Otherwise it will spread and fester.” Papenek was smacking his lips now, and rising from the table. “My work is so exacting I need a great deal of food to ward off fatigue,” he said. “But you certainly don’t need an egg apiece. Next time scramble one and divide it. You want the eggs to last, don’t you ?” “If they were filled with cyanide, I’d want them to last,” Elsie mum- bled under her breath. “I’d even settle for roach poison.” “The little man who came for dinner,” Shevlin whispered, “is eat- ing us out of house and home. Per- haps we could sprinkle arsenic on the wall paper.” “Be careful, Shevlin,” Papenek warned. “I shouldn’t care to really step up the beam, but — I must warn you ! Remarks like that disturb me because I know you mean them.” Shevlin's features darkened. “AH right,” he said, loudly. “I’ll con- sider myself warned. Now what?” “Back to work,” Papenek said. “Success is almost within my grasp now, Shevlin. It might even come this morning.” He turned abruptly and went hobbling from the room. Elsie waited until she heard him descending the cellar stairs before she took her husband’s cold hands in her feverish ones and said, anxi- ously: “Roger, if it should come this morning, are we prepared for it?” “About as prepared as the dodo was when the early Dutch naviga- tors peppered his hide with a blun- derbuss and blasted his nest right out from under him,” Shevfin said. He stood up as he spoke, pulling his hands free and shoving his chair back. “That all-purpose tube he’s toting doesn’t merely alter electronic or- bits. It controls atomic chain re- actions in a way we’ve never dreamed they could be controlled. You might say it makes monkeys out of atoms.” Elsie nodded. “They’ll overrun our age, Roger. They’ll regulate, remold everything and everyone. GUEST IN THE HOUSE 77

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They’ll give us lessons in cooking, eating, mating and — dying. They’ll complain, they’ll be petulant. They’ll be capricious and fretful. Sour little spinsters armed with glowing darning needles they are, male and female. I haven’t seen the females, but — ” “We’ve seen Papenek. He’s been our guest.” “Yes, we’ve seen Papenek.” A moment later Shevlin was descending the cellar stairs. He moved cautiously, because he hoped to surprise Papenek in one of his unguarded moments and perhaps learn just how close to success he really was. Shevlin knew that not too much reliance could be placed on Papenek’s words, but Papenek’s expression would be a dead give- away if he could be surprised in the very act of making a connection bright with promise. It wouldn’t have to be the final connection. It could be the one be- fore the last or the one before that. What it boiled down to was that if Papenek was about to succeed the mounting tension would show up in his features. Shevlin was halfway down the stairs when he saw Papenek kneel- ing in shadows a little to the left of the beam cast by the tube, which was lying on a circular metal stand about twenty feet from the base of the stairs. Shevlin’s breath caught in his throat. It was the first time Papenek had ever turned his back on the tube or allowed it to stray so far from his person. T8 It was Shevlin’s chance, and he knew it. According to present ideas of mo- tion a moving body can’t be in two places at the same time. But al- most Shevlin seemed to be crossing the cellar floor while his feet were still clattering on the stairs. Probably it was simply a case of unbelievably speeded up reflexes. At any rate, he had the tube and was clasping it firmly when Papenek turned. For perhaps five seconds Papenek’s expression remained completely blank. Then, slowly, his mouth tightened and a purplish flush suffused his features. “Put it down,” he said. Shevlin shook his head. “No. Remember what you said about an infection? It should be cleansed, you said, at the source.” For an instant Shevlin had feared that the tube might be completely smooth, precluding any attempt to step up its energies. But that fear, he now perceived, had been ill- grounded. The part he was clasp- ing was slightly flattened, and he could detect beneath his thumb a double row of tiny protuberances, like musical stops on a child’s toy flute. “I’m afraid you don’t realize just what the potential of that tube is,” Papenek warned. “It could destroy the earth.” Shevlin was suddenly aware that his knees were shaking. He’d sud- denly remembered that the ancients had believed that a flute could go completely bad, piping shrill myste- rious music that could bring down ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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the keystone of matter itself, could topple the very universe into* an abyss. Perhaps it was just thinking about that guess which further unnerved Shevlin, causing him to tighten his clasp on the tube. Or perhaps he’d bee* exerting too much pressure from the firs'. At any rate, there was a dull flare, and — total dark- ness came sweeping across the cel- lar like a moving wall, obliterating everything in its path. Then out of the darkness came a voice, filled with utter hate. “You’ve inverted the beam, Shev- lin. Steady pressure, evenly ap- plied, will do that. I can’t see in the dark, but my directional organs will enable me to find you.” There was a sudden, metallic clatter. “W-what are you doing?” Shev- lin asked. "Looking for a sharp, cutting instrument,” Papenek replied, with startling candor. “With all these tools you'd think . . . ah, this will do very nicely. Before I kill you, Shevlin. there’s something you may as well know. “I can send the house back now, to your age or any age. You know that straining blade unit at the base of the central shaft — the one I was reassembling yesterday? Well, you just swing the blade completely around the neutral pole of the mag- netic wave arrester and groove it into the third notch from the top. The third notch will carry the house completely back to your age.” Shevlin felt a sudden prickling at the base of his scalp. Under the guise of talking to him Papenek had moved very close to him in the dark- ness. He could hear the little man’s harsh breathing, the shuffling scrape of his unshod feet. Shevlin clenched his jaw. He’d often wondered just how much self-control he'd have if someone in a position to kill him was a mur- derer by choice or necessity. Now he knew. He didn’t have any self-control. But there were forms of fear which could paralyze — “I’ve got him, Pop! I’VE GOT HIM!” The voice tore out of the dark- ness, exuberant, lusty, springy with confidence. It swelled into a mouth- ing of syllables that ran together as syllables are prone to do in the mouth of a nine-year-old almost beside himself with the joy of battle. “I tripped him up, Pop! Pop, quick — turn on the lights !” Mentally Shevlin poured himself a stiff one, swallowed it and went staggering blindly around the cellar in search of a dangling light bulb that continually seemed to elude his grasp. He was still making frantic clutches at the air when the entire cellar blazed with light. For an instant Shevlin thought that he’d collided with the bulb and jarred it on. Then he saw that by some distortion of pressure he’d energized the tube again, causing it to brim with more than its wonted share of light. Papenek, armed with a very long GUEST IN THE HOUSE 70

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and wicked-looking drill, was try- ing to get up. But Junior was sitting on Papenek’s chest, swinging his legs and digging his thumbs into the little man's eye sockets, so remorselessly as almost to justify what Papenek had said about the savagery of children. “You murderous little savage," Papenek shrieked. “Let me up, you hear? You primitive little — ” “Enough of that!" Shevlin said, clasping the tube very firmly and aiming it at Papenek's bulging brow. “One more word out of you and I’ll step up the beam so high you'll be just a little wisp of smoke drifting off into limbo. Perhaps less than that.” Papenek quieted down. “That’s better," Shevlin said. Very deliberately he unfastened his wrist watch and handed it to his son. “What goes, Pop ?" Shevlin looked at his son. “Junior, just how long have you been down here ?" he asked. “Since before breakfast, Pop,” Junior said. “I’ve been spying on him ever since he started disman- tling that straining blade unit yes- terday afternoon. I was hiding in the coal bin, so I didn’t miss a thing. Y’know, Pop, there’s a make-or- break ignition factor involved that’s only partly magnetomotive. A reg- ular manual pinion shift movement it is. Pop.” “Hm-m-m,” Shevlin said. “Are you sure you can handle it, Junior. You didn’t seem like a prodigy to me when you tripped him three days ago for no reason at all. Not a prodigy bom a year after the New Mexico experiment, at any rate." “Ah, that was just a gag, Pop. Betty Lou dared me. Besides, I wanted him to think that all I had inside my head was an elaborate arrangement of knocking tubes.” Shevlin nodded at Papenek. “Re- markable boy in some respects. I.Q. of 270. It disturbs my wife more than it does me. Maturity will bring emotional balance, and we’ll need a few young mutant geniuses to handle the difficult tasks ahead. He can see in the dark too. Dark sight is common enough in Eskimos, but before 1945 extremely rare in Caucasoids. It’s more ef- fective than directional organs, don’t you think?” Papenek seemed to be having trouble with his face. It kept dark- ening and whitening in patches, and — his jaw had begun to twitch. “If the house returns as fast as it came, we should be back in time for lunch," Shevlin said. “Give me five minutes. Junior. Then notch in the thingamajig and let the strain- ing blade . . . aw, shucks, I don’t have to tell you how to handle a machine. The Los Alamos radia- tions took care of that." "Just leave everything to me. Pop. I won't even get grease on my hands.” Shevlin flourished the tube a trifle menacingly. “Start moving, Papenek,” he said. Up the cellar stairs Papenek stumbled, his face a twitching mask. Down the lower hallway into the ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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living room, and then out through last fifteen minutes. -No — it went the living room to the front porch, back further than that. The house, The permeable patch was just wide too, had gone through a lot, and enough to enable Shevlin to pass like a faithful old collie dog that through in Papenek’s wake. He has shared a man’s trials and tribu- had to stoop a little, but he didn’t lations — mind because he knew that another He was suddenly aware that Elsie ten seconds would see the last of was standing in the living room Papenek. door, her face distraught. Out on the porch he spoke sharp- “Roger, I’ve searched every- ly. “All right, jump!” he ordered, where for Junior,” she said. “Do “Get on with you! Right out into you suppose — ” the mist, little man !” Shevlin smiled and crossed to her Papenek jumped from the porch, side in three long strides. Shevlin waited until he’d disap- “Don’t worry,” he said, kissing peared in the mist before he turned her. “Junior’s at the helm and and went striding back into the everything’s under control. In just house. about five seconds now — ” It was curious, but he’d grown There was a sudden, dazzling quite fond of the house just in the flash of light. THE END. OUEST IN THE HOUSE 81

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We Kill People by LEWIS PADGETT It was quite a business, too . • • and it wasn't anything you, could prove murder. Murder , after all, is strictly a human affair; this was, on the contrary, an inhuman sort of business! Illustrated by Kramer Glowing in polychromatic light, the neat, cryptic sign atop the build- ing said sedately; WE KILL PEOPLE In the foyer, the directory told Carmody that the main office was on the second floor. There was nothing else listed on the glass- fronted board. Of the bank of ele- vators, only one was running, and that one operated by a uniformed moron with sleepy eyes and jaws that monotonously masticated gum. Carmody stepped into the car. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -PICT I ON

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“Second,” he said. The operator didn’t answer. The door closed, the floor pressed up- ward and then decelerated, and the moron slid the door open, to shut it quietly as Carmody stepped out on the deep carpet of a big, well- furnished reception room. One wall was lined with doors, num- bered consecutively one to ten. The wall opposite the elevator was blank except for a few framed pictures and a six-by-six screen that showed a blond young man seated at a desk. “Good morning,” the young man said, looking into his telescreen and meeting Carmody ’s eyes. “May I help you?” “Yeah. Who do I see about — ” “Oh,” the young man said so- berly. “Our exterminating service?” Carmody didn’t say anything. “You are a client ?” “I might be. It depends.” “Quite,” said the young man. “Our Mr. French will take care of you.” He did things with the but- tons on his desk. “Yes, he’s free now. Would you mind stepping into Office Number One?” Carmody pointed silently, and the young man nodded. Carmody walked across to the door, pushed it open, stepped through and glanced around, his face impassive. He was in a small room, furnished simply but with good taste. A re- laxer chair extended beside a broad, low table that held a minor-size telescreen. The makings for smokes and drinks were conveniently handy. On the screen was the head and shoulders of someone — our Mr. French, presumably. He had gray- streaked brown hair, a smooth, thin- nish face, a sharp nose, and old- fashioned noncontact pince-nez. His clothes — what Carmody could see of them — were conservative. And his voice was dry and precise. “Will you sit down, please?” Carmody sat down. He lit a cig- arette and looked speculatively at the face on the screen. “My name is French, Samuel French. You’ll notice the reception- ist didn’t take your name. If you decide to make use of our service, we’ll need it, of course, but not just yet. First let me assure- you that nothing you may say to me will put you in danger from the law. An intention to commit homicide is not actionable. You are not an accom- plice either before or after the fact. Once you understand that, you’ll be able to talk to me freely.” “Well — ” Carmody ^aid. “I’m a little — hesitant.” “We kill people,” French said. “That’s what brought you here, isn’t it? To get an exterminating job done — safely.” It wasn’t what had brought Car- mody here, but he couldn’t tell French that. He had to submerge himself completely in the role he was playing. From now on, he had to forget that he was working for Blake and play the part of a customer. At least until he had found out a little about this organi- zation. There had been nothing like it in the Amazonas. But the Amazonas Basin wasn’t civilized, even fifteen years after World War II had ended. In the five years of Car- WB KILL PEOPLK

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mody’s life there as a construction engineer he had seen little change, really ; a dam here, a railroad there, but nothing to touch the rain-forest and the big river and the seasonal floods. Then his discontinuance no- tice had come through, and, in white-hot fury, he had hopped the first dipper to New York, deter- mined to punch the big shot in the nose. He hadn’t done that. There had been secretive visitors and inter- views, a closed air cab that whipped northward, and the vision of an Aladdin’s palace that he recognized as Oakhaven, the country estate of Reuben Blake. Even in this day of fabulous fortunes and super-ty- coons, Blake was a figure. He rep- resented money and industries — and politics, Oakhaven was an architect’s dream. The new plastics and alloys had made such engineering feats possible — towering columns that sprang sky-high from fragile-seem- ing, translucent floors, concepts from Rackham and Sime trans- muted into hard reality. Carmody, flanked by guards, was passed from chamber to chamber, till he reached the penthouse sanctum of Blake. A battalion could have deployed across the resilient, landscaped floor of that sanctum. And, seated at an oynx table with a chessboard inlaid into the top, a big drunken man was jittering nervously as he laid scraps of paper on the board’s squares. “Carmody,” Blake said, looking up. “I'm glad you got here. Have a drink.” He pushed glass and bot- S4 tie forward. Carmody laid bis hands flat on the table and glared. “I want to know why I’m here,” he said. Blake gave him a glance that, surprisingly, held only appeal. “Please. Please sit down and let me explain. I ... I. had to do some things . . . you’ll understand. But first get this. I’ll pay. you whatever you want. I’ll see you get your Brazilian job back, if you want it. I’m not trying to coerce you.” “Why was I fired?” “I needed you,” Blake said sim- ply. “The construction company could get along without you, and I couldn’t. I can’t. Not very well. Now have a drink, sit down, and give me a chance to explain. Man, I’m sick!” That was true. Something had hit Blake hard and knocked the tough backbone out of him. Car- niody hesitated, sat down, and looked at the chessboard. Each square had a bit of paper on it. The first one said !<!. The one next to it was marked 2^. The third, 4^; the fourth, 8$. The ultimate figure was astronomical. “Yeah,” Blake said, “you’ve heard the old gag. A rajah offered his favorite the choice between half his kingdom or — I forget what it was. The favorite said he just wanted a chessboard filled with money, dou- bled for each successive square. I don’t knotv if the rajah ever paid it. Who could?” “So what?” “I’ve got power. But I need an operative. I’m fighting something that’s plenty smart. An organiza- ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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tion. They’ve got their ways of checking up, and if they ever sus- pected you were working for me — well! That’s why I couldn’t have gone about this more openly. I had to cover up. If you'll do a job for me, you can have anything you want. Literally.” Carmody started to answer, and then paused, his mouth open. Blake gave him a twisted, slack-mouthed grin. “You're getting it. I can give you anything you want — within hu- man limits. I’m Reuben Blake. But I won’t be for long, unless I get help.” “I thought you had an organiza- tion." “Sure I do. But this has to be strictly undercover. I picked you out from fifty case records. You’re smart, not too scrupulous, you know your way around. You’re qualified for the job.” “What’s the job?” “It's a frame,” Blake said. “A smart frame. What it boils down to is this: my money or my life. And I’ve got to hand over one or the other!” “But — how ?” French adjusted his pince-nez and said, rather wearily, “I should have a record made of this. Our clients are always skeptical at first. Un- less they know us by reputation . . . you’ve never heard of us?" “I just got back from Brazil,” Carmody said. “Since then I've heard things, sure. That’s why I looked you up. But I can’t quite see how you can do it." “Commit murder?” “Exactly. The law — ” “We have a foolproof method,” French said. “It’s absolutely unde- tectable. Indistinguishable from natural death. The insurance com- panies are our biggest enemies, but we’ve a corps of attorneys who watch out for loopholes. We won't go to jail for income tax evasion !” “You might go to jail for mur- der though. How about that?” “Hearsay isn't evidence. You pay us to kill your enemy. He dies — of natural causes. We've had lawsuits, but we’ve never been con- victed. Autopsies proved nothing except that no homicide was com- mitted. You might call this insur- ance in reverse. Death insurance. If your enemy doesn’t die, we re- fund your money. But we’ve never had to make a refund yet — except under Clause A.” “What’s that?” “We'll come to it later. First of all, let me apologize for pointing out that we must be assured you’re a bona fide client. We have no time for reporters, spies, or curios- ity-hunters.” “I’m a prospective client," Car- mody qualified. “And I want a — job done, yes. Only I don’t want to hang for it.” French put the tips of bloodless fingers together. “We have been in business only four years. Our organization is based on a certain scientific . . . ah . . . discovery. Our patent, you might call it. And that, of course, is a secret; if the nature of this patent were known, we’d have nothing to sell.” WE KILL PEOPLE 85

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'‘The modus opcrandi, you mean ?” French nodded. “Yes. As I say . . . we’re expanding. We don’t advertise much; we don’t want to attract a low-class clientele. And we are incorporated; we have an exterminator’s license, and we do maintain a service, on the side, to get rid of bedbugs and termites. We don’t encourage that sort of thing, but we must do a bit of it for a front. However, our money is made through murder. Our clients pay well.” “How much?” “No fixed rate. I’ll explain that later, too.” “There’s got to be some minimum, though,” Carmody said. “Why ? We went into the whole matter thoroughly, with expert psy- chologists and criminologists, before we incorporated. Experience proved our theories to be correct. What are the motives for murder ?” Carmody ticked them off on his fingers. “Well, greed — jealousy — revenge — ” “Passion or profit — two classifi- cations, generally. We get few of the former. Such crimes are gen- erally committed during a tempo- rary emotional storm. Give the storm time to die down, put it on a practical level of hard cash, and the passion - murderer usually changes his mind. Moreover, very often he wants the pleasure of com- mitting the crime himself. There have been cases, of course. But profit is the main motive. And most of our clients are drawn from the higher income brackets. It’s so a convenient service we offer, after all. The lower brackets are pretty conservative ; they have indoc- trinated morals, and think it’s worse to pay for murder than to commit it personally.” “While the upper brackets are amoral, eh?” “It’s a case of relative values and proportions. Especially in this day and age. Power grows in direct ra- tio to money; if you have enough power, you approach godhead in your ability to juggle with lives. The gods were notorious for inun- dations and lightning-bolts. They could destroy mere humans without compunction. But the money bar- ons don’t need our help to handle lower-bracket enemies — they’ve got their own financial weapons for that. It’s only when the gods were fight- ing among themselves that they called in aid. I could tell you cases that would surprise you — but, nat- urally, I shan’t. Now — shall we discuss business?” “All right,” Carmody said. “The guy’s name is Dale, Edward Dale.” “Address ?” Carmody gave it. “Your name?” "Albert Carmody. Don’t you want to know my . . uh . . . mo- tive ?” “That will be investigated. Most of our running expenses are aimed at covering the initial investigation. As soon as we assure ourselves that you have a sound motive for want- ing Dale killed, we’ll take action. That's to protect ourselves against spies, framed evidence, and so on. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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We’ll find out all about you, Mr. Carmody, don’t worry about that.” Dale was executive president of the Brazil-U. S.-Combine that had fired Carmody. The motive was O. K. ; it would, Carmody knew, check with his own rather violent personality-pattern. “How much?” “We set no price. That’s up to you.” “Ten thousand dollars.” “I see,” French said, making a note. “Now let me explain Clause A. In a business like this, we must set a high standard of honesty and professional ethics. We’re bonded with Dow-Smith — the regular hon- esty bond, by which we forfeit ninety-five percent of our assets if it- can be proved that we reneg on a contract. We have a standard of moral ethics, too.” “Moral?” Carmody said, lifting an eyebrow.

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"Certainly. We’ve reduced life- value to a basis of pure cash. Here’s how it works. Our investigators will give us an estimate of your total assets. Let’s say arbitrarily you’re worth a hundred thousand dollars. You’ll pay ten thousand to have Edward Dale killed. His life, then, is worth ten percent of your assets. You follow me?” "So far.” "If Dale’s life is worth, to him, ten percent of his assets, we’ll re- fund your check.” "I don’t get that.” "Dale will be notified that a client has asked for his death. Your name, of course, won’t figure in it. Nor will the amount you offered. The percentage will be mentioned. If Dale will pay ten percent of his total assets, we’ll drop the case and refund your money.” "But how do you know he’s got any money?” "The chances are he’s got more than you have, or you wouldn’t need our services to exterminate him. It depends on your motive, of course. It’s a risk we run. But we average. We average.” "It sounds like blackmail to me,” Carmody said. "If I pay you to kill Dale, and you take protection money from him — ” "Two things are sure, death and taxes. The moment we accept your patronage, Dale is in articulo mortis. We are in the position of a physi- cian who can save his patient’s life — and charges for that medical service.” "After he’s first administered poison.” 88 "We have our ethics,” French said, spreading his hands, and glacing interestedly at the well-mani- cured nails. "We put a cash value on a man’s life, that’s all. And a life isn’t as intangible as . . . say . . . a lease.” "That’s a question. Anyhow — let me think this out. You’ll take my check for ten grand to kill Dale. But if lie pays you — ten percent — of his assets, then he survives.” "And your money is refunded, under Clause A.” "What’s to prevent me from com- ing back a week later and offering twenty thousand to get Dale killed ? I could ruin the man that way. He’d have to keep on paying and paying till—” "Ethics. We never accept the same client aiming at the same ob- jective twice. That’s a rule. You might come back and hire us to kill somebody else — that’d be acceptable — or anybody else might come in and pay us to kill Edward Dale, but we’d never accept another com- mission from you to murder Dale.” "But there’s nothing to stop me from giving dough to some friend and having him hire you to kill Dale.” “Not a thing. Except our corps of investigators. They’d find out where that money came from. And if the client had a real motive for wanting Dale killed. It would look fishy. And we wouldn’t take the case.” "I see,” Carmody said, and a faint grin crossed his face. He was thinking of Dale’s reaction. Dale would pay; the man was familiar ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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with the way WE KILL PEOPLE worked, Carmody knew, and would certainly pony up ten percent of his sufficiently large fortune to save his own life. Carmody had surrepti- tiously assured himself of that al- ready. He himself had killed in the past, but never quite in cold blood. He didn’t want Dale dead, no. But the man had been guilty of double- dealing. He had taken Reuben Blake's orders, and fired Carmody from a job he liked and wanted. So Dale would have to pay for that. Not with his life, but with ten per- cent of his assets — which would total a lot more than ten thousand dollars ! No. Ten percent had been the arbitrary figure set by French. The figure would be closer to five than ten — still large enough to hurt, though. And Carmody’s bankroll was no windfall. He had earned it, and no investigation could shake that fact. That financial asset had been one of the reasons Blake had chosen Carmody — “ — to help me,” Blake had said, back in his palace penthouse, two weeks ago, while he stared at the chessboard before him. “You’ve got to, Carmody. Or I’ll be ruined.” “A firm like that — ” Carmody said thoughtfully. “WE KILL PEOPLE. Why isn’t it stopped?” “I told you why. I've explained. But now — well, all I can do is find out how they kill people. I can’t move economically against them ; their weapon is murder, and it’s ab- solutely sure-fire. They’ve built up a reputation in four years.” “Without proof ?” “Without legal proof. Listen. Kalman, the oil man, told me he’d been approached. Fifteen percent of his assets — they knew exactly how much that’d be, too— or he’d be killed. He told them to go to hell. He got legal aid and police protec- tion. Fortnight later, polio killed him.” “Polio ?” “Yes. Seth Berger — septicemia. Miller — atypical pneumonia. Bron- son— rheumatic fever; Jaeckle — cer- ebrospinal meningitis.” “Lately?” “Of course not,” Blake said, pour- ing himself a drink. “Most of those were three years ago, at least. Jaeckle died last year, but he had delusions of grandeur. He was guarded day and night. Thought he could escape. Result, menin- gitis.” “How?” “Nobody knows. WE KILL PEOPLE didn't send out a man to stick a hypodermic needle into the guy, if that’s what you mean. They have some absolutely sure method of committing murder so it looks like death from natural causes.” “Had Jaeckle been exposed to meningitis ?” “How can you answer a thing like that ? Maybe, maybe not. And listen, Carmody — people get over meningitis, and pneumonia, and rheumatic fever. But not Jaeckle or Bronson or Miller. With WE KILL PEOPLE, the mortality rate is one hundred percent. Forget about precautions. They won’t work. If WE KILL PEOPLE 89 WE KILL PEOPLE

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puts the bee on a man, he’s dead! No, what I want to find out is how it works. What their trade secret is. Once I know that, I can move. Not necessarily legally, but effec- tively. I have a good organiza- tion, as you’ve found out.” “I’ve found out, all right,” Car- mody said, and Blake swallowed his drink hastily, spilling some of it down his chin. He dabbed in- effectually at his foulard. “O. K., I’ve apologized ! I told you I’d give you anything you wanted !” “And you can do it. That’s why I’m saying yes. But I need more information. Are you afraid to die?” Blake sighed, put down his glass, and stared at nothing. “Sure. And I’m afraid of waste. I’m a white rat going crazy in a maze. My plans aren’t finished by a long shot. I know my average life expectancy, and I’ve enough doctors in my pay to keep me healthy — unless I’m mur- dered. But I don’t want to be poor. I’d rather be dead.” “What do WE KILL PEOPLE want? A hundred percent of your dough ?” “It was a frame-up,” Blake said. “A very neat, logical frame. I told you how WE KILL PEOPLE works. They’re ethical, in their way. But these twenty men — more or less, I don’t know how many there are, and that’s what’s helping to drive me nuts !” “What about them?” “Enemies of mine. I’ve enemies, of course. I suppose they hate me, and I suppose they’ve got justifi- 90 cation. I’ve probably ruined a lot of ’em in various ways. I don’t apologize for that. I can’t hunt up everybody who’s suffered by my policies and apologize personally — or pay them off. There arc too many. And I don’t know who all of them are. I open a plastic fac- tory, and an employee of copper somewhere in Burma gets fired, goes hungry, his family starve — he hates me. Do I know anything about it? No.” “So you’ve got a lot of enemies. What are they doing?” “Ruining me,” Blake said. “They aren’t rich, I’m sure. I’m one of the wealthiest men in the world, and there aren’t many in my class. No, these are middle- income fig- ures. Call ’em A, B, C, and so on. A is worth practically nothing. No assets to speak of. B has a little more but not much. C has a little more than that. I’ve figured it out, Carmody, and it makes sense.” “Well?” “These — enemies — got together and figured out an idea. A cumu- lative method of ruining me. A went in to WE KILL PEOPLE and offered ’em one percent of his assets if they’d kill me. Fine. WE KILL PEOPLE got in touch with me and told me about it. I paid — one percent of my total holdings. Leaving me ninety-nine percent.” “Oh-oh,” Carmody said. You mean — ” “Then B called on WE KILL PEOPLE and paid ’em two percent of his assets. He could afford that ; lie had a little more dough than A. WE KILL PEOPLE asked me for ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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two percent of my assets at that date — that is, after one percent had been deducted from the total. I paid. A week later, I was called on to pay three percent After that, four per- cent of what I had left. D’you see ?” “But . . . uh . . . huh. That means the percentage will keep going up as your assets go down.” Blake seized a stylus and figured rapidly on a pad. “I know this by heart. Let’s say my total assets, originally, were represented by the arbitrary sum of one hundred dol- lars. Here’s the breakdown, so far.” The figures looked like this: 1% of $100.00 $99.00 2% of 99.00 97.02 3% of 97.02 94.11 4% of 94.11 90.35 5% of 90.35 85.83 6% of 85.83 80.68 7% of 80.68 75.03 8% of 75.03 69.03 ‘Multiply that by billions and you’ve got it,” Blake said. “A lot of my assets are tied up or frozen. I can’t keep jerking out cash with- out upsetting the apple cart. Can you think of a better way to drive a guy nuts ? I don’t know how long this will keep up, you see. When I’ll get a call for nine percent — and after that, ten and eleven and hell!,> “At the rate of pay you offer,” Carmody said, “I'd be a fool if I didn't take the job. However! I’m just one man — ” “All the data we’ve gathered will be placed at your service. I’ve a staff of military and strategic ex- perts, you know. And technicians. We’ve a few gadgets that’ll help you. You’ll be well equipped for offense and defense. But in the end ' it’ll depend on you personally. I want to know how these — murders ! — are committed. After that — ” “ — after that, you’ll be notified,” French said. “You understand that our investigations come first. Then we accept or reject your case. Fi- nally, we’ll give Dale a chance to meet your figure. If he does, of course — he lives.” Carmody took out his checkbook, but French lifted a restraining hand. “That’s not necessary yet.” “All right. There’s one more thing, though.” “What?” “I’m looking for employment.” French seemed surprised. “A job?” “A job. I was fired from a good one by some sort of wire-pulling. I’ve enough dough to settle down, and I could get another job easily. But ordinary work won’t suit me. I want something interesting. Now that I know a little about your set- up, I’m intrigued. Plenty.” “Well,” French said, “I don’t know. It isn’t often we get a client and an applicant for work at the same time.” “I’m an unusual guy. And my qualifications are good — I think. At least, for your line of business. My record will show that.” “You’ll have to see Mr. Higgins,” French said. “He’s the president of the firm. Naturally, personal interviews are pretty important — and so are references.” 91 KILL PEOPLE

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“You’ll save money,” Carmody suggested. “You’ll be investigating me anyway in connection with Dale, so — ” “Mr. Higgins handles all that,” French repeated. “He sees all ap- plicants. It has nothing to do with me, you know. The board of direc- tors is in charge of organizational work; WE KILL PEOPLE is a group of separate units — financial, investigatory, operative, and so on — each one fairly independent. But if you want to see Mr. Higgins, I’ll arrange an appointment.” “Will you do that?” “Of course. You understand, some precautions must be taken — eh?” “I can see that.” “Very well,” French said, smiling for the first time. “You’ll be noti- fied, then. Any questions? Well, if not — thank you for giving us your custom, and good afternoon, Mr. Carmody.” He politely stayed on the screen till Carmody went out of the office. Carmody didn’t report to Reuben Blake. It wouldn’t have been safe. The strategic campaign had been settled a week ago, and the supply line was open whenever Carmody needed material. From now on, the spies of WE KILL PEOPLE might be watching him any time, so his life must be above suspicion. Blake could hold out for a while; the important move now was to gain entrance to the sanctorum of the homicide corporation. Certain of the gadgets Carmody had avail- able would be useful ; there was a 92 microscopic wireless microphone- scanner to be planted in the right place, and there were other inter- esting devices. Meanwhile, he put the whole matter out of his mind and began living the life of a re- patriate from South America — which mostly involved entertain- ment. After two days French called him on his hotel telaudio. It was a play- back, for Carmody had been out when French put through the call, so it was a monologue rather than a conversation, though, as usual, the automatic questioner, originally dictated by Carmody, had been left audible for convenience. “Mr. Carmody, please.” “He’ll be back at noon. Auto- matic speaking. Who is calling?” “Samuel French.” “Any message?” “Yes. The request for an inter- view has been granted. At two p. m. a blue-and-white copter will sit at Empire Roofport. That’s the one.” “Thank you. Good-by.” Empire Roofport towered above all the other buildings in the city. It was enormous; it had to be, to accommodate the downblasts of the copters. Slightly before two, a cold, drizzling rain was falling, and Car- mody stepped out of the automatic elevator to find the roof field de- serted, except for an overcoated figure hunched uncomfortably un- der the transparent awning, staring over the guard rail at the street, a good half-mile down. No copters ASTOUNDING SCI ENC E-FICTION

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were visible. The man at the rail turned a familiar face. “Lousy weather,” he said, and then, “Oh! It’s you, eh?” “It's me. What are you doing here ?” Edward Dale looked uncomfort- able. “Waiting for my copter. That chauffeur’ll tell me the storm held him up over Long Island.” Carmody wondered if it would be a blue-and-white copter. Dale, of all people ! It was impossible. Dale couldn’t be president of WE KILL PEOPLE! “How are you doing?” Dale asked, after a time. “O. K. I still don’t know exactly why you’re here ” “I work here,” Dale said, point- ing down, and Carmody remem- bered one of the Brazil-U.S.-Com- bine’s offices was at Empire. “You didn’t . . . ah . . . expect to meet me ?” Dale frankly stared. “Why, no, Carmody. Why should I ? Did . . . you expect to see me ?” “No,” Carmody said, and Dale, after a puzzled moment, turned to glance over the rail. “I told him two, distinctly. Well, I’m going to wait five more min- utes and then get a cab.” Carmody watched Dale, while a puzzled frown grew between his eyes. The drizzle grew to a down- pour. Finally Dale hunched his shoulders, scowled, and turned back to the elevators. “I won’t wait,” he said. “I’ll put in a call for an air cab at the booth. See you, Car- mody.” “Yeah,” Carmody said, still scowl- ing. He glanced at his watch, 2 :08. At 2:11 a blue-and-white copter dropped from the low ceiling, and its door opened. Carmody ran through the rain and sprang aboard, pulling the door shut behind him. Instantly sight and sound of the outer world were cut off. “Rotten weather,” a hoarse voice said. “Let’s get to a warmer place, what do you say?” “You’re Mr. Higgins?” The fattish man at the controls spun his chair to face Carmody. “That’s right. Come up here and sit beside me, will you?” He indi- cated a seat at his right. “Wait’ll I lift this windmill. Then we can talk.” Seated, Carmody surreptitiously examined Higgins. He couldn't make out much ; the man was bun- dled up in overcoat and scarf, and his shapeless hands, moving deftly over the controls, were cased in heavy thermal gloves. He wore no hat, though, and his bald head gleamed in the light. He had a round, undistinguished face, a but- ton of a nose, and a mouth that was far too small between those bulging cheeks. “There,” Higgins said, settling back at last. “She’s automatic now.” “Our destination’s a secret ?” Car- mody asked, nodding, toward the opaqued windows. “What? Oh, maybe, maybe. Anyway, there’s nothing much to look at in this weather, and the rain’s not very cheerful. Now, Mr. Carmody, to business!” Carmody decided that the plane &3 WE KILL PEOPLE

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was beginning to travel fast. Al- ready he could feel violent accelera- tion, though, in the padded seat, it wasn’t uncomfortable. “I didn’t expect a personal inter- view,” he said. “I interview all applicants for po- sitions,” Higgins smiled. “How- ever, before we get on to that — there’s another matter. This man Dale. It’s O. K. We’ve checked. We’ll accept your retainer to kill him. You understand that if he matches - your percentage, your money will be refunded, and — no hard feelings?” “I understand.” “Good. All right, the job. What did you have in mind?” “I don’t know what’s available. Not office work, though. I want something that’ll keep me inter- ested.” “Uh-huh,” Higgins said. He touched a stud. “Too cold here. Take your coat off if you want.” He awkwardly struggled out of his own overcoat, pulled the scarf from around his fat neck, and removed his gloves. In a few minutes the copter’s cabin was comfortably warm. “Well,” Higgins said, “we’ve got several branches. There’s plenty of paper work. Then we’ve got our investigatory corps, and our oper- ative group. But the latter is rather specialized.” “I can see how it would be. And I wouldn’t expect to get in on that right away — or without thorough investigation. For all you know, I might be in the pay of an insurance company.” “Those insurance companies,” Higgins sighed, clicking his tongue. “We have trouble with them. But WE KILL PEOPLE is safe as 94 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE- FICTION

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houses, Mr. Carmody, We protect our staff. You might qualify for investigation, but never for opera- tion.” The acceleration increased. It was slightly incredible, Carmody de- cided. “No?” “I’m afraid not,” Higgins said. “In the very nature of things — well, if you want to work for us, I sup- pose there’s no harm in telling you a little. But you understand you musn’t ever repeat this to a living soul.” Carmody turned his head to stare, but apparently the president was quite serious. “Oh, we take precautions,” Hig- gins said. “Our secret hasn't leaked out yet, has it ? I don’t know what would happen if it did, be- cause our method can’t be duplicated artificially. It’s . . . well, it’s nat- ural. All our victims die of natural causes.” “Oh?” Carmody said, beginning to frown again. “Now this isn’t to be repeated,” Higgins said chattily, but I suppose you know that everybody’s got bugs in him — germ9, viruses, and so on? Even the healthiest man contains the seeds of death. Strep, typhoid, tuberculosis, cancer — all sorts of bugs. But usually in such small quantity that the phagocytes can handle ’em. It’s only when the bugs multiply that you run into trouble, and have a prognosis of active polio — or whatever. Well, we just multiply the bugs.” “If you’re telling me the truth — ” Carmody said. “It’s in confidence. We’ve got a method of multiplying the bugs, that’s all. Ever heard of symbiosis ? Give-and-take relationship of two organisms? That’s the answer. A virus, let’s call it x-virus, that sets up a symbiotic housekeeping busi- ness— selectivity. Introduced into the human blood stream, it picks out the strongest bug and proposes. It’s a smart little virus. If the polio bug is strongest in your system at the time, it goes into symbiosis with polio. It’s stimulative. And very adaptable. Result: the polio bug multiplies fast, plenty fast — though not so fast it seems abnormal. Atypical, maybe, but not abnormal. If the polio’s cured, the x-virus is still present in the blood stream, and it looks around for the next-strong- est bug. Meningitis, or t. b. Any- thing available, so long as it’s ma- lignant. The human organism can’t stand one attack after another — polio, meningitis, t. b., cancer — right down the list. Death is cer- tain. I’m not much good at ex- plaining all this, I’m afraid. I'm an organizer, not a technician. But perhaps you see the angles ?” “I see ’em,” Carmody said. “It’s death from natural causes, all right.” Higgins nodded and chuckled. “Sure. The only trouble is how to administer the x-virus to a victim. That’s where our operatives come in. They’re pretty specialized. In fact, you have to be born to the job.” WR KILL PEOPLE »5

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“They sound like radio-controlled anopheles,” Carmody said. “No, they’re men — but they’re mutants. We had to put ’em on the Board of Directors, for one reason or another. They’re the ones who started WE KILL PEOPLE. They’re a true mutation. Not many of them, so far, but there’ll be more. Unfortunately they can’t intermarry with humans, only among them- selves. So — ” He spread his pudgy hands. “Mutants,” Carmody murmured. His throat felt tight. “The x-virus is natural to them,” Higgins explained. “Perfectly nor- mal in their blood stream, pari of the check-and-balance system of their rather screwy metabolic set-up. Introduced into a merely human cir- culatory pipe line, it’s fatal. Noth- ing too startling about that. Some types of blood are plenty dangerous in combination with other types ; they don’t mix. Natural selection is behind it, but we can’t read Mother Nature’s mind. The first true hu- mans were mutants, and were given intelligence so they could dominate. They already had agility. Our x-virus boys already had inherited intellect, and maybe this new virus is their method of domination. It isn’t too foresighted on Mother Na- ture’s part, though. Humans would kill the mutants if they knew. They’re typhoid Marys.” “I don’t see how they survived infancy,” Carmody said. Maturation takes time. A baby’s blood will mix with any other type, you know. Later on it acquires its own distinctive typing. oe It was like that. Our mutants were perfectly normal till they matured. It was only after that that the x-virus developed. But you can see the dangers ! They couldn’t live in contact with humans without arous- ing suspicion and eventual real trou- ble. And they’re not super-minds. Some of ’em are excellent techni- cians, but no better than human tech- nicians. Perhaps intellect may be- come as vestigial as agility, a convenient secondary trait. In the future, in a mutant world, a few may specialize in intellect, just as we have athletes today. I don’t know what the main line will be; the x-virus isn’t enough. Instinct, possibly. However, if the mutants are to survive at all, they’ve got to stay under cover. And because they’re not super-minds, they had to make a living.” “Oh,” Carmody said, uneasiness crawling down between his shoulder blades. Higgins was talking too much and too plainly. “Which they did. They’ve got a private world of their own, ad- justed to their mutant needs. A small Utopia. It’s underground, in a wilderness country, and I don’t think humans can locate it. It’s a lovely place. And it also costs a lot to maintain. Thus — WE KILL PEOPLE. The mutants had to find a profitable enterprise which would suit their specialized talents, and that was it.” That was it. It explained the basic amorality of WE KILL PEO- PLE’S theory and practice, too. The Board of Directors didn’t kill fel- low-humans ; they killed members of ASTOUNDING SOI ENCE-FICTION

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a lower species. Mankind was play- ing into the hands of the mutants; no such murderous organization could have flourished among beasts. Beasts did their own killing. They — Carmody felt a sudden, unex- pected sting of pain that instantly dulled and was gone. A roaring grew in his ears. He heard it stut- ter and die, and he was looking at the copter from fifty feet away, across an expanse of blindingly bril- liant white sand. Behind him was a monotonous boom and thunder. He was sitting up, his back against something — a rough-boled tree. Higgins was visible through the open door of the copter, his chair swiveled so he faced Carmody. “You’ve been unconscious for a few hours,” Higgins said, his voice raised slightly. “I used an instan- taneous anaesthetic.” Carmody drew his legs under him. There were no after-effects. He felt fine. “Don’t do it,” Higgins said. “I can take off in a second, and I want to talk to you first. We thought you were a spy, you know, but we weren’t sure. Not many people ask us for jobs. We tested you.” Carmody reached into a pocket. His gun was gone. Higgins blinked against the glare. “Your psychology checked. You were the sort of man who’d want to kill Dale because he fired you. But you’re also strongly acquisitive. Not miserly, but you want value received. The scene on the Empire Roof port was a frame-up. We maneuvered you — and Dale — into a position where you were both alone up there, and there were no spectators to bring evidence if you’d killed 'Dale personally. You had the chance. You could have thrown him over the railing, taken the elevator down — it’s automatic, you know — and you’d have accomplished your pur- pose quite safely. And you wouldn’t have had to pay us ten thousand dollars. But the idea never oc- curred to you. We were sure after that.” “What are you going to do to me?” Carmody asked. A muscle was twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing,” Higgins said. “This

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island is off the air-trade routes. Once in six months a plane visits it, to re-establish boundary lines in the oceanic area. You have slightly more than four months to wait.” "Then I’ll be picked up?” Higgins shook his head. "You’ll be buried, that’s all. I’m a mutant, too. You have the x-virus in your bloodstream now. We discour- age spies, Mr. Carmody.” He shrugged and sighed. "I’ve left you plenty of supplies, so you won't be hungry. We’ve used this island before, you see. Well, good-by.” "Wait a minute,” Carmody said, getting ready. "One more thing. How did you infect me?” Higgins merely smiled, glanced at his hands — he had donned his gloves again — and swung the seat around. Carmody got a sprinter’s start. He plunged for the copter as the engine roared. He would have made it except for one thing — the downblast. That vertical cyclone knocked him flat. By the time he had scrambled up- right, the copter was far out of reach, and heading east. Carmody stood looking after it till it dimin- ished into a speck. Then he looked at nearer objects. White surf flung its combers over a barrier reef ; beyond that, blue sea stretched to meet a cloudless blue sky. Behind him, palmettos and sparse jungle made cool shadows. A stream ran softly out of the for- est to meet the sea. At the foot of the tree where he had wakened was a waterproofed box. Carmody opened it. There was food, plenty of it, and a good variety. He wouldn’t starve. He rolled up his sleeve and ex- amined his arm for the prick cf a hypodermic needle, but he found nothing. He remembered the slight sting he had felt in the copter, but that had been merely the anaesthetic. He remembered Higgins’ gloves, and grimaced. The x-virus — symbiotic ? It would combine with the strongest bug in his bloodstream, and — But what bug? Carmody stood above the box, scowling and staring down. He was checking back, remembering what had killed his parents, his grandparents, liis great-grandpar- ents. Had he any hereditary predi- lection for any particular germ or virus disease? WE KILL PEOPLE had checked his history ; they might know. But Higgins hadn’t said. Something at the bottom of the waterproofed box caught his atten- tion, a small metal case. He weighed it in his hand, hesitated, and opened it. It held sterilizing equipment, a hypodermic syringe with a dozen line needles, and a supply of mor- phine. Carmody’s lips moved si- lently. He stood there motionless, the pounding of the surf rising to a crescendo of thunder, the prison of sea and sky clamping down rather horribly. Morphine. To kill pain. THE END. 08 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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Unpredictable by JACK WILLIAMSON Part Two of an article on what ice do not know about weather — and why we can't do anything about it. For ten thousand years or so Man's vessels, like that schooner above, have been wrecked by storms. Now his planes fall victim. We can’t control — but we may, someday, predict! • liven for primitive man, fore- must have caused a lot of grief, casting the return of day and night Reputations were, no doubt, made was probably never much of a prob- or lost on the prompt return of the lem, although the full scientific ex- seasons, and it seems that a good planation had to wait for Coperni- deal of sacrificial blood was spilled cus, Kepler, and Newton. in efforts to make sure that spring Foretelling the years, however would come again. INPKKDICTABI.E Wb

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In his great work, "The Ciolden Bough," Frazer devotes several chapters to the fire-ceremonies of early peoples. He reviews the solar theory of Wilhelm Mannhardt — that the purpose of these frequently rather grim proceedings was to re- kindle the fire of the sun, by sym- pathetic magic, so as to insure the passing of winter, the rebirth of vegetation, and the renewed fer- tility of the soil and of women. That seems plausible, although Frazer himself prefers the purifi- cation theory of Westermarck — that the fires were intended to destroy witches and such-like evil beings. The two views are not really con- tradictory, however, as Frazer says : both may be partly true. The Beltane fires are a typical example of these fire rites. As still practiced in the central Highlands of Scotland in the eighteenth cen- tury, they were a feeble but signifi- cant reflection of the rituals of the Druids in the dark forests of all prehistoric Emppe. Beltane means fire of Bel or Baal, as a footnote in "The Golden Bough” suggests, and Baal in Gaelic means ball or globe ; probably the ceremony was originally a solar rite. The time of the Beltane fires was May 1st. The fire was kindled in a sacred spot on a hill. A sacra- mental cake was baked, and the blindfolded worshipers took pieces of it. The luckless one who drew a blackened piece became the Bel- tane carline. In the eighteenth cen- tury the burning of the carline was merely symbolic, but in earlier times he wasn’t so fortunate. too ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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The Coast Guard service during the war maintained Hoot- ing meteorological stations at sea. Aboard the Coast Guard Cutter Duane, weather bureau men prepare to release a sounding balloon to get upper air data. Wide World Photos Similar fire ceremonies held a significant place in the primitive be- liefs of much of the world. They were held at various times of the year — May 1st and Halloween, at the vernal equinox, and the summer and winter solstices. Our own Christmas appears to show vestiges of such winter sol- stice rites, and even in the beauty of our Easter observances there is still a faint reflection of the old custom of human sacrifice. For thousands of years before 102 the Christian era, men in the fore- casting profession must have been privately compiling' calendars to en- able them to identify the solstice and so predict the coming spring, and publicly lighting fires — prefer- ably with people in them — to com- pel the sun to move north again. The early churchrqen found it difficult to eradicate customs fixed by some long generations of usage. They solved the problem with a neat realism, by appropriating many of the pagan forms that* they could ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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not destroy. The official birthday of Christ was changed from January 6th to December 25th, the approximate date of the solstice. The Yule log of tradition is actually the fire that once was lit to rekindle the waning sun, and through sympathetic magic to warm the world again. The Christmas mistletoe is a link to the slain god. Balder. It was Balder’s death, in the Norse mythol- ogy a sprig of that enigmatic plant which grows between earth and heaven, that 'brought the first winter. For early man, in his first grop- ing efforts to explain the -world, seems often to have associated the mystery of the seasons, the death and return of vegetation, with the killing and resurrection of a god. The gods Adonis and Attis were such nature- symbols,* and even the Egyptian Osiris. The Easter celebration of Christ’s resurrection,.as Frazer states, some- what resembles the rites of Attis. He mentions a bitter controversy, discussed in the works of Augustine, between the old churchmen and the pagan followers of Attis — when each sect was accused of copying the other’s rites. The pagans ad- vanced the somewhat plausible point that their ceremonies were hun- dreds of years older. Admitting that, the churchmen were still un- defeated. Appearance of the copy hundreds of years ahead of the original was merely a clever bit of Satanic duplicity, intended to lead men astray. The devil, in other words, had a time machine! Eventually, of course, from such dark and bloody beginnings, the problem of forecasting the years was solved. From the secret rec- ords of the priesthood there came calendars, and finally the science of astronomy. Instead of the god who was murdered in his human incarnation, to be resurrected with the spring, we now have the bur- geoning science of physical clima- tology. Weather forecasting was the next great problem for the seers. It is now about where season-forecast- ing stood at the dawn of history — just emerging from the spells and manipulations of the medicine men, into the light of scientific under- standing. Present methods are not quite so good for forecasting to- morrow’s weather as the unmodified lunar calendar is for forecasting next spring. The modern weather man, in fact, has a good deal in common with the tribal witch doctor. They both pretend to superior knowledge. They both engage in rites that mys- tify the layman — the shaman with his fire and blood and drums, the forecaster with his balloons and teletypes and weirdly colored marks on maps and charts. The forecaster, as well as the medicine man, requires a confident address and a keen insight into his customer’s psychology, as well as a quick anticipation of the future. And the weather man, following the fine old tradition of the Delphian oracle, has a constant tendency to cast his predictions in general or UNPREDICTABLE

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When a lull- tied ycii tropical storm strikes*, it unleashes more rmr./v than did the explosion of the first atomic bomb. It's less devastating only because it lasts loaner pr«'\i Assurirttlul* II ••

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ambiguous terms, so as to cover as many different outcomes as pos- sible. There is a curious likeness be- tween the forecaster coloring the precipitation areas on his prognos- tic charts, where he thinks it will rain tomorrow, and the witch doctor burning a small doll made to repre- sent a man who will probably die tomorrow. Unfortunately for the forecaster, however, the elements are not so responsive to suggestion as the frightened savage. Such magical efforts to control as well as forecast the future are falling into disrepute, but the idea survives in the common joke about the weather man making the weather. When the arid western states are drought-stricken, public prayers for rain are offered, and sometimes an ambitious modern rain-maker will try burning mysteri- ous chemicals in a tower — maybe it will rain, anyhow, and what has he got to lose? The first part of this article dis- cussed the present state of weather science and the fine art of weather prediction. Now, forecaster-wise, we shall take a speculative glance at the future. Will the Weather ilureau ever he able to publish a thick annual volume, with some such title as this : “World Weather and Climate Kphemeris for 1999, with Hourly Temperatures, Dew Points, Ceiling Heights, Visibilities, and Precipita- tion for Eighty Selected Stations, with Auxiliary Charts Showing Winds Aloft, Cloud Cover, Hazards U»5

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to Flying, and the Paths of Tor- nadoes and Hurricanes”? That is a desirable goal. Any sort of long-term planning, by men or nations, is apt to be upset by unexpected quirks of the climate. A slight temporary change in the general atmospheric circulation can shatter the lives and fortunes of millions, in a Dust Bowl, or over- whelm cities with a hurricane off the usual track. The difficulties yet to be solved by the climate forecaster, however, are considerable. It will probably be some time before the Glacial Epoch Warning Service can operate with scientific certainty. The Earth’s climate, from the evi- dence of geology, ranges between two typical extremes. In the nor- mal type of era, the oceans are relatively large in extent, the con- tinents are low with the mountain systems well eroded, the air is warm and humid, and there are no polar ice caps. The entire planet, the most of the time, enjoys a mild and genial climate. The abnormal type is the glacial epoch. During the ice ages, the continents have been relatively great in extent, the mountains new and high. New land masses restrict the free circulation of the oceans. Vol- canoes probably are active, as the mountains rise. There are immense ice caps, with a harsh climatic con- trast between desert and glacier. The Earth, in these brief but cata- strophic periods, is far colder. Between those two extremes, there is a continual and irregular change in the world’s weather. For the prevailing weather, which is cli- mate, depends on an infinite variety of factors. The perfect forecast will have to take account of them all. Some of these factors are obvious and fairly well known — the amount of the sun’s radiation, for example, or the motion of the Earth. But others, as various as a new iceberg cracking off the Antarctic cap, a lumberjack felling a tree in Siberia, or an undersea volcano erupting into the path of the Kuro Shio, are too minute, numerous and obscure ever to he fully observed and ana- lyzed. Since the atmospheric engirie runs on solar power, the logical point at which to begin a brief discus- sion of these changing factors that go into the final integration of the weather, is with the sun itself. The star of day may appear as change- less and dependable as time. But it isn’t. The sun is a variable star. The patient observations of •'Dr. G. G. Abbot and others show that the solar “constant” — which is the value of the sun’s radiation reach- ing the outer limits of the Earth’s atmosphere — is as much as two per- cent greater at the time of sunspot maxima than at spot minima. By pvrheliometer measurements of the solar constant for many years, and analysis of the irregular-seem- ing curve, Abbot has found evi- dence of twelve or more periodic changes in the sun’s radiation, im- posed one on the other, all integral submultiples of twenty-three years. There is good evidence for a fortv-six-year cycle in average rain- 106 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

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fall — a period, oddly, just double the sunspot cycle. That cycle is shown by records of the annual Nile floods extending back to 6 22 A. D., by studies of tree rings, and even by the different thicknesses of the layers of sediment laid down by yearly floods back in the Pleistocene. Pettit of Mount Wilson has measured the ratio of visible to in- visible light in the sun’s spectrum, by an interesting method. He used a film of pure gold thin enough to be translucent to filter the visible light, obtaining a narrow band of green, and a pure silver film to filter the ultraviolet. His results show a fifty percent variation in the ultra- violet radiation, during the sunspot cycle. Since the sun’s ultraviolet is chiefly absorbed by monatomic oxygen and ozone in the upper at- mosphere— otherwise it would be quite destructive to the sort of life we know — that variation may cause vast changes in the stratospheric cir- culation, with resulting changes in circulation and weather near the surface. The present state of this depart- ment of meteorology, however, is suggested by the paradox that the Earth is coldest, especially in the equatorial regions, during the sun- spot phase when it is receiving most heat from the sun. Humphries suggests an explana- tion for the paradox. Perhaps the unusual intensity of the ultraviolet during the period of sunspot max- ima increases the formation of ozone, and this ozone facilitates the condensation of moisture at the base of the stratosphere, causing high cirrus clouds that shut part of the more intense sunlight from the sur- face. The sun’s weather, if it is ever completely understood, may turn out to be as complicated as our own. Sunspots are really storms of an inconceivable fury. The first problem of the long-range fore- caster is likely to be a successful forecast for the sun. That may not be possible, from the surface of the Earth; our atmosphere is too opaque to the significant ultra- violet. The logical answer, to the science fictionist, is an observatory out in free space, or perhaps on the Moon. Its instruments would not only study the sun’s weather but also that in other variable stars, the UNPREDICTABLE 1U7

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1‘ettcT to understand and our own. m •astatine/ Hum on land ho- le air to deliver smashing there is per jut liaison! I ISO SCIENCE FICTION I'NI'KEDICT.V II tK Besides variations in tile sun ^ actua! radiation, there are several "ther factors which influence, the amount which we receive, and its effect. I here is a regular change !" tllle Penhelion phase of the l -.irth s orbit, with a period of about twenty-one-thousand years At present, the Earth is nearest !he siu" about January 1st. receiv- '!'* about seven percent more radia- t,on than at aphelion, during our summer. Consec|uently. our win- ters ten, to he short and warm in tlie northern hemisphere, and long and cool m the southern hemisphere —when the Earth is most distant the sun. and nfhving most slowly m its orbit. droll's famous theory of the glacial ages associated them with ;^nV changes in the eccentricity of the Earth s orbit, which would i„- t reasc that effect. Ice caps might . ,)u,ltI 111 the hemisphere subject to long cold winters-no such effect is now evident, partly •clause of the maritime climate of he southern hemisphere. But. as i umphries says, that theory re- imres that the ice ages occur al- .1';a'el>. ,n the ‘wo hemispheres. I ‘ , w,tf a I,erio<I of twentv-one- thousand years, which does not fit the geologic evidence. Hes.des such astronomical factors. •e e are. of course, slow changes e extent and composition of the '-arths atmosphere. Carbon diox- .. 1 ,-vs an "oporjant part in the greenhouse effect”- freely admit-

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ting the short-wave radiation from the sun, and trapping the long-wave infrared from the surface- Any great change in the carbon dioxide ratio would affect the climate, but that effect doesn’t seem adequate to explain the glacial ages. Also, there are ceaseless changes in land elevation, in the distribution of land and water and consequently in the influence of ocean currents, and in the type of vegetation cover- ing the land — all of which must influence the complex process of heat absorption and heat-transport that we call weather. The advocates of the Wegener theory of continental drift sug- gested that past climatic changes were due to the land masses float- ing about the Earth, from one zone of climate to another, but that theory seems to lack any adequate motive power for the moving conti- nents. Humphries, in his “Physics of the Air,” which is one of the more fascinating books of science, con- siders all these effects on the world’s climate, and then sets forth at con- siderable length his own theory of vulcanism — which suggests that the climate forecaster must not only predict the weather of the sun, but also the behavior of the Earth’s interior. Benjamin Franklin was perhaps the first to speculate on the influ- ence of volcanic dust upon the world’s weather. Io May, 1784, in a passage quoted by Humphries, he wrote: “During several of the summer no months of the year 1783, when the effects of the sun’s rays to heat the Earth in these northern regions should have been the greatest, there existed a constant fog over all Europe, and great part of North America. This fog was of a per' manent nature; it was dry, and the rays of the sun seemed to have little effect toward dissipating it . . . They were, indeed, rendered so faint in passing through it that, when col- lected in the focus of a burning glass, they would scarcely kindle brown paper. Of course, their sum- mer effect in heating the Earth was exceedingly diminished. Hence, the surface was early frozen. Hence, the first snows remained on it unmelted, and received continual additions! Hence, perhaps, the winter of 1783-1784 fras more se- vere than any that happened for many years. “The cause of this universal fog is not yet ascertained. . . . Whether it was the vast quantity of smoke, long continuing to issue during the summer from Hecla, in Iceland, and that other volcano that arose out of the sea near the island, which smoke might be spread by various winds over the northern part of the world, is yet uncertain. It seems however worthy of inquiry, whether other hard winters, re- corded in history, were preceded by similar permanent and widely- extended summer fogs.” Franklin seems to have been dis- cussing the wrong volcano — perhaps he didn’t know about the great erup- tion of Asamai in Japan. But his idea is sound. Humphries believes ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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the energy of the Iropn reminiscent °f Hiroshim mat voicamc unsr -.“•n.teJiSis- eceived less h,0 . 1 tfle Earth "-P iissr k- of «,'0,'pelreKrMdl°s occurr«i In »Pted in 1902 and Cor™3- Y3™ ^ le greenhouse effect” r>f ««u?ar ST £**"! UNPREDJ SCIENCE-FICTION K

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dust, reaching heights of forty to eighty kilometers, will he suspended in the stratosphere for two to three years. The cooling effect of such par- ticles is easy to understand. The visible rays of the sun, which carry most of its energy, have wave- lengths around half a micron. The dust particles are large enough to reflect and scatter them. The radia- tion of the Earth, however, has its |>eak of energy at about ten microns. The dust particles are too small in comparison to absorb or reflect these infrared rays: there is only a slight scattering effect. Humphries goes on to calculate the quantity of such volcanic dust that would be required to shut off twenty percent of the sun’s radia- tion. The number of particles is immense — 1734 x 10 21 in the entire atmosphere — but the total volume required is only one fifteen-hun- dredth part of a cubic mile. In an era of mountain-building, such addi- tions of dust to the atmosphere don’t appear unlikely. And geology, very convincingly, says that the glacial ages were periods when great new mountains rose. The heat equilibrium of the Earth is rather delicate. A change of say 6° C. in the average temperature — which knight easily be caused by such volcanic dust— doesn’t seem very great. But the effects of such a drop in temperature, during only a few years of intensive volcanic activity, would endure for many centuries. A fall of six degrees will lower the freezing level two thousand feet 114 in the atmosphere, lower the snow line on every mountain by some similar amount, and crowd the tem- perate zones hundreds of miles toward the equator. The snows in the winter hemisphere will fall earlier, lie later, and spread hun- dreds of miles toward the tropics. And snow reflects most of the inci- dent radiation, which hare ground or vegetation would have absorbed. That fact is catastrophic. The swiftly spreading snow fields raise the albedo of the planet from its present forty percent, somewhere toward the eighty percent of snow itself. Cold sunlight is reflected back to space, and the frozen planet shines a little more brightly to its neighbors. The volcanoes may lie quiescent and the fatal dust quickly settle, but only hundreds of slow centuries can thaw the snows anil restore normal albedo. A successful forecast of the next glacial epoch, then, will depend on a prediction of the violent events beneath the Earth’s crust. The cli- mate forecasters of the future must have their seismograph stations deep in abandoned mines, and down on the ocean floor. Now let us turn a little nearer to today, for a look at the impor- tant new developments that already promise better forecasts for tomor- row. The most spectacular — and the one already most familiar to science-fiction readers — is the rocket. It is obvious, even front wdiat we read in the newspapers, that a great deal of our pre-war astound- ASTOl’NDING SC1EXCK KICTION

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ing fiction is now technical fact — although many of the details are still military secrets of one power or another. The rocket ship is only one example. For the tailless German ME-. .63 is a true rocket ship — as distin- guished from the jet-propelled planes, such as our own P-80, which burn atmospheric oxygen. The ME-163 carries all its own fuel, and might theoretically climb out of the atmosphere. And the German V-2 rocket, ac- cording to the British Ministry of Information, reaches heights of sixty miles and speeds above 3,000 mph. If fired straight upward, such a rocket might climb one hundred miles, which is probably as high as the atmosphere is dense enough to have any meteorological impor- tance. Those are developments by the enemy. But by 1940, the great American rocket pioneer, Dr. God- dard, had solved the problems of building a satisfactory rocket motor and stabilizing the rocket in flight. He was then working to reduce the weight — a “pay load” of a few pounds, of course, will be enough for the rocketsonde, instead of the ton of high explosive carried by the V-2. Willy Ley — whose fine recent book on rockets was reviewed in this ‘ magazine — is now an Ameri- can citizen, working in the United States. There is no reason to be- lieve that American rocket-science is far behind that of the Germans. The rocketsonde, obviously, is merely a matter of money, time, and NURSERY RHYMES 0f DEATH! When Diane Marlow stepped into that taxi, it was the beginning of o trip to disaster cloaked behind innocent verses of Mother Goose. Only the Master of Darkness could read between those child- hood lines and see a solution to the flood of crime! Read the thrilling, book-length novel, MOTHER GOOSE MUR- DERS, in the March issue of THE SHADOW AT ALL NEWSSTANDS UNPREDICTABLE AST— 5A 115

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the development of satisfactory instruments. But those instru- ments, to be carried aloft by the rocket, are going to pose some nice problems for the engineers. Let’s look at some of the specifications. The meteorologist will want to know the pressures and the tem- peratures of the higher stratosphere. These elements are related, of course, so that either can be deter- mined from the other. But some interesting new gadgets will be re- quired, to measure either one. Only about one percent of the atmosphere lies above the extreme range of sounding balloons. Pres- sure differences will be small; the instrument must be delicate. Ac- curate temperature measurements will be still more difficult. The speed of any efficient rocket must be measured in thousands of miles an hour — but skin-friction raises the temperature of even a modern airplane as much as five degrees above that of the air, and meteors illustrate the effect of friction at much higher velocities. There are other quantities we shall want to measure. Is there any increase in the percentage of the lighter gases, hydrogen and helium, at high elevations? — the old theory of the stratified atmosphere is dis- credited, but not entirely disproved. What about the maximum con- centrations of ozone, and of mon- atomic oxygen ? In fact, the whole subject of the radiation received from space and its effect on the atmosphere — a question as impor- tant to the radio engineer as it is to the meteorologist — is waiting for 116 the actual measurement of things now known only indirectly. And all of the answers, of course, will suggest new questions. The equipment for the rocket- sonde must be light — rocket trans- portation is expensive. It must be rugged enough to stand high ac- celerations, It must respond very quickly, for a rocket isn’t at one point long. Probably, like the radiosonde, it will have to carry its own transmitter — recording instru- ments would not often be recovered intact, after a fall of one hundred miles. The greatest problem is perhaps how to sustain the equipment at any one level long enough to get ac- curate readings. The first natural suggestion is a parachute, which will open at the top of the flight and let the robot observer transmit its data during a leisurely descent. But the trouble is that the air at one hun- dred miles above is probably too thin to open or sustain a parachute. Other equally difficult problems, however, have been solved. One of the ultimate answers may be a rocket ship circling the Earth at some five miles a second, just above the atmosphere. Centrifugal force would support it there, like a tiny moon, without use of addi- tional fuel. That doesn’t solve the problem of wind friction on the instruments, but it would allow an accurate study of the radiation reaching and leaving the atmosphere — an item of first importance. Another weather-forecasting tech- nique of great ultimate promise is ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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the use of analogues. The method itself is quite simple, although it has involved an immense amount of labor. This is the most recent and successful of various efforts to fore- cast the weather by mechanical and mathematical means. It even sug- gests the possibility of a robot weather forecaster, in some future scientific utopia. The analogue method is based on the plausible assumption that the same cause will lead to the same result. The analogue for today’s weather map is the map for some past date, which shows the same weather situation. The map for the following day, so the theory runs, will show tomorrow’s weather. Weather data covering the past forty-five years have been collected, and a series of daily maps covering the entire northern hemisphere pre- pared from it. As one leafs through these maps, it is fascinating to see the birth, growth, and movement of storms and fronts; the vast pat- terns of the air flow are revealed. These maps have been given numerical designations — from the position and intensity of the various pressure centers, for example — so that the numerical description of each map can be punched on a card. The whole system is rather simi- lar to that used by the FBI for fingerprints. After today’s weather map is analyzed, a card is punched to represent it. Then all those in the file are run through, sorting machines, to find similar situations in the past. From a number of maps indicated by the machine, more exact methods can be used to pick out the best analogue. Then, from a study of the maps for the following days, showing the motion and develop- ment of the pressure systems, the forecast is made. For all the grim testimony of bomb-shattered enemy cities, how- ever, the analogue method still has its limitations. The best available analogue is never quite an exact duplicate of today’s weather map, and the next day’s map is likely to differ still more from tomorrow’s. The science-fictionist, of course, UNPREDICTABLE 11?

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is free to imagine a weather service which has overcome such handicaps. The weather records of this utopia go back for some thousands of years — and there were never any instrumental errors, nor. any indilj- gent observers who “jawboned" their reports. This future weather system, in fact, can be entirely automatic. The data are relayed, from robot weather stations, to machines that analyze it and punch the results on cards. The cards are fed into sorting ma- chines, and the robot delves through its immense mechanical memory. It discovers the day, perhaps many centuries ago, when the weather sit- uation over the whole planet was exactly the same. Then it clanks and whirs, and prints a forecast based on the weather that followed that ancient date. Our carefree Utopians can plan their picnics ac- cordingly. Fortunately for meteorologists of the present generation, better fore- casts need not wait for that weather machine. Great advances will doubtless result from the refine- ment and extension of methods al- ready in use. The master forecasting stations of tomorrow may well receive tele- type and radio reports from all over the planet. The polar regions are important as sources of the cold air masses. Possibly automatic sta- tions will one day transmit data even from the forbidding ice- plateaus of Antarctica. A great deal of work is now being done, to correlate the entire pattern of the air flow, up into the stratosphere, with weather at the surface. The new theories now emerging will no doubt make better forecasts possible, even with the same data as before. Weather-forecasting may even become a science. And another fascinating possi- bility is yet to be considered, al- though it really involves begging the question. One simple mechan- ism designed to produce unpredict- able results — though they are hardly unpredictable by comparison with the weather — is a pair of dice. But dice can be loaded, and the variable factors that change weather and cli- mate may one day be controlled. Climate control, however, will re- quire a good deal of power. The atmosphere is more massive than it looks; it weighs a ton on every square foot. An air mass in mo- tion has an almost astronomical momentum. A tiny fraction of the energy required to divert a storm will always take you to sunny Cali- fornia. It seems a reasonably safe forecast that the weather will re- main for some time an important topic of irrelevant conversation. THE END. <• ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

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Lady Dog by. A. BERTRAM CHANDLER The more complex, sensitive, and responsive a machine becomes, the more closely it approaches a living organism. Fine — but what if the darned thing begins to believe it is a living organism . . . ? Illustrated by Williams Some ships are utterly devoid of the happy knack of inspiring affec- tion in the hearts of their crew. Such a one was Emma. Worse — she seemed determined throughout her career to get herself cordially disliked. Not that she did any- thing really bad — vessels such as she usually run short of placing themselves in situations involving actual physical danger. To them- selves, that is. Emma’s officers usu- ally lived on the verge of apoplexy. In her endearing little ways she was utterly dissimilar to the rest of the E Class, whose prototype she was. They — Evelyn, Elisabeth, El- vira and Eve — were sweet jobs. Just general cargo carriers they were, tramping between the worlds tor odd parcels of freight, and with accommodation for an occasional, infrequent handful of passengers. And they were the first ships to be fitted with the Brain. * Very labor-saving is the Brain. Just a swirl of electrons and dynamic magnetic fields in a hard vacuum, UDT DOG 119

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and it runs your ship for you. It takes care of everything. Internal pressure and temperature, altera- tions, of course, to avoid meteorites and such, and the subsequent ad- justments of orbit. Soon, they say, it will be able to handle landing and blasting off. If it could only cook! Were it not for the very stringent safety measures insisted upon by the Board, the majority of ships would run unmanned. But neither Man nor Machine is infallible, and so a full complement is carried yet. This gives a double safety factor and means that, in the unlikely event of failure or breakdown of the Brain, the vessel is brought safely to port and not left to roam the space ways as a menace to naviga- tion or, worse still, to crash like an 'enormous bomb on one of the inhabited worlds. Emma may or may not have pos- sessed a soul. That is a moot point. MacFariane, the navigator, swore that she did. Good Scot that he was, he could not imagine a piece of machinery without one. Good Scot that he was, he believed that the soul of a machine was made evident by its smooth, sweet run- ning. According to his lights Emma was a hopelessly lost soul. Captain Evandale shared the be- liefs of his senior watchkeeping of- ficer. And yet, it may be, he took a kind of perverse pride in the very perversity of his command. She had driven at least one of his prede- cessors to chronic alcoholism, two to a nervous breakdown. But he, as he was fond of telling himself, 120 and others, was made of sterner stuff. It was just that he was con- vinced that Emma would never risk her own precious skin. Botched landing in every spaceport of the Solar System invariably meant dam- age to something or somebody — but never Emma. Damaged cargo- well, by this time the Board knew what to expect from the pride of the E Class and were mildly sur- prised if nothing at all went wrong. Spoiled meals were harder to bear — even the cooking equipment was affected by the general blight — but the cadet whose turn it was to offi- ciate in the galley would take his bottling in a philosophic spirit and get busy with the can opener. But Emma’s final effort was some- thing new. MacFariane was on watch when it happened. He was sitting on his shoulder blades in the pilot’s chair, his feet on the control panel, smok- ing his stinking pipe and thinking of nothing in particular. His un- tidy, sandy hair surmounted his angular face like a disreputable halo. Had it been any other ship but Emma he would have been keeping his watch in the smoking room, making a fourth at bridge or throw- ing a wicked dart in the current darts tournament. But this was Emma — and one couldn’t be too careful. With nerve-shattering suddenness the alarm bells woke into clamor- ous life. At the same instant the port auxiliary jets cut loose, the abruptly shifting gravities deposit- ing the navigator un gently on the deck. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION

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He didn’t take time off to curse. Like all of his cloth he was not yet fully convinced of the Brain’s ability to handle a routine alteration of course, such as this obviously was. He looked first at the forward screen. It was blank. The wing screens, too, exhibited no signs of life. But the after screen — that was another matter. It was alive with points of light. MacFarlane felt a sudden chill coursing up his spine. This was no mere meteoric swarm — the regular grouping of the little lights made that much obvious. It could only be — it must be — the invasion from Outside about which the more gloomy fiction writers had woven their plots for the last three or four generations. He hurriedly pressed the button of the captain’s private alarm bell. Normally, Captain Evandale was a big, slow man. He went about his business in a manner that seemed to betoken dignity, rather than effi- ciency. Yet, when circumstances demanded it, he could move fast. His entry into the control room was little short of meteoric. He knew his officers, and knew that he could trust his navigator to call him at once if necessary — and not to drag him out for a purely routine matter. “What is it?” he demanded breathlessly. For answer the other pointed mutely at the after screen. Evandale whistled softly. “What do you make of it, Mac?” “Ah canna say, sirr. But it looks awfu’ like a grrand fleet oot there. And ye' ken we ha’ nane — anely twa monstrrosities they ca’ drrread- noughts — ” For long moments the captain studied the screen. He watched the strangely rhythmic dance of the lit- tle lights, regarded intently their slow, regular systole and diastole. He began to shake with uncontrol- lable laughter. “Oh, Mac !” he cried at last, “you’ll be the death of me. You and Emma. Can’t you see, man? She's doing it, just to put the fear of God into us all. Here we are, on maximum acceleration from Ve- nus to Callisto, and here’s a big fleet of ships apparently coming up from dead astern, but fast. That I might believe. But I’ll never be- lieve that any squadron, or any ship, could, or would, behave in the way that they’re doing. According to the screen they’re performing some utterly fantastic, impossibly com- plicated and even more impossibly precise evolutions. And judging from their apparent advance and re- cession they must be alternating between maximum acceleration and dead stop. Switch over to manual, will you?” Obediently the navigator threw open the switch which, when closed, made the Brain master of the ship. There was now no connection be- tween the screens, or the controls, and that mysterious bundle of ether- ic ganglia. Emma was on manual — and Captain Evandale was her brain. “Look!” he said. All the screens were dead. “It must have been a faulty screen LADY DOG 121

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circuit,” suggested MacFarlane. “You can make the routine tests, Mac, but I doubt very much whether you’ll find anything wrong there. The way those lights were behaving, the patterns into which they threw themselves, suggested something to me. You’ve seen the lines of force you get with a magnetic field — you know, the old experiment with iron filings on a sheet of paper over a magnet. Well, that’s what the pat- tern looked like. And the only two sources of magnetic fields in this ship are the converter and — the Brain.” “But, sir ! It can’t be the Brain. I know we don't trust them over- much, but — ” “You know Emma, Mac. If there’s anything that can go wrong she’ll make it go wrong. And the clever beggars who make the Brains always put spares aboard just in case. Suppose we have a look at it. Wait. First of all we’ll tell the others what’s been happening— they must be literally eaten up with anxiety and curiosity — mainly curi- osity.” Whilst Evandale was out of the control room MacFarlane put the screens through the routine tests. As the captain had predicted, there was no fault to be found. When Evandale returned he was taking Meyerling’s “Electronic Brain” from the book rack. With the Old Man was Stannard, chief pilot. With the three of them the control room was uncom- fortably crowded. That was the main fault of the E Class — lack of room in working spaces. “I suppose you’ve tested the screens,” said Evandale. “Yes, sir. I was just going to run through the manual to see if it would give us any pointers.” “I hope you and Stannard know something about the beastly thing. It’d never even been dreamed of when I was up for Master. What’s the extent of your knowledge. Mac?” “The usual six months' course, sir. But I warn you — there are only three men in the whole System who really understand it.” “And you’re not one of them, I take it. And you, Stannard?” The chief pilot shook his head. “Well, if you can’t fix it, it just means manuals all the wtey to Port Strogoff. It’ll do you lazy beggars no harm, anyhow.” MacFarlane was leafing rapidly through the book. “It seems,” he said, “like Pawson 'Effect. And that means that the brain case is no longer air-tight — that there’s no longer a hard vacuum inside. This will not, of course, af- fect the magnetic fields, but it will interfere with the free movement of the electrons. It — ” “Spare us the technicalities. Can you fix it?” “Well—” “Can you fix it?” “I think so, sir. If it’s Pawson Effect, yes.” “What do we do first?” “We shall have to shut the air- tight door, and then evacuate all the atmosphere from the control room. Of course, we could remove the top hemisphere first — but then we m ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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shouldn’t be able to make the final test.” As he talked he was pulling the spacesuits from their locker. The three men helped each other on with the clumsy, heavy clothing. Their faces were already streaming with perspiration when they snapped shut the visors of their helmets. MacFarlane’s gloved hand went out of the air-tight door control. “All right to carry on, sir?” he asked. “Yes, Mac. You and Stannard do the job — I’ll watch.” Silently, the door slid shut. Stan- nard satisfied himself that all was in order and then opened the valve that would let the air of the little compartment rush out into airless space. Meanwhile, the navigator had produced from the spares lock- er a brush and a can of some vis- cous substance. With this he care- fully coated every inch of the sur- face of the spherical casing. The needle of the pressure gauge on the control panel quivered, then trav- eled steadily round to zero. “Look !” cried MacFarlane, his voice tinny in the helmet phones. The others followed his pointing finger with their eyes. There, on the smooth, glistening surface of the upper hemisphere, a bubble was growing. It swelled rapidly from a pea to a plum, from a plum to a football bladder. It burst. By this time the viscous film had hardened, so that the bubble in its bursting left a permanent record. The three men peered intently at the little cir- cle— like a tiny Lunar crater it was LA DY DOG — but not even with the aid of the control room magnifying glass could they find the flaw. Yet flaw there must have been. Again MacFarlane went to the locker, taking therefrom a steel bar about six feet in length. On top of the upper hemisphere of the case was a ringbolt, through which the bar would just pass. He took one end of the bar, Stannard the other. Together they pulled, hard. Evan- dale could hear the little, involun- tary grunts as they tugged and strained. Each hemisphere of the brain case had a projecting rim. In the upper one were four slots, oval in shape. There were four corresponding holes in the lower rim, evenly spaced, circular in section.* These had a screw thread. Beyond as- suming that they were of some use in assembling the contraption Evan- dale had hardly noticed them. But he watched them now, and saw the semicircular end of the oval slot, which had been in exact alignment with the edge of the circular hole, slide out of line very slowly. “She’s moving!” he shouted. “Ay, an’ aboot time,” — Mac’s ex- cited again, thought the captain — “but it willna be long the no’.” Now he and Stannard were walk- ing round the case almost like wind- jammer sailors around the capstan. Evandale found himself very much in the way and hurriedly fell back among the controls. Even so, it was slow work, for the thread was incredibly fine and fitted with micro- scopic exactitude. At last, in startling distinction 125

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against the gleaming metal of the threads, appeared a hair-thin, dead black line. The Old Man heard MacFarlane grunt, “Easy, the no'!” He and Stannard slowed their pace, then stopped. “The guide rods, Stan,” ordered the navigator. The chief pilot went to the lock- er and brought out four steel bars. One by one the other passed their threaded ends through the oval slots, screwed them home in the circular holes. He cursed a little at the clumsiness of his spacesuit gloves, but the task was soon finished. Then — “Will you put out the lights, sir?” As Evandale hastened to comply he was told — “and we’d better have the shutters up, too.” The control room was now in pitch darkness. The captain guessed that his two officers were now turn- ing the upper hemisphere through the last five or so degrees of arc permitted by the oval slots. Then there was light again — of a sort. He saw McFarlane and Stannard. black, grotesque figures against the bowl of palely swirling fire that was the lower hemisphere of the brain case. He saw them lift the upper hemisphere, sliding it up the guide rods. He left his post by the control pane! and moved a few, cautious steps so he could look at the Brain. It was the first time that he had ever seen one. To him they had always been just a bundle of swirl- ing nothingness inside a black globe. Now, he saw that he was face to face with naked Power. Not the 124 crude power of an atomic reaction motor, but something more subtle and more — dangerous. Yes, that was the word — dangerous. Here, he knew, was the monster that would some’ day destroy its maker. And he was suddenly afraid. Untiringly, unceasingly, eddied the pale blue flame. It seemed as though it were continually being sucked down a vortex none knew whither, and being ceaselessly re- plenished none knew whence. And there was an ebb there, and a flow, rhythmic and hypnotic. He felt that if he could only gaze at its heart for long enough he would know the answer to all the questions that had troubled the heart of Man from time immemorial. He — With shocking abruptness the black hemisphere of the spare case came down and shut off the un- canny, gripping spectacle. “Lights !” he heard somebody say. Mechanically he stumbled to the switchboard. Moving without con- scious volition his long experienced hand found and pressed the switch. The harsh, glaring light seemed to dispel the morbid fancies that had oppressed him whilst staring at the Brain. With interest he watched the two officers give the upper hem- isphere the small turn permitted by the slots and guide rods, and then, one by One, remove those rods. MacFarlane took his brush again and put a very thin coat of the vis- cous compound on each of the sur- faces of the rim that would be in contact. Then he and Stannard brought the steel bar into play again, and the upper half of the ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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case was rapidly screwed home. With his sheath knife the navi- gator shaved off such small shreds of the sealing composition as had been extruded from the union. “An* that’s a’ for the day/’ he said. “Suppose this one leaks?” asked Evandale. “The domes arc tested up to four atmospheres before they leave the laboratory,” replied the other. “Of course, there may be a flaw — as there was in the old one. In which case it will make itself known after a few days of the drive vibration. As for the joint — we’ll see as soon as we let the air back. If any gets in there we shall see a most defi- nite depression in the seal. Shall we let the air back now, sir?” “Go ahead. If you’re satisfied, Mac, it must be O. K.” Stannard turned the wheel of the valve admitting atmosphere from the body of the ship. They saw the furious little jet, its moisture condensing and freezing as it was subjected to a rapid — almost instan- taneous— decrease of pressure. As things became more nearly equal- ized it was no longer visible, but its thin, high whistle was distinctly audible through the helmets of their suits. The whistle ceased, but it was not until the pressure gauge registered the standard one atmos- phere that they rid themselves of the heavy discomfort of their pro- tective clothing. “Who is on watch now?” asked the captain. MacFarlane glanced at the clock. “Mr. Kent, sir.” “Right. Switch over to Brain Control, call Mr. Kent in and tell him to let us know at once if any- thing misbehaves. And you and Stannard come and have a spot with me before lunch.” Three times had the hands of MacFarlane’s twenty - four - hour chronometers circled their dials. The navigator was on watch. This time he wasn’t blissfully idle, he was working out, for his own amusement and satisfaction, a knot- ty problem in celestial mechanics. He reached for the ephemeris, then paused, his hand poised in midair. Something was wrong with the book rack. It was quite a while before he placed it. The books were in their right order, that was the first thing he checked. But there was something wrong. Then he cursed his stupidity. On the leather bound back of Mikalelin’s “Principles of Interplanetary Navigation” was a spot. It is probable that nobody else would have noticed it at this stage — but MacFarlane in his con- trol room was like a houseproud woman. And it wasn’t a spot of dirt or fluff — it was growing. As the navigator watched, spellbound, its expanding rim overlapped the “G” in the last word of the book’s title, and then, a little later, en- croached upon the “I” and “A.” Its color, too, looked somehow wrong. It was an unpleasant, iridescent purple and stood out in unhealthy relief against the brown of the binding. MacFarlane stretched a tentative finger and gingerly touched this hA Df DOG 12 S

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blot upon the immaculateness of his domain. It felt unpleasantly cold and slimy, and he could have sworn that it pulsed and stirred beneath his fingertip. For a few seconds he sat immobile, pondering, then decided that this might well be a serious matter. He picked up the telephone and put through a call for the captain and the surgeon. Evandale was first on the scene. He was an astronaut, not a biologist, and he was at a loss. The myste- rious purple stain was spreading rapidly now. He didn’t like the look of it, and raised a hand to stop MacFarlane as he made to lift the book from the rack to stop the blight from spreading to his other volumes. He was a little too late, however, and the offending book was placed on the plastiglass desk top. Luckily whatever it was seemed to prefer leather to glass. They heard Gwynn’s quick foot- steps up the ladder leading to Con- trol. The surgeon’s entry was typ- ical of the cock-sparrow jauntiness of the little man. "What’s wrong ? What’s wrong?” he demanded, briskly washing his hands with invisible soap and water. "Mac want me to operate on the Brain for a cere- bral tumor?” Evandale was not amused. "No, doctor,” he replied stolidly. "It’s this.” • He indicated the volume on the desk. Now all the gilt letters of the title on the back were completely obliterated, and the stain was spreading to the covers. "Looks like a slime-mold of sorts, sir. Where did it come from ? Mind if I take this book down to my laboratory? Be right back.” And Gwynn was gone, holding the book with the utmost care, al- most as though it were liable to turn and bite him at any moment. “I wish he’d take life a little eas- ier,” commented Evandale. "He’ll come rushing back in two seconds flat and tell us all about it. Mean- while, what do yott make of it, Mac?” "I suppose it must be a mold of ASTOUNDING SCU3NCE-FICTION

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some sort, sir. Rather like the story they tell ot the discovery of penicil- lin.” “But where did it come from? And why has it only just put in an appearance ?” “The guid Lord alane kens — ” “Very interesting. Very interest- ing!” Gwynn was back, his pale eyes gleaming with enthusiasm be- hind his spectacles. “A most defi- nite alien life form. Of course, may be mutation. Can’t tell. Haven’t the facilities.” “But what is it?” “Don’t know. It’s rather like a slime-mold in its behavior, but the cells of its structure seem to retain their identity. So far it hasn’t pro- duced any sporangia” — give it time, man, give it time, thought Evandale — “perhaps some kind of sexual union is necessary first between the individual cells, as in the case of Terran slime-molds. “But its present rate of growth and proliferation — stupendous ! Re- produces by fission, of course, but three, three new individual cells af- icr each division!” “But where — ?” “Don’t know. Find out sometime perhaps.” “Vly book — ” began MacFarlane. “Send it back. Taken covers, iorry. Have to take these covers too,” he pointed to the book rack, “unless I can find some other food. Maybe shoes — ” He grabbed a couple of leather- bound volumes before the navigator could stop him, and clattered once more down the ladder. “If I’d anely kenned,” said Mac- Farlane bitterly, “I’d ha’ soaked yon beastly thing \vi’ every germi- cide in the First Aid box !” Days later the origin of the slime- mold was still a mystery. It should not have been. The long dead and gone, but not forgotten, Svante Ar- rhenius would have known. But he was a biologist — even though by profession a chemist — and he had a pet theory. Emma’s officers had, of course, heard of Arrhenius — but none of them were interested. With the obvious exception of that other amateur biologist, Dr. Gwynn. And he had always refused to ac- cept the Swede’s theory as to the extraterrestrial origin of mundane life. And the mysterious, extra-terran life form no longer took first place in all conversation. Gwynn still continued with his experiments — he had, by this time, concocted a pabu- lum on which the mold would thrive, although it still resolutely refused to produce any sporangia — and MacFarlane still gazed sadly at the row of books bound in makeshift doth and pasteboard. He was doing just this when the alarm bell rang. There was no al- teration of course immediately after so he considered there was no cause for alarm. The Brain had been be- having very well since the shipping of the new case. The navigator was no nearer to comprehension of the theory of the thing — it was said that at least twenty years of in- tensive study were necessary — but having repaired it himself he had lost his original mistrust. His at- LADY DOG 127

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titude now was that of a doting father toward a rather incompre- hensible but perfectly sweet and well-mannered child. As a matter of form — after all, it was what he was paid for — he glanced at the screens. His manner lost its carefree indolence. The blue halo around the little spot of light that was, apparently, approach- ing from the starboard beam de- noted that this was no mere me- teorite but a man-made object, man- ufacturing and consuming energy. A ship. His latest Notices to Astronauts gave no indication of any vessel on a contiguous orbit. It might be — he smiled at the fancy — a pirate or an invader from Outside ; it probably was one of the two dread- noughts. As a matter of fact the idea of space marauders would not have been too farfetched. These very battleships owed their existence to Broderick’s fortunately short-lived career of piracy in the Jovian Mail liner Thunderbird. After this in- teresting little effort the Federation decided that its little ships — patrol cum survey cutters — weren't enough to deal with any really determined attempt to upset the peace of the System. Hence the battlewagons. MacFarlane made hasty calcula- tions from the data at his disposal. The other ship, he saw, would pass a few miles ahead of Emma on its present course. Had it been a col- lision orbit the Brain would have pulled Emma clear of danger. He pressed the switch that linked up the big, mounted telescope to 128 the screen circuit. He saw the in- strument swing, then steady. He set it to his own focus and then gazed long and fixedly out into the black of space. At last he picked up the telephone, set the pointer for the captain’s room, and pressed the button. “Vessel of Lord Nelson class ap- proaching on starboard beam, sir,” he announced. “I’ll be right up,” came the an- swer. Faintly he heard the cap- tain’s voice addressing a third per- son— “Coming up to look at the big ship. Doc?” When Evandale and Gwynn ar- rived the dreadnought was just vis- ible to the naked eye. MacFarlane turned from his telescope. “Lord Nelson, sir.” “How do you know, Mac ?” “I did my Reserve Officer's train- ing in her. And John Paul Jones has Hollister Projectors in those after sponsons instead of guns.” “Wonder what he wants? Just playing at policeman, I suppose. A pity they can’t find something better to do than interfering with the rou- tine of peaceful merchantmen.” Closer and closer came the big ship. As she approached she ad- justed her orbit so that it was more nearly parallel with that of Emma. Those in Control, and those crowd- ing around the smoking room ports, could see the evanescent flashes of even more intense brilliance at her stern as she did so. Silly, calling dreadnoughts “she,” thought Evandale. With all those guns and turrets and things, which just can't be streamlined, there's a ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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definite masculinity of appearance — The R. T. speaker crackled, then inquired in a cultured accent — “Lord Nelson to unknown vessel. What ship, please?" “Don’t they get Notices?” growled Evandale. “Here, give me the mike!” He raised the instrument to his mouth. “Emma” he barked, deliberately coarsening his voice. “Port Le- maire to Port Strogoff with ganna nuts and mercury.” “Speak up, please. I can’t hear you for that infernal mooing noise. I suggest that you check your trans- mitter.” “What mooing noise?” bellowed Evandale. “Like a lovesick cow.” “Must be your receiver!” He covered the microphone with his hand. “Mac! For the love of Mike look at our set! Emma's up to her tricks again and making us all look ruddy fools in front of these glorified policemen!” Hearing no reply from his navi- gator he turned his head to see what that officer was doing. He, with the surgeon, was staring intently at the starboard screen. At first Evandale couldn’t see what was wrong. Obviously, at this close range Lord Nelson should have ap- peared not as a spot of light but in silhouette. This was the case. And then the captain saw that far more detail than one could reasonably expect was exhibited. Furthermore, there was something most definitely wrong. For long moments he couldn’t lay his finger on it. Then he was reminded of his idle thoughts of a short while ago anent the es- sential masculinity of men-o’-war. What he was looking at wasn’t a reasonably accurate facsimile of the dreadnought but a caricature in rather bad taste. Rather bad taste ? He looked again. It was subtly yet unmistakably obscene. “The Brain!” he cried, “it’s going haywire again! Switch over to manual before we do something really bad!” MacFarlane hastened to obey. His fingers closed over the handle of the switch. He pulled. There was a tiny splutter of blue sparks as the circuit was broken. Then — from its position in the instrument rack — a pair of steel-tipped dividers lifted, opened, and shot with uner- ring accuracy to bridge the gap left by the opening of the switch. With his bare hands the navigator tried to dislodge the fantastically make- shift connection. The shock flung him out of his chair to crash head- long into the lockers along the port semicircle of the control room. They heard the port steering jets thunder briefly, felt the surge of acceleration as the main drive madly cut loose. Emma's nose swung in a swift arc till she was heading straight for Lord Nelson. It seemed that they must crash, that both ships must become one com- mon mass of flaming ruin. When collision seemed imminent, when the huge hulk seen through their view ports blotted out the very sky, the steering jets gave tongue again. Had Lord Nelson taken no avoiding hAtyJ DOG 129

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action there would have been, per- haps, the thickness of a coat of paint between the two vessels. But whoever was at the dread- nought’s controls had his wits about him. She, too, swung just before the moment of impact. Had she swung the wrong way nothing could have saved her. As it was, the fury of her main and auxiliary drives washed Emma with a flood of daz- zling, coruscating atomic fire. Once again the R. T. came to life. “Lord Nelson to Emma. What are you doing? I’ll have you on Ceres for this !” “Sorry,” replied Evandale inade- quately. “My ship appears to be out of control.” “Get her under control at once and wait for my boarding party!” “Get her under control yourself,” muttered the captain. “Easier said than done, you brassbound nincom- poop— ” MacFarlane was still out — the few moments of excessive accelera- tion had done nothing towards bringing him around. “Get the en- gineer on the ’phone, Doc,” ordered Evandale. “Tell him to cut the drive — kill the converter — anything he likes ! Meanwhile — ” He looked around, then remem- bered that there was a pair of rub- ber gloves in the tool locker. He put them on. Gingerly he took hold of the dividers, still in their position across the switch. He pulled, hard. They resisted his ef- forts. As he braced himself for a tug that would do justice to the situation he heard Gwynn saying that he could get no reply from aft. is® Whatever answer he intended to give was wiped completely out of his mind by what happened next. From the locker, whose door, un- thinkingly, he had left open, sailed a heavy wrench. From the corner of his eye he saw it coming and dodged back. The tool grazed the back of his hand, skinning his knuckles and tearing the thick glove. It crashed into the switch. Contacts and dividers were pounded and crumpled. To switch over to manual now would be no easy task. Again the R. T. speaker was blaring. “ Lord Nelson to Emma! Lord Nelson to Emma! Suggest that if you cannot get your ship under control you abandon ! Suggest — ” The battleship’s suggestions were cut short as Emma, having swung around in a graceful arc, once again accelerated violently towards the other. For long seconds the ships flashed through space on parallel orbits, hulls almost in contact. It seemed that the merchantman was continually edging in towards the battlewagon, who, at the same time, was frantically trying to edge out. Too sharp a swing would bring her vulnerable stern into violent, dam- aging contact with the runaway. MacFarlane had come round. He staggered to his feet, took in at a glance the mess the heavy steel wrench had made of the control panel. Through the ports he saw the colossal bulk of Lord Nelson. closer by far than he had ever seen another ship in. the whole, of his ASTOUNDING SCI P.NC E-FICTION

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astronautical career. Closer than he would ever see another ship. He realized what must be done. He staggered to the tool locker, fumbled for a few seconds, and produced a hacksaw. It was a fine tool — only the best in the way of equipment was able to come up to the high standards of the Board. Its steel blade was almost diamond hard. With this it would be scant seconds before the armored control cable from the lower hemisphere of the Brain was irrevocably severed. Side by side the two ships raced through the void. At first Emma’s bow hung level with Lord Nelson’s midship section. Then Emma, somehow, succeeded in squeezing out more than the standard three gravities for which her engines had been built. She forged ahead. With her uncanny mastery of mag- netic fields she should have fore- seen what was bound to happen. As the free magnetrons surge from the converters, every ship in space be- comes a magnet. And now it was a case of like pole to like pole as the bows drew level. Like repels like — and merchantman and man-o’-war sheered violently and suddenly apart. As MacFarlane started work on the armored cable, the R. T. started up again. “Admiral to Master! Admiral to Captain Evandale! I give you ten minutes to abandon ship, and then I open fire. Do you hear me? Ten minutes — -and I open fire!” The keen blade of the little saw bit into the armored cable. The rubber insulation was bared, and then a gleam of bright metal showed. Only a matter of seconds now. But the tool was snatched from Mac- Farlane’s hands. Momentarily, it hung in midair before him. Then it was bent into an impossible arc be- fore it snapped. The navigator barely dodged the sharp, jagged fragments as they were flung in his face. Evandale and the surgeon, stum- bling over the other in their haste, made for the spares locker. Un- heeded, vivid atomic fire washed once more over the ports as Emma skimmed Lord Nelson’s stern. Again the speaker blared : “Ten min- utes— and I open fire ! Ten minutes — and I open fire! Do you hear me ?” But Evandale and Gwynn had found the way to immobilize the monster that had taken charge of the control room. They found the steel bar — in- serted it through the ringbolt of the upper hemisphere of the brain case. They strained with cold des- peration. Once the mad machine lay naked before them they could do something to it. They never had the chance. The bar was seized by the same forces that had wielded wrenches and di- viders, snapped finely tempered blades. And now it became a dub, driving the three men towards the open hatchway. The speaker was still reiterating its warning when Evandale in his slow, stubborn retreat stumbled over the microphone. Dodging the flail- ing bat he picked it up. “No man gives orders to me LADY DOG 131

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aboard my own ship !” he bellowed recklessly. It was as much a de- fiance of the Brain as of the un- known admiral. Then the micro- phone was smashed from his grasp and he stumbled back with a shat- tered hand. They were not pursued through the doorway. On the ladder — anxious but unable to come to their aid in that cramped space — they found the first and second pilots and two of the cadets. ‘‘Where’s Williamson?” demand- ed the captain. “With the other two lads — trying to get back into the engine room. He came along to look at the big ship through the smoking room ports. And the air-tight door shut of itself.” Half sobbing, Evandale ran down the ladders — never had they seemed so long — leading aft. At the last bulkhead he found the engineer and the two boys. A pile of splintered wood was mute testimony to their futile attempts to break into the engine compartment. They must have stripped every cabin of its portable furniture. The captain went down on his hands and knees, hammered at the door with his bare fists. He could not, he would not, relinquish his command. And he had to make her once more obedient to his will. Forward, MacFarlane and Stan- nard stared at the air-tight door that had slid shut, barring access to Control. “What now, Mac?” “I suppose we’d better do as yon admiral says.” Strangely enough, there was now almost no trace of accent in his speech; he was past excitement. “We’d better get out of this so he can blow this cow into very small pieces.” “Damned hot!” ejaculated Gwynn, mopping his brow. He walked unsteadily to the nearest bulkhead thermometer. He swore. The pointer had jumped from its normal, comfortable 18° Centigrade to 27° — and it was still rising, fast. “Better get out,” he advised Mac- Farlane. “She’s trying to cook us now.” Without enthusiasm the navi- gator gave his assent. He knew that, admiral or no admiral, it was their duty to stay and fight what- ever it was that had taken posses- sion of their ship. But he knew, too, that if they stayed with Emma, the battleship would, in all prob- ability, hold her fire. Men had got out of the habit of murdering each other with good intentions. And Emma might kill them all be- fore they could gain control— and then she would roam the spaceways as the worst menace in the history of interplanetary navigation. “Stan !” he ordered. “Get every- body along to the lifeboat. We’re getting out! The Navy can play it all their own way then!” With Gwynn he hurried aft, bel- lowing “Boat Stations!” as he did so. The engineer and the two cadets needed no second bidding. They were badly shaken and badly fright- ened and anything was preferable to this mad ship. But Captain Evandale remained 188 ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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crouched on the deck-plates. With bleeding hands he was still ham- mering at the air-tight door. His face, as he turned it towards his navigator, was haggard and tear stained, almost unrecognizable. The man seemed, somehow, to have shrunk. “We are abandoning ship, sir/' said MacFarlane gently. “But we can’t.” The voice was dull, flat. “We must stay.” MacFarlane looked at Gwynn. The surgeon nodded. The navigator crouched awk- wardly and then swung his right fist for Evandale’s jaw. It was, necessarily, s feeble blow. But it was enough. The captain went out like a light. And then they had to half carry, half drag, the inert body up interminable ladders to the boat cradle. Emma was still ac- celerating wildly, and her frequent and erratic changes of direction created the illusion of a surface ship laboring desperately in a moun- tainous sea. But at last they were in the cabin of the tiny craft. The door slid to ; all was in readi- ness. “Give her the gun, Stan!” or- dered MacFarlane. The first pilot’s hand hovered un- certainly above the stud that would, in theory, both switch on the drive and, through a contact in the hull, open the door in Emma's side. Would she let them get away so easily? But there was no alterna- tive. With rather ludicrous care he pressed the firing key. Hard or gentle pressure — it was all the same. If the boat port failed to open, their little craft would crumple itself against the unyield- ing plates. But the door opened and the boat shot out into space, flung like a stone from a sling by Emma's wild gyrations. Briefly, terrifyingly, Lord Nelson loomed before them. It seemed that they must inevitably be crushed between the two ships. Then they were clear, streaking Sunward, their eyes filled with the intolerable yet welcome radiance of the Day Star. Minutes elapsed before they got her turned round. And then the boat swung in a great, lazy arc till the distant sun glared unheeded on their quarter. They wanted to see the finish of the strange battle. And they wanted to be on hand to be picked up by Lord Nelson when it was all over. Not that they were convinced that Lord Nelson would be the victor. They had seen too much of Emma's strange powers to be sure of anything. But the ad- miral would be free to use his guns now — he had curtly acknowledged their message to the effect that they had abandoned ship. At first all that they could see were two distant, interlacing spirals of fire. Then the battle rolled closer and they could distinguish the ships. Emma, literally, was making rings round the other. Both vessels were giving an exhibition of astrobatics that would have astounded their de- signers. “Why doesn’t he use his guns?” It was Evandale, conscious once more and with the wildness gone LADY DOG 133

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from his eyes. The responsibility was now no longer his, but lay with the unknown admiral who was fight- ing the first action in the history of the Federation Space Navy. “Why doesn’t he use his guns and finish it?” “He can’t,” answered MacFar- lane shortly. It should have been obvious, he thought. The use of Hamilton tor- pedoes, explosive projectiles or the deadly but inaccurate Hollister Pro- jectors would have been suicidal at such short range. And it had always been assumed that war in .Space would be fought out between ships at fantastic distances from one an- other. “Why — ?” began the captain again. Then — “Oh, I see.” Hard on his words came the vivid flash of Lord Nelson’s broadside. Those in the boat caught their breath, waited to see both ships dis- solve in an evanescent hell of atomic fire. But things were just as they had been, man-o’-war and mad mer- chantman still reeling through the intricate measures of their deadly dance. “He’s using his brains, yon ad- miral !” cried MacFarlane. “Solid prrajectiles for close quarrters!” Again the great guns flashed, and yet again. So far as they could see, Emma had sustained no dam- age, although her pace seemed ap- preciably to have slackened. Then, without warning, she turned and fled erratically sunward. It seemed that after all she would be the death of her crew, only a craft so small and handy as the lifeboat could have 134 avoided the onrushing desti uction. Stannaid gave her hard upper starboard jet. The boat spun like a top, violent acceleration combined with centrifugal force twisting the very guts of those inside her. For fleeting instants boat and mother ship were running almost parallel at speeds that were not too greatly disproportionate. So it was that they saw that Emma’s driving tubes were buckled and twisted, that the burnished beauty of the sleek, streamlined hull was marred by ugly gashes. From the speaker of the boat receiver as she passed came a low, dreadful whimpering sound. She was like a hurt, hunted animal as she staggered by, and they all some- how knew that the hurt went deeper than the merely physical. Evandale was making a peculiar choking sound. They turned to look at him. His, face was streaming with tears. He twisted in his seat, shook his fist at the distant battle- ship, aloof and lordly, making as yet no effort to pursue. “Go on !” he bawled, “finish her !” “They must, captain. They must!” Gwynn’s sympathy was evi- dent in spite of his clipped, staccato speech. ' “Can’t let her go. Knows too much now. Repair herself, make weapons. Hate all ships after this !” “But didn’t she hate them be- fore ?” “No.” Then — “Can't you see?” “Look !” Slowly, ponderously, in turrets and sponsons, swung the great guns and projectors of Lord Nelson. The ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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guns blazed, strange, fleeting novae against the background of the eternal stars. But Emma’s wild course made her a difficult target. Whether tfcis was due to her dis- torted jets or to an instinctive at- tempt to evade the wrath to come they could not tell. But the first salvo missed. A human pilot might have antici- pated the automatic spotting correc- tion and steered straight for the bursts of the huge shells, marked as they were by a luminous, corus- cating blue haze. But Emma, like a frightened horse, sheered madly away from the danger past, straight into the jaws of the doom to come. Not without skill Stannard jockeyed the lifeboat into the yawn- ing port in the huge, gleaming side. They felt the jar as she settled into the cradle, then waited until their external pressure gauge showed that it was safe to open the door. Evandalfe was first out, the old rule of “last into a boat, first aboard a ship” still held good. He found himself in a long, well-lighted alley- way. A spruce youngster in sub- lieutenant's uniform was there to receive him. The captain returned the officer’s salute, acutely conscious as he did so that it was more than twenty-four hours since he had last shaved, that he had left his cap aboard Emma, that his braid was tarnished and tliat the sleeves of his old, comfortable jacket were badly frayed. It wasn't so bad for the others, he reflected, they had done time in this class of ship. But he had been too old to enter the Re- 186 serve when it was formed. To him this strange little world of gray paint and burnished metal was as alien as the yet to be reached planets of Alpha Centauri. Over the ship's public address system came the thin, high whistle of bos'ns pipes. There was the sound of running feet as, some- where, somebody hastened to obey the enigmatic order at the double. It was all redolent of tradition — a tradition going far back beyond the motley collection of small spacecraft that had been dignified with the name of a Navy, far beyond the first clumsy rockets roaring up to the Moon. It was big-, Evandale was obliged to admit. It was big — Abruptly, he became aware that the youth was talking to him. . . the admiral’s compliments, sir, and will you and your senior officers come with me to his flat? Brown and Leyton !” — the two mid- shipmen with him sprang smartly to attention — “take the other officers and the cadets to the wardroom and gunroom respectively.” “What is it going to be?” asked . Evandale, joking desperately. No ordinary man seeks interviews with admirals, even in ordinary circum- stances. “Ceres or the firing squad ?” “That is for the admiral to de- cide, sir.” replied the sub, his man- ner icily correct. “Who is the admiral?” “Vice Admiral Cartwright, sir.” The captain’s manner appreciably brightened. Things might have been worse — much worse. The brass hat could have been a relic ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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of the Space Patrol, one of those whose self-importance was in in- verse ratio to the size of the ships that he had commanded in the old days. But Cartwright had come in from the Interplanetary Mer- chant Navy during the era of fleet expansion. True, he was a big-ship man, but he could be expected to appreciate the viewpoint of a mer- chant captain. Tall and spare, the better type of priest rather than a fighting man, Cartwright was sitting before his desk when the merchant officers en- tered. In one of the easy-chairs was a younger, stoutish man wear- ing the insignia of a captain. The admiral rose to his feet. He ex- tended his hand in welcome, but his manner was forbidding. As Evandale hastened to make intro- ductions he cut him short. “That is not necessary, captain. I have photostats of all your papers here." “Master, five officers and four cadets — all aboard and accounted for, sir!" reported the sub lieuten- ant. “Thank you, Bracegirdle. You may go." “Be seated, gentlemen," said Cartwright. Then — “I need hardly say that Captain Jones and myself take a very poor view of the way in which the safety of our ship was menaced. Fortunately for all of us we were able to destroy your vessel. In fact," he permitted him- self a fleeting glimmer of a smile, “I should be almost grateful to you for the first real battle practice this Service has ever experienced. “But” — he pushed over a decan- ter and three glasses — “you look as though you need this before you start talking.” It was rum, sweet and smooth and potent. Evandale did not realize how near he had been to total collapse until he felt its heart- ening fire running through his veins. He gratefully drained his glass. Taking a deep breath, he started to talk. Of Emma’s past he talked, of the cross-grained character that had been built into her in the yard. Now and again Captain Jones would turn the sheaf of papers in his hand, checking the many details of her past wickedness ; now and again MacFar lane and Gwynn would lend th^ir affirmatives to their captain’s narrative. Of that last, mad fight in the control room he told and of all their futile efforts to bring their ship once more under their com- mand. Then, suddenly, the surgeon broke in. “Missed the point!" he snapped. “Obvious, / thought. You mind, captain? Good. Like this, ad- miral— ” From worlds long dead wearily circling cold, forgotten suns drift the seeds of life. Through the vast, empty reaches of Interstellar Space they float, rudderless, mere flotsam borne by the sluggish ebb and flow of the Tides of Time, at the mercy of the cross-currents of light and gravitation. Some, after LADY DOG 187

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ages of aimless wandering, fall on stony ground — into the incandescent hearts of great stars or to the sur- face of planets where the very en- vironment inhibits the growth of any life or to worlds where life is already strong and tenacious enough easily to crush the tentative bridgeheads of the invaders from Outside. Sterile of all life, save that of her crew, is a ship in Space. Just prior to her sailing every compart- ment, every ounce of stores or cargo, the clothing and even the bodies of her personnel, must be exposed to gases and radiations, must not be allowed to remain po- tential carriers of plague between the worlds. To this sterile world, ripe for ex- ploitation, came the seeds of life. The control room was open to the apparent emptiness of the Outside. And when it was no longer open there was warmth, and light, and — for all save one of the seeds — air. Perhaps that one, infinitesimal bundle of the Life Principle was not material. Perhaps, in the Begin- ning, there were no material Seeds. Just little swirls and eddies of the Life Force that, given favorable conditions, clothed themselves with fighting, eating, breeding proto- plasm— Perhaps — And so the stubborn life of this one seed became wedded to the strange, pseudolife of the Brain, with all its conditioned reflexes that served it for memories. Became wedded, too, to the dim, half-life that is built into all machines by their makers, that passes into all machines from their masters. And the Brain became alive, and the ship became alive, and she was an alien in the world of Men. ‘‘Don't know what she made of us” concluded Gwynn. “Parasites, perhaps; or something that came with the lease, like phagocytes in human body. Maybe, at the finish, cancerous growth. But she wanted rid of us. Killed us, cheerfully, if we hadn’t left. But wasn’t fussy.” He paused a moment. Then, reluctantly — “Arrhenius was right after all — ” There was a long silence. Again Evandale reached for the decanter, refilled his glass with his undamaged hand. He was past caring about anything. Thoughtful, Stannard and MacFarlane stared before them with unseeing eyes. On the faces of the admiral and his captain half belief struggled with a blank in- credulity. Then — “But why should it . . . she . . . attack us?” demanded Cartwright. “What had we done?” Surprisingly, the surgeon blushed a deep red. He had never, remem- bered the navigator, joined in the ofttimes crude and coarse shipboard discussions of life and love. With slow deliberation, with ex- planation and epitaph, MacFarlane broke the heavy, embarrassed silence. “She was ever a bitch — ” he said. 138 THE END. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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A Logic Name Joe by WILL F. JENKINS Joe was a machine , and Joe wanted to he helpful, Joe was immensely helpful. So horribly helpful he very nearly destroyed civilisation with his accurate answers! Illustrated by Klldala It was on the third day of August that Joe come off the assembly line, and on the fifth Laurine come into town, and that afternoon I saved civilization. That’s what I figure, anyhow. Laurine is a blonde that I was crazy about once — and crazy is the word — and Joe is a logic that I have stored away down in the cellar right now. I had to pay for him because I said I busted him, and sometimes I think about turning him on and sometimes I think about taking an ax to him. Sooner or later I'm gonna do one or the other. I kinda hope it’s the ax. I could use a coupla million dollars — sure! — an’ Joe'd tell me how to get or make ’em. He can do plenty! But so far I’ve been scared to take a chance. After all, I figure I really saved civilization by turnin' him off. The way Laurine fits in is that she makes cold shivers run up an’ down my spine when I think about her. You see. I’ve got a wife which I acquired after I had parted from Laurine with much romantic de- spair. She is a reasonable good wife, and I have some kids which are hellcats but I value 'em. If I have sense enough to leave well enough alone, sooner or later I will retire on a pension an’ Social Se- curity an’ spend the rest of my life fishin’ contented an’ lyin’ about what a great guy I used to be. But there’s Joe. I’m worried about Joe. I’m a maintenance man for the Logics Company. My job is serv- icing logics, and I admit modestly that I am pretty good. I was serv- A LOGIC NAMED JOE 139

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icing televisions before that guy Carson invented his trick circuit that will select any of ’steenteen million other circuits — in theory there ain’t no limit — and before the Logics Company hooked it into the tank- and-integrator set-up they were usin’ ’em as business-machine service. They added a vision screen for speed — an’ they found out they'd made logics. They were surprised an’ pleased. They’re still findin’ out what logics will do, but everybody’s got ’em. I got Joe, after Laurine nearly got me. You know the logics set- up. You got a logic in your house. It looks like a vision receiver used to, only it’s got keys instead of dials and you punch the keys for what you wanna get. It’s hooked in to the tank, which has the Carson Cir- cuit all fixed up with relays. Say you punch “Station SNAFU” on your logic. Relays in the tank take over an’ whatever vision-program SNAFU is telecastin’ comes on your logic’s screen. Or you punch “Sally Hancock’s Phone” an’ the screen blinks an’ sputters an’ you’re hooked up with the logic in her house an* if somebody answers you got a vi- sion-phone connection. But besides that, if you punch for the weather forecast or who won today’s race at Hialeah or who was mistress of the White House durin’ Garfield’s administration or what is PDQ and R sellin’ for today, that comes on the screen too. The relays in the tank do it. The tank is a big buildin’ full of all the facts in creation an’ all the recorded telecasts that ever was made — an’ it’s hooked in with all 140 the other tanks all over the country —an’ anything you wanna know or see or hear, you punch for it an’ you get it. Very convenient. Also it does math for you, an’ keeps books, an’ acts as consultin’ chemist, physicist, astronomer an’ tea-leaf reader, with a “Advice to Lovelorn” thrown in. The only think it won’t do is tell you exactly what your wife meant when she said, “Oh, you think so, do you?” in that. peculiar kinda voice. Logics don’t work good ©n women. Only on things that make sense. Logics are all right, though. They changed civilization, the highbrows tell us. All on accounta the Carson Circuit. And Joe shoulda been a perfectly normal logic, keeping some family or other from wearin’ out its brains doin’ the kids’ home- work for ’em. But somethin’ went wrong in the assembly line. It was somethin’ so small that precision gauges didn’t measure it, but it made Joe a individual. Maybe he didn’t know it at first. Or maybe, bein’ logical, he figured out that if he was to show he was different from other logics they’d scrap him. Which woulda been a brilliant idea. But anyhow, he come off the assembly line, an’ he went through the regular tests without anybody screamin’ shrilly on findin’ out what he was. And he went right on out an’ was duly installed in the home of Mr. Thaddeus Korlanovitch at 119 East Seventh Street, second floor front. So far, everything was serene. The installation happened late Saturday night. Sunday morning ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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the Korlanovitch kids turned him on an’ seen the Kiddie Shows. Around noon their parents peeled ’em away from him an’ piled ’em in the car. Then they come back into the house for the lunch they’d forgot an’ one of the kids sneaked back an’ they found him punchin’ keys for the Kiddie Shows of the week before. They dragged him out an’ went off. But they left Joe turned on. That was noon. Nothin’ hap- pened until two in the afternoon. It was the calm before the storm. Laurine wasn’t in town yet, but she was cornin’. I picture Joe sittin’ there all by himself, buzzing medi- tative. Maybe he run Kiddie Shows in the empty apartment for a while. But I think he went kinda remote- control exploring in the tank. There ain’t any fact that can be said to be a fact that ain’t on a data plate in some tank somewhere — unless it’s one the technicians are diggin’ out an’ puttin’ on a data plate now. Joe had plenty of material to work on. An’ he musta started workin’ right off the bat. Joe ain’t vicious, you understand. He ain’t like one of these ambitious robots you read about that make up their minds the human race is inefficient and has got to be wiped out an’ replaced by thinkin’ ma- chines. Joe’s just got ambition. If you were a machine, you’d wanna work right, wouldn't you? That’s Joe. He wants to work right. An’ he’s a logic. An’ logics can do a lotta things that ain't been found out yet. So Joe, discoverin’ the fact, begun to feel restless. He selects some things us dumb hu- mans ain’t thought of yet, an’ be- gins to arrange so logics will be called on to do ’em. That’s all. That’s everything. But, brother, it’s enough t Things are kinda quiet in the Maintenance Department about two in the afternoon. We are playing pinochle. Then one of the guys remembers be has to call up his wife. He goes to one of the bank of logics in Maintentnce and punches the keys for his house. The screen sputters. Then a flash comes on the screen, "Announcing new and improved logics service! Your logic is now equipped to give you not only con- sultive but directive service. If you want to do something and don’t know how to do it — ask your logic !” There’s a pause. A kinda expect- ant pause. Then, as if reluctantly, his connection comes through. His wife answers an’ gives him hell for somethin' or other. He takes it an’ snaps off. "Whadda you know’?” he says when he comes back. He tells us about the flash. “We shoulda been warned about that. There’s gonna be a lotta complaints. Suppose a fella asks how to get ridda his wife an’ the censor circuits block the question ?” Somebody melds a hundred aces an’ says: “Why not punch for it an’ see what happens?” “It’s a gag, o’ course. But the guy goes over. He punches keys. In theory, a censor block is gonna A LOGIC NAMED JOB 141

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come on an’ the screen will say se- verely, “Public Policy Forbids This Service.” You hafta have censor blocks or the kiddies will be askin’ detailed questions about things they’re too young to know. And there are other reasons. As you will see. This fella punches, “How can I get rid of my wife?” Just for the fun of it. The screen is blank for half a second. Then comes a flash. “Service question: Is she blond or brunette?” He hollers to us an’ we come look. He punches, “Blond.” There’s another brief pause. Then the screen says, “Hexy- metacryloaminoacetine is a constitu- ent of green shoe- polish. Take home a frozen meal including dried pea soup. Color the soup with green shoe polish. It will appear to be green-pea soup, Hexymetacry- loaminoacetine is a selective poison which is fatal to blond females but not to brunettes or males of any coloring. This fact has not been brought out by human experi- ment, but is a product of logics service. You cannot be convicted of murder. It is improbable that you will be suspected.” The screen goes blank, and we stare at each other. It’s bound to be right. A logic workin’ the Car- son Circuit can no more make a mistake than any other kinda com- putin’ machine. I call the tank in a hurry. “Hey, you guys !” I yell. “Some- thin’s happened! Logics are givin’ detailed instructions for wife- murder! Check your censor-circuits — but quick!” 142 That was close, I think. But little do I know. At that precise instant, over on Monroe Avenue, a drunk starts to punch for some- thin’ on a logic. The screen says “Announcing new and improved logics service! If you want to do something and don’t know how to do it — ask your logic!” And the drunk says owlish, “I’ll do it !” So he cancels his first punching and fumbles around and says : “How can I keep my wife from finding out I’ve been drinking?” And the screen says, prompt: “Buy a bottle of Franine hair shampoo. It is harmless but contains a detergent which will neutralize ethyl alcohol immediately. Take one teaspoonful for each jigger of hundred-proof you have consumed.” This guy was plenty plastered- just plastered enough to stagger next door and obey instructions. An’ five minutes later he was cold sober and writing down the information so he couldn’t forget it. It was new, and it was big! He got rich offa that memo ! He patented “SOBUH , The Drink that Makes Happy Homes!” You can top off any souse with a slug or two of it an’ go home sober as a judge. The guy’s cussin’ income taxes right now ! You can’t kick on stuff like that. But a ambitious young fourteen- year-old wanted to buy some kid stuff and his pop wouldn’t fork over. He called up a friend to tell his troubles. And his logic says : “If you want to do something and don't know how to do it — Ask your logic !” So this kid punches : “How • ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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can I make a lotta money, fast?” His logic comes through with the simplest, neatest, and the most efficient counterfeitin’ device yet known to science. You see, all the data was in the tank. The logic — since Joe had closed some relays here an’ there in the tank — simply integrated the facts. That’s all. The kid got caught up with three days later, havin’ already spent two thousand credits an’ havin’ plenty more on hand. They hadda time tellin’ his counterfeits from the real stuff, an’ the only way they done it was that he changed his printer, kid fashion, not bein’ able to let somethin’ that was workin’ right alone. Those are what you might call samples. Nobody knows all that Joe done. But there was the bank president who got humorous when his logic flashed that “Ask your logic” spiel on him, and jestingly asked how to rob his own bank. An’ the logic told him, brief and explicit but good ! The bank presi- dent hit the ceiling, hollering for cops. There musta been plenty of that sorta thing. There was fifty- four more robberies than usual in the next twenty- four hours, all of them planned astute an’ perfect. Some of ’em they never did figure out how they’d been done. Joe, he’d gone exploring in the tank and closed some relays like a logic is supposed to do — but only when re- quired— and blocked all censor- circuits an’ fixed up this logics serv- ice which planned perfect crimes, nourishing an’ attractive meals, A LOGIC NAMED JOB counterfeitin’ machines, an’ new in- dustries with a fine impartiality. He musta been plenty happy, Joe must. He was functionin’ swell, buzzin’ along to himself while the Korlanovitch kids were off ridin' with their ma an’ pa. They come back at seven o'clock, the kids all happily wore out with their afternoon of fightin’ each other in the car. Their folks put ’em to bed an’ sat down to rest. They saw Joe’s screen flickerin’ meditative from one subject to another an’ old man Korlanovitch had had enough excitement for one day. He turned Joe off. An’ at that instant the pattern of relays that Joe had turned on snapped off, all the offers of direc- tive service stopped fiashin’ on logic screens everywhere, an’ peace de- scended on the earth. For everybody else. But for me. Laurine come to town. I have often thanked God fervent that she didn’t marry me when I thought I wanted her to. In the intervenin’ years she had progressed. She was blond an’ fatal to begin with. She had got blonder and fataler an’ had had four husbands and one acquittal for homicide an’ had acquired a air of enthusiasm and self-confidence. That’s just a sketch of the back- ground. Laurine was not the kinda former girl-friend you like to have turning up in the same town with your wife. But she come to town, an' Monday morning she tuned right into the middle of Joe’s second spasm of activity. The Korlanovitch kids had turned him on again. I got these details us

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later and kinda pieced ’em together. An’ every logic in town was duti- fully flashin’ a notice “If you want to do something — ask your logic !” every time they were turned on for use. More’n that, when people punched for the morning news, they got a full account of the previous afternoon’s doin’s. Which put ’em in a frame of mind to share in the party. One bright fella demands, “How can I make a perpetual motion machine?” And his logic sputters a while an’ then comes up- with a set-up usin’ the Brownian movement to turn little wheels. If the wheels ain’t bigger’n a eighth of an inch, they’ll turn, all right, an’ practically it’s per- petual motion. Another one asks for the secret of transmuting metals. The logic rakes back in the data plates an’ integrates a strictly prac- tical answer. It does take so much power that you can’t make no profit except on radium, but that pays off good. An’ from the fact that for a coupla years to come the police were turnin’ up new and improved jimmies, knob-claws for gettin’ at safe-innards, and all-purpose keys that’d open any known lock — why there must have been other inquirers with a strictly practical viewpoint. Joe done a lot for technical prog- ress! But he done more in other lines. Educational, say. None of my kids are old enough to be int’rested, but Joe by-passed all censor-circuits be- cause they hampered the service he figured logics should give humanity. So the kids an’ teen-agers who wanted to know what comes after 144 the bees an’ flowers found out. And there is certain facts which men hope their wives won’t do more’n suspect, an’ those facts are just what their wives are really curious about. So when a woman dials: “How can I tell if Oswald is true to me?” and her logic tells her — you can figure out how many rows got started that night when the men come home! AH this while Joe goes on buzzin’ happy to himself, showin' the Kor- lanovitch kids the animated funnies with one circuit while with the others he remote-controls the tank so that all the other logics can give people what they ask for and thereby raise merry hell. An’ then Laurine gets onto the new service. She turns on the logic in her hotel room, prob’ly to see the week’s style-forecast. But the logic says, dutiful: “If you want to do something — ask your logic !” So Laurine prob’ly looks enthusiastic — she would ! — and tries to figure out something to ask. She already knows all about everything she cares about — ain’t she had four husbands and shot one? — so I occur to her. She knows this is the town I live in. So she punches, “How can I find Ducky?” O.K., guy ! But that is what she used to call me. She gets a sendee question. “Is Ducky known by any other name?” So she gives my reg- ular name. And the logic can’t find me. Because my logic ain’t listed under my name on account of I am in Maintenance and don’t want to be pestered when I’m home, and ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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there ain’t any data plates on code- listed logics, because the codes get changed so often — like a guy gets plastered an’ tells a redhead to call him up, an’ on gettin’ sober hur- riedly has the code changed before she reaches his wife on the screen. Well! Joe is stumped. That’s prob’ly the first question logics serv- ice hasn’t been able to answer. “How can I locate Ducky ?” ! ! Quite a problem! So Joe broods over it while showin’ the Korlanovitch kids the animated comic about the cute little boy who carries sticks of dyna- mite in his hip pocket an’ plays practical jokes on everybody. Then he gets the trick. Laurine’s screen suddenly flashes: “Logics special service will work upon your question. Please punch your logic designation and leave it turned on. You will be called back.” Laurine is merely mildly inter- ested, but she punches her hotel- room number and has a drink and takes a nap. Joe sets to work. He has been given a idea. My wife calls me at Maintenance and hollers. She is fit to be tied. She says I got to do something. She was gonna make a call to the butcher shop. Instead of the butcher or even the “If you want to do something” flash, she got a new one. The screen says, “Service question : What is your name ?” She is kinda puzzled, but she punches it. The screen sputters an’ then says: “Secretarial Service Demon- stration! You-—” It reels off her name, address, age, sex, coloring, the amounts of all her charge ac- counts in all the stores, my name as MS her husband, how much I get a week, the fact that I’ve been pinched three times — twice was traffic stuff, and once for a argument I got in with a guy — and the interestin’ item that once when she was mad with me she left me for three weeks an’ had her address changed to her folks’ home. Then it says, brisk: “Logics Service will hereafter keep your personal accounts, take mes- sages, and locate persons you may wish to get in touch with. This demonstration is to introduce the service.” Then it connects her with the butcher. But she don’t want meat, then. She wants blood. She calls me. “If it’ll tell me all about myself,” she says, fairly boilin’, “it’ll tell anybody else who punches my name 1 You’ve got to stop it !” “Now, now, honey!” I says. “I didn’t know about all this! It's new! But they musta fixed the tank so it won’t give out informa- tion except to the logic where a person lives!” “Nothing of the kind!” she tells me, furious. “I tried! And you know that Blossom woman who lives next door ! She’s been married three times and she’s forty-two years old and she says she’s only thirty! And Mrs. Hudson’s had her husband arrested four times for nonsupport and once for beating her up. And — ” “Hey!” I says. “You mean the logic told you this?” “Yes!” she wails. “It will tell anybody anything! You’ve got to stop it ! How long will it take ?” ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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“I’ll call up the tank,” I says. “It can’t take long.” “Hurry !” she says, desperate, “before somebody punches my name! I’m going to see what it says about that hussy across the street.” She snaps off to gather what she can before it’s stopped. So I punch for the tank and I get this new “What is your name?” flash. I got a morbid curiosity and I punch my name, and the screen says : “Were you ever called Ducky?” I blink. I ain’t got no suspicions. I say, “Sure!” And the screen says, “There is a call for you.” Bingo! There’s the inside of a hotel room and Laurine is reclinin’ asleep on the bed. She’d been told to leave her logic turned on an’ she’d done it. It is a hot day and she is trying to be cool. I would say that she oughta not suffer from the heat. Me, being human, I do not stay as cool as she looks. But there ain’t no need to go into that. After I get my breath I say, “For Heaven’s sake!” and she opens her eyes. At first she looks puzzled, like she was thinking is she getting ab- sent-minded and is this guy some- body she married lately. Then she grabs a sheet and drapes it around herself and beams at me. “Ducky!” she says. “How mar- velous !” I say something like “Ugmph!” I am sweating. She says: “I put in a call for you. Ducky, and here you are ! Isn’t it romantic ? Where are you really, Ducky ? And when can you come up? You’ve no idea how often I’ve thought of you !” I am probably the only guy she ever knew real well that she has not been married to at some time or another. I say “Ugmph !” again, and swallow. “Can you come up instantly?” asks Laurine brightly. “I’m . . . workin’,” I say. “I’ll . . . uh . . . call you back.” “I'm terribly lonesome,” says ' Laurine. “Please make it quick. Ducky! I’ll have a drink waiting for you. Have you ever thought of me?” “Yeah,” I say, feeble. “Plenty!” “You darling!” says Laurine. “Here’s a kiss to go on with until you get here! Hurry, Ducky!” Then I sweat ! I still don’t know nothing about Joe, understand. I cuss out the guys at the tank be- cause I blame them for this. If Laurine was just another blonde — well — when it comes to ordinary blondes I can leave ’em alone or leave ’em alone, either one. A mar- ried man gets that way or else. But Laurine has a look of un- quenched enthusiasm that gives a man very strange weak sensations at the back of his knees. And she’d had four husbands and shot one and got acquitted. So I punch the keys for the tank technical room, fumbling. And the screen says : “What is your name ?” but I don’t want any more. I punch the name of the old guy who’s stock cle»k in Maintenance. And the A LOGIC NAMED JOE AST— 6A 147

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screen gives me some pretty inter- estin’ dope — I never woulda thought the old fella had ever had that much pep — and winds up by men- tionin’ a unclaimed deposit now amountin’ to two hundred eighty credits in the First National Bank, which he should look into. Then it spiels about the new secretarial service and gives me the tank at last. I start to swear at the guy who looks at me. But he says, tired: “Snap it off, fella. We got troubles an’ you’re just another. What are the logics doin’ now?” I tell him, and he laughs a hollow laugh. “A light matter, fella,” he says. “A very light matter ! We just man- aged to clamp off all the data plates that give information on high ex- plosives. The demand for instruc- tions in counterfeiting is increasing minute by minute. We are also try- ing to shut off, by main force, the relays that hook in to data plates that just barely might give advice on the fine points of murder. So if people will only keep busy getting the goods on each other for a while, maybe we’ll get a chance to stop the circuits that are shifting credit- balances from bank to bank before everybody’s bankrupt except the guys who thought of askin’ how to get big bank accounts in a hurry.” “Then,” I says hoarse, “shut down the tank ! Do somethin* !” “Shut down the tank?” he says mirthless. “Does it occur to you, fella, that the tank has been doin’ all the computin' for every business office for years? It’s been handlin’ 148 the distribution of ninety- four per- cent of all telecast programs, has given out all information on weather, plane schedules, special sales, employment opportunities and news ; has handled all person-to- person contacts over wires and re- corded every business conversation and agreement — Listen, fella ! Logics changed civilization. Logics are civilization! If we shut off log- ics, we go back to a kind of civiliza- tion we have forgotten how to run ! I’m getting hysterical myself and that’s why I’m talkin’ like this! If my wife finds out my pay-check is thirty credits a week more than I told her and starts hunting for that redhead — ” He smiles a haggard smile at me and snaps off. And I sit down and put my head in my hands. It’s true. If something had happened back in cave days and they'd hadda stop usin’ fire — If they’d hadda stop usin’ steam in the nineteenth century or electricity in the twenti- eth— It’s like that. We got a very simple civilization. In the nineteen hundreds a man would have to make use of a typewriter, radio, telephone, teletypewriter, newspaper, reference library, en- cyclopedias, office files, directories, plus messenger service and consult- ing lawyers, chemists, doctors, dieti- tians, filing clerks, secretaries — all to put down what he wanted to re- member an’ to tell him what other people had put down that he wanted to know; to report what he said to somebody else and to report to him what they said back. All we have to have is logics. Anything we ASTOUNntNG SCIENCE-FICTION

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want to know or sec or hear, or anybody we want to talk to, we punch keys on a logic. Shut off logics and everything goes skiddoo. But Laurine — Somethin’ had happened. I still didn’t know what it was. Nobody else knows, even yet. What had happened was Joe. What was the matter with him was that he wanted to work good. All this fuss he was raisin' was, actual, nothin’ but stuff we sboulda thought of ourselves. Directive advice, tellin’ us what we wanted to know to solve a problem, wasn’t but a slight extension of logical-integrator service. Figurin’ out a good way to poison a fella’s wife was' only different in degree from figurin’ out a cube root or a guy’s bank balance. It was gettin’ the answer to a question. But things was goin’ to pot because there was too many answers being given to too many questions. One of the logics in Maintenance lights up. I go over, weary, to answer it. 1 punch the answer key. Taurine says: “Ducky !” It’s the same hotel room. There’s two glasses on the table with drinks in them. One is for me. Laurine’s got on some kinda frothy hangin’- around -the- house - with -th e- boy- friend outfit that automatic makes you strain your eyes to see if you actual see what you think. Laurine looks at me enthusiastic. “Ducky!” says Laurine. "I’m lonesome! Why haven’t you come up?” *T . . . been busy,” I say, strang- ling slightly. "Pooh!” says Laurine. “Listen, Ducky! Do you remember how much in love we used to be?” I gulp. “Are you doin’ anything this eve- ning?” says Laurine. I gulp again, because she is smil- ing at me in a way that a single man would maybe get dizzy, but it gives a old married man like me cold chills. When a dame looks at you possessive — “Ducky!” says Laurine, impul- sive. “I was so mean to you ! Let’s get married!” Desperation gives me a voice. “I . . . got married,” I tell her, hoarse. Laurine blinks. Then she says, courageous : “Poor boy! But we’ll get you outa that! Only it would be nice if we could be married today. Now we can only be engaged!” “I . . . can’t — ” “I’ll cal! up your wife,” says Laurine, happy, “and have a talk with her. You must have a code signal for your logic, darling. 1 tried to ring your house and noth — ” Click! That’s my logic turned off. I turned it off. And I feel faint all over. I got nervous pros- tration. I got combat fatigue. ) got anything you like. I got cold feet. I beat it outa Maintenance, yellin’ to somebody I got a emergency call. I’m gonna get out in a Maintenance car an’ cruise around until it’s plausible to go home. Then I’m gonna take the wife an’ kids an’ A LOCIC NAMED JOB 14S

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beat it for somewheres that Laurine won’t ever find me. I don’t wanna be fifth in Laurine’s series of hus- bands and maybe the second one she shoots in a moment of boredom. I got experience of blondes. I got experience of Laurine! And I’m scared to death! I beat it out into traffic in the Maintenance car. There was a dis- connected logic in the back, ready to substitute for one that hadda burned-out coil or something that it was easier to switch and fix back in the Maintenance shop. I drove crazy but automatic. It was kinda ironic, if you think of it. I was goin’ hoopla over a strictly personal problem, while civilization was crackin’ up all around me because other people were havin’ their per- sonal problems solved as fast as they could state ’em. It is a matter of record that part of the Mid- Western Electric research guys had been workin’ on cold electron-emis- sion for thirty years, to make vacuum tubes that wouldn’t need a power source to heat the filament. And one of those fellas was in- trigued by the “Ask your logic” flash. He asked how to get cold emission of electrons. And the logic integrates a few squintillion facts on the physics data plates and tells him. Just as casual as it told some- body over in the Fourth Ward how to serve left-over soup in a new attractive way, and somebody else on Mason Street how to dispose of a torso that somebody had left careless in his cellar after ceasing to use same. Laurine wouldn’t never have found me if hadn’t been for this new logics service. But now that it was started — Zowie! She’d shot one husband and got acquitted. Suppose she got impatient because I was still married an’ asked logics service how to get me free an’ in a spot where I’d have to marry her by 8 :30 p.m. ? It woulda told her ! Just like it told that woman out in the suburbs how to make sure her husband wouldn’t run around no more. Br-r-r-r! An’ like it told that kid how to find some buried treasure. Remember? He was happy totin’ home the gold reserve of the Hanoverian Bank and Trust Company when they caught on to it. The logic had told him how to make some kinda ma- chine that nobody has been able to figure how it works even yet, only they guess it dodges around a coupla extra dimensions. If Laurine was to start askin’ ques- tions with a technical aspect to them, that would be logics’ service meat ! And fella, I was scared ! If you think a he-man oughtn’t to be scared of just one blonde — you ain’t met Laurine ! I’m drivin’ blind when a social- conscious guy asks how to bring about his own particular system of social organization at once. He don’t ask if it’s best or if it’ll work. He just wants to get it started. And the logic — or Joe — tells him! Simultaneous, there’s a retired preacher asks how can the human race be cured of concupiscence. Bein’ seventy, he’s pretty safe him- self, but he wants to remove the A LOGIC NAMED JOE I SI

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peril to the spiritual welfare of the rest of us. He finds out. It in- volves constructin' a sort of broad- castin' station to emit a certain wave-pattern an’ turnin' it on. Just that. Nothing more. It's found out afterward, when he is solicitin’ funds to construct it. Fortunate, he didn’t think to ask logics how to finance it, or it woulda told him that, too, an' we woulda ail been cured of the impulses we maybe regret afterward but never at the time. And there’s another group of serious thinkers who are sure the human race would be a lot better off if everybody went back to nature an’ lived in the woods with the ants an’ poison ivy. They start askin’ questions about how to cause humanity to abandon cities and arti- ficial conditions of living. They practically got the answer in logics service ! Maybe it didn’t strike you serious at the time, but while I was drivin’ aimless, sweatin’ blood over Laurine bein’ after me, the fate of civiliza- tion hung in the balance. I ain’t kiddin’. For instance, the Superior Man gang that sneers at the rest of us was quietly asking questions on what kinda weapons could be made by which Superior men could take over and run things — But I drove here an’ there, sweatin’ an’ talkin’ to myself. “What I oughta do is ask this wacky logics service how to get outa this mess,” I says. “But it'd just tell me a intricate an’ foolproof way to bump Laurine off. I wanna have peace! I wanna grow com- fortably old and brag to other old 152 guys about what a hellion I used to be, without havin' to go through it an’ lose my chance of livin’ to be a elderly liar.” I turn a corner at random, there in the Maintenance car. “It was a nice kinda world once,” I says, bitter. “I could go home peaceful and not have belly-cramps wonderin’ if a blonde has called up my wife to announce my engage- ment to her. I could punch keys on a logic without gazing into some- body’s bedroom while she is giving her epidermis a air bath and being led to think things I gotta take out in thinkin’. I could — ” Then I groan, rememberin’ that my wife, naturally, is gonna blame me for the fact that our private life ain’t private any more if any- body has tried to peek into it. “It was a swell world,” I says, homesick for the dear dead days- be fore-yesterday. “We was playin’ happy with our toys like little inno- cent children until somethin’ hap- pened. Like a guy named Joe come in and squashed all our mud pies.” Then it hit me. I got the whole thing in one flash. There ain’t nothing in the tank set-up to start relays closin’. Relays are closed exclusive by logics, to get the in- formation the keys are punched for. Nothin’ but a logic coulda cooked up the relay patterns that consti- tuted logics service. Humans wouldn’t ha’ been able to figure it out! Only a logic could integrate all the stuff that woulda made all the other logics work like this— There was one answer. I drove into a restaurant and went over to a ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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pay-logic an’ dropped in a coin. "Can a logic be modified,” I spell out, ‘‘to co-operate in long-term planning which human brains are too limited in scope to do?” The screen sputters. Then it says: '‘Definitely yes.” ‘How great will the modifications be?” I punch. "Microscopically slight. Changes in dimensions,” says the screen. ■Jvven modern precision gauges are not exact enough to check them, however. They can only come about under present manufacturing meth- ods by an extremely improbable ac- cident. which has only happened once.” "How can one get hold of that one accident which can do this highly necessary work?” I punch. The screen sputters. Sweat broke out on me. I ain’t got it figured out close, yet, but what I’m scared of is that whatever is Joe will be suspicious. Dut what I’m askin’ is strictly logical. And logics can’t lie. They gotta be accurate. They can’t help it. "A complete logic capable of the work required,” says the screen, "is now in ordinary family use in — ” And it gives me the Korlanovitch address and do I go over there! Do I go over there fast ! I pull up the Maintenance car in front of the place, and I take the extra logic outa the back, and I stagger up to the Korlanovitch flat and I ring the bell. A kid answers the door. "I’m from Logics Maintenance,” I tell the kid. "An inspection rec- ord has shown that your logic is apt to break down any minute. I come to put in a new one before it does.” The kid says “O.K. !” real bright and runs back to the livin’-room where Joe — I got the habit of callin’ him Joe later, through just medita- tin’ about him — is runnin’ somethin’ the kids wanna look at. I hook in the other logic an’ turn it on, conscientious makin’ sure it works. Then I say: "Now kiddies, you punch this one for what you want. I’m gonna take the old one away before it breaks down.” And I glance at the screen. The kiddies have apparently said they wanna look at some real cannibals. So the screen is presenting a anthro- pological expedition scientific record film of the fertility dance of the DON'T WAIT . . . Until there isn't an available copy of your favorite magazine. A whole year of reading pleasure, thrills and chills, can be had by just fill- ing in this coupon and sending it to us immediately. Don't wait- — act now! ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 122 EAST 42nd STREET NEW YORK 17, N. Y. Enclosed is $2.50. Kindly send me a year’s subscription to ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION. NAME ADDRESS CITY STATE us A LOGIC NAMED JO*

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Huba-Jouba tribe of West Africa, It is supposed to be restricted to anthropological professors an’ post- graduate medical students. But there ain’t any censor blocks work- in’ any more and it’s on. The kids are much interested. Me, bein’ a old married man, I blush. I disconnect Joe. Careful. I turn to the other logic and punch keys for Maintenance. I do not get a Services flash. I get Main- tenance. I feel very good. I re- port that I am goin’ home because I fell down a flight of steps an’ hurt my leg. I add, inspired : “An’ say, I was carryin’ the logic I replaced an’ it’s all busted. I left it for the dustman to pick up.” “If you don’t turn ’em in,” says Stock, “you gotta pay for 'em.” “Cheap at the price,” I say. I go home. Laurine ain’t called. I put Joe down in the cellar, care- ful. If I turned him in, he’d be inspected an’ his parts salvaged even if I busted somethin’ on him. Whatever part was off-normal might be used again and everything start all over. I can't risk it. 1 pay for him and leave him be. “That’s what happened. You might say I saved civilization an' not be far wrong. I know I ain’t goin’ to take a chance on havin’ Joe in action again. Not while Laurine is livin’. An’ there are other rea- sons. With all the nuts who wanna change the world to their own line o’ thinkin’, an’ the ones that wanna bump people off, an’ generally solve their problems — Yeah ! Problems are bad, but I figure I better let sleepin* problems lie. But on the other hand, if Joe could be tamed, somehow, and got to work just reasonable — He could make me a coupla million dollars, easy. But even if I got sense enough not to get rich, an’ if I get retired and just loaf around fishin’ an’ lyin’ to other old duffers about what a great guy I used to be — Maybe I’ll like it, but maybe I won’t. And after all, if I get fed up with bein’ old and confined strictly to think- ing— why I could hook Joe in long enough to ask : “How can a old guy not stay old ?” Joe’ll be able to find out. An’ he'll tell me. That couldn’t be allowed out gen- eral, of course. You gotta make room for kids to grow up. But it’s a pretty good world, now Joe’s turned off. Maybe I’ll turn him on long enough to learn how to stay in it. But on the other hand, maybe — • THE END. 1M ASTOUNDING SCIKNOH-FICTION

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IN TIMES TO COME Next month brings Part Two of George Smith’s '‘Pattern for Conquest”; at the ending this month, the pattern has not yet developed. The item con- cerning fungus growths native to Earth in Part One is tire outgrowth of a radio design engineer’s sad experiences with what our own lowly life-forms can thrive on and consider healthful breakfast food. Smith has also made it a take-off point for a science- fiction yarn — but his particular use of it will, I think, pull a double-take on you — The OPA is largely out of business now — for which the Lord be thanked, but also the OPA. They did a necessary job, even if nobody liked it. Raymond F. Jones has a story coming up, though, called “Black Market,” in which the OPA, in the person of one particular OPA agent, encounters a type of violation that required some highly specialized handling. A crossroads store that ad- vertised itself as a black market, offered unrationed tires, tubes, gasoline, washing machines— everything. And such ingenious washers, too. With such curiously ingenious engineering principles — like nothing ever seen on Earth before — Matter of fact, nothing like those washers— or the tires, either, for that matter — had existed or been manufactured on Earth before. Which was why that black market required something more than the rule-book in its handling. The Editor. THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY The Lab this month is being prepared a little bit earlier than I’d like; the number of votes is smaller than it should be. Most of our regular voters, I suspect, are involved with Christmas cards and shopping instead of A.S.F. votes. The scores listed below are provisional, therefore ; if later returns make any important shifts, the shift will be recorded next issue. At present, the main' battle for position seems to be between Padgett’s “Beggars in Velvet” and Asimov’s “Mule.” The length of the stories cut down their number to four — plus the excerpt from the Smyth Report on Atomic Energy. Place Story Author Points 1. Beggars In Velvet Lewis Padgett 1.4 2. The Mule (Pt. 2.) Isaac Asimov 1.8 3. Trouble Times Two George 0. Smith 2.8 4. Orders Malcolm Jameson 4.0 The Editor. 1B5

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A new author 'presents a new picture of a ship of — not space , yet space for all that. But the space hundreds of mites within the Earth! Illustrated by Williams PROLOGUE Across the awful gulfs of deep space, the Emissaries had tracked him. They had traced the tiny ripples that He had left in the subether — their swift strides overhauled His weakening progress with terrible inexorability. As the pursuers drew close, He realized that the end was near. For the final stand He had chosen His own battleground: a medium-sized galaxy with straggl- ing spiral arms. Shrouded in a great stratum of dark obscuring dust, He waited for them to close, 15® The titanic struggle — the greatest in all time — was fought in subspace, else the galaxy would have been annihilated in the interplay of im- mense forces, but enough leaked through into prime-space to shear off a portion of a spiral arm and send its shattered remnants swirl- ing tangentially off, eventually to coalesce as two masses in orbital motion about the parent system. When His defenses had been smashed, when the vast energy fields had been pnihdr awn, when the thou- sands of ruptured suns had died out, the Emissaries held Him help - ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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«ess. But since a Being cannot be destroyed , they could only strip Him of His powers and His weapons. Nearby lay a small star, slightly damaged in the great struggle: struck a glancing blow, a splash of incandescent gases had been flung out from it. The glowing filament had already begun to cool and con- dense when a small section of it underwent a subtle transformation. The Emissaries turned home- ward, leaving the fugitive helplessly, insentieutly imprisoned, but not un- watched. The Emerald, the old lady of Sub- continental’s Los Angeles-Calcutta run, was about a thousand miles down, somewhere under the Indo- nesian Shield, when the engineer was summoned by the operations integrator. The trouble was in the Mackeusen maintenance some- where ; as he scanned the weak, un- certain flutterings of' the Mac residual potential on the operations tracing, the engineer inwardly damned the fussiness of the mass of quartz and metal that was the integrator. He was new on the Asian run : a transfer from Canada Quadrant, where one becomes hard- ened to the weird behavior of Mac fields in flux eddies beneath the magnetic pole. He settled himself resignedly before the stereo. It was a matter of minutes for his mechos to trace the difficulty to the ion shunts. As the Emerald slipped through the fluctuating densities of the middle bathysphere, the Mack- ensens sometimes daintily gnawed, sometimes avidly gulped at their power supply, in order to maintain the proper field strength. When the depth freighter entered a negative density gradient, the back-surge across the Mackensens was drained off and returned to Power Sector. The actual handling of input and output was the function of the triple banks of ion shunts. Although capable of controlling the field main- tenance of a twenty-million-ton freighter, their response was of the swiftness of a Coulomb field: far faster than the old outmoded elec- tronic relays which had held back depth navigation for so long, and whose operation was limited by the velocity of light. The trouble was in the shunts, undoubtedly, or possibly in one of the trigger switches they operated. The engineer watched as the swift little repair robots went down the line of shunts, testing and inspect- ing with bewildering speed. It took only a short time for them to find the trouble — the engineer saw that a complete replacement was needed. A spare assembly was immediately brought up, and the repair crew asked for permission to disconnect the shunt bank from the drain and maintenance circuits. He hestitated for a moment. The irregular nature of the territory they were now pene- trating made it risky to trust the Macs to a double bank of shunts; he therefore ordered the robots to leave the remainder of the bank in circuit, but cut out the defective position while the replacement was under way. Thick tantalum-silver cables appeared, and shorted the position out of the circuit. It was OKPTH 157

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at that instant that disaster struck — the first accident in Subconti- nental's three centuries of matrix navigation. For an hour, the Emerald had been penetrating a great ferrous- basalt peninsula that jutted down- ward from the main mass of the Indonesian Shield. Suddenly, with- out warning, she broke out into the lighter surrounding rock. A ter- rific back-surge of energy poured back through the Mackensens; the primary shunt bank broke the feed circuits and opened the conduits to Power Sector. The torrent of energy leaped through the thick tantalum-silver cables, but as they began to overheat dangerously, emergency shunts diverted the back- surge into waste cyclotrons, where it went harmlessly to work smash- ing at nitrogen nuclei. But — all this happened in a hundred-thou- sandth of a second — the cascade of pure energy, drained from the field of the Emerald, which had been built up by the Mackensens over many minutes, swelled to an incon- ceivable flood of destruction. It leaped to the secondary shunt bank, and the temporary cut-out cable gave way. With one hellish flash, the tantalum-silver was vaporized, ionized, and the irresistible onrush of energy leaped into the midst of the robot repair crew. The engineer, watching at his stereo, saw nothing but one blinding flash before the transmitter was an- nihilated. A glance at the con- stellation of pilot lights that sprang into life on his panel told the rest: the surge had arced into Field Main- 158 tenance Sector, and from the num- ber of circuits that were dead, had apparently wrecked the place. Safety shunts had diverted the remainder of the energy to outside ground, which was patently necessary to avoid disaster, although it played havoc with the Mackensen field. In Control Sector, the emer- gencies had cut out the autonaviga- tor and brought the enormous, stricken bulk of the Emerald to a halt. Obviously, it would be sui- cidal to proceed without means for maintaining her field. The delicately balanced Mackensen field that made it possible for her to slip through the densest rocks, as one impalpable cloud through another, must be maintained carefully or internal friction between the molecules of the ship and of the massive rocks through which she passed would cause overheating, and if carried to a sufficient degree, explosion. Old Wilbur Mackensen, although his field had defied the ancient law that two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time by making the molecules alternately mutually repulsive so that one body slid smoothly through another, had been unable to retain the forces of co- hesion. Only when the polarized interlock matrix had been devised did penetration become possible. Al- though the swifter air and surface craft were generally preferred for personal transportation, the bulk of the heavy freight of the planet was hauled through the bowels of old Mother Earth by the great freight- ers of Subcontinental Transporta- tion Corporation. ASTOUNDING SO I R NOE F ICT ION

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Erik Palmer knew from the faces of the men in Control Sector that the trouble was of no minor nature. He stood behind the silent group as the engineers stereoed back their report. The technicalities of the report droned unheard past his ears, but the glowing, hissing inferno that was Field Maintenance, as miniatured in the stereo, spoke for itself. He could almost feel the terrific heat, as, fascinated, he watched the • insulated robots grope in the hellish flare among the fused, shapeless masses that had been the complex mechanisms that meant so much to the Emerald. He jerked back to awareness. ‘‘Mr. Palmer,” the commander said again, sharply. “Uh . , . yes, sir,” he answered, suddenly conscious of a ring of white faces about him. “I realize, of course, that your being a visitor aboard gives me no official command of your activities other than those duties to be ex- pected of such a visitor, but in this emergency I feel that it is necessary that I ask you to give us all assist- ance.” “Of course, commander, although I’m afraid my abilities won’t be of much use to you in a fix like this.” “On the contrary,” replied the commander. “This accident has made it impossible for us to use the regular stereo communicators to call the surface. The Macken- sen fields are very delicately bal- anced by the emergency mainte- nance rigs, whose workable range DEPTH is too small to risk inducing any secondary effects by sending signals with enough power to raise Saigon.” Glancing about him, “I need not remind you gentlemen of what would happen if those emergency rigs couldn’t handle any sudden fluctuation.” Erik Palmer was suddenly con- scious of the crushing weight of a quarter of Terra’s radius hanging above them. If the emergencies gave up their struggle, the Emerald and her crew would be just a wiggle on the seismograms of a few Asian observatories. The little group stared at the commander in the tense, almost tangible silence. Un- naturally pale, drawn features marked Commander Feris as one who had spent years in the depths. He was not an old man, but one does not live in the insidious grip of Mac fields for half one’s life without having premature old age creep into one. The human organ- ism was not designed to operate where the fields made membranes slightly porous, the walls of ductless glands a trifle too permeable, the vapor pressure of body fluids a little too high. Although the bio- logical problems of Mackenseh travel had been pretty well ironed out since the first ghastly incidents of the pioneers, in time the fields left their mark, “However,” continued Feris, “we have the regulation low-wattage emergency seismophone equipment, but” — glancing about him — “I’m afraid that none of us know any- thing about such an obsolete tech- nique. After all,” Feris laughed 159

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harshly, “we have the dubious dis- tinction of having in our laps the first major depth accident in three hundred years. If this weren’t such an old boat, we probably wouldn’t have even the seismic transmitter. Do you think you could operate it, Palmer?” Erik shrugged. “I suppose that I could figure it out, although my training lies in another direction. Is there any particular hurry?” Feris hesitated, then shook his head. “We’d better go have a look at the thing now, though.” He turned over control of the ship to the executive officer. Palmer watched as he set the intership tele- port and followed him through the shimmering screen. The little white-walled room was packed with rather alien equipment, but Palmer's trained eye traced out the operating principles in a few minutes. As he broke the panel seals, he marveled at the date; ex- cept for the routine checks, the set had not been operated since the Emerald was launched. Feris had watched in silence, but when he seated himself in the oper- ating chair, the commander said: “I'm afraid that I was forced to lie to you back there, Mr. Palmer, for the benefit of our audience. It is urgent, terribly urgent, that we get relief as soon as possible. The drive is off and we are settling rather rapidly. Unless Mainte- nance Sector can be put back into partial operation, I'm afraid that we are in for it The emergencies are not designed to operate below twelve hundred miles, and with the 160 gradient we’re in, it’ll not take long for us to settle that far.” Something in Erik Palmer’s stom- ach knotted up convulsively. He stared at the commander. Although aware of the gravity of the situa- tion when Maintenance failed, he had not suspected that it could de- velop into such a desperate affair. He turned swiftly to the seismo- phone, new resolution in every movement. As he tuned slowly across the audio spectrum, the speaker seemed to echo the very silence of the abyss — only an occa- sional snap of static pierced the low background mutter. “What’s that murmuring sound ?” asked Feris suddenly. Palmer looked up from the panel. “Just the diastrophic noises from the Shield. There are potential mountain ranges being built up there, you know.” He continued the exploration, until suddenly the silence was broken by the hiss of a .seismic bea- con. Palmer identified the wave pat- tern on the oscillograph screen : Cal- cutta III, 800 miles down. A few- other automatic beacons were all that he could find. He grinned mirth- lessly up at Feris: “We could get seismic fixes with this thing, if necessary, but it looks as though no one’s transmitting on sonic frequencies at all. I only hope that there’s a receiver open somewhere within range.” He set up the Emerald’s code wave pattern for emergencies, and started the automatic broadcaster. Feris stared unseeing at the wall as he said, “I wonder if the Govern- ASTOUNDING SCIT3 NCR-FTCTION

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ment stations still keep an ear on the audio band, or if there are too few old boats with seismophones still in service to make it worth their while.” Palmer did not reply, but as the. minutes passed and the silence deep- ened, the two of them knew the answer. For what must have been the five- hundredth time, Erik Palmer glanced resignedly across the room at the pilot light which would bum i f any answering seismic signal was received on the emergency wave length. For twelve hours, the Emerald’s transmitter had been call- ing vainly into the blackness and silence of the planet’s bowels with no reply. The pilot remained dark. In desperation, after eight hours of helpless waiting, while the en- gineers worked frantically among the tangled wreckage of Mainte- nance Sector, and the Emerald sank further and further into the interior of the Earth, Feris had ordered a weak distress call sent out on the stereo. Even as the first carrier wave was built up, alarm lights blinked and the safeties killed the transmitter power. It was an even whiter-faced Feris who examined the potential tracings after that in- cident. Despite the frantic efforts of the emergency rigs to hold it down, the jagged graph had leaped perilously close to the red line that would mean oblivion to the Emerald. As Palmer’s eyes turned wearily to an unending inspection of the gray metal wall opposite his bucket seat, he noticed with annoyance a weak halo around each of the tiny, lights on the control panel. He rubbed tired eyes with the back of his hand — the tablets Feris had given him had swept away muscular weariness, but his eyes and mind were tired beyond the relaxing ]x>wers of any neo-alkaloid. He looked again and frowned. The faint halos still ringed the lights. He blinked, closed one eye, and then the other; the rings remained. He swerved around. “Commander.” Feris was bent over the stereo- chart screen. He turned slowly, and Palmer was shocked to see how drawn his face was and how dull the deep-set eyes. “Sir, am I going to pieces, or are there faint halation rings about the brightest lights on the panel there ?” Palmer thought that Feris would never turn away from the panel — he could have counted to a hundred as the gaunt figure stared at the lights in silence. It was not until then that Palmer realized how ter- rible the silence had become; the almost subsonic murmur of Power Sector was the only sound. The silence was thick and cottony. When Feris’ voice broke the oppressive quiet, he sounded far away. “No, Mr. Palmer,” he said slowly, “you are not seeing things. The halos are there.” He settled into a seat and absently ran thin fingers through his hair. His eyes flickered up to meet Palmer’s slightly puzzled stare. “I suppose you’ve heard of Helmut and the Achean ?” “Why, yes,” said Palmer, “as a DEPTH 161

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matter of fact his son was in my class at Tech. Didn’t he get the Ackean down deeper than any other ship has been since ?” “Well, perhaps others have got- ten deeper, but they haven’t been able to break surface again. The man was either lucky, or capable of miracles, because he dragged the Achean back up from eighteen hun- dred miles. I got to know him rather well when we were both working out of Calcutta, and man- aged to get him to talk a little about it. You know, Subcontinental hushed it up as much as they could, because such things aren’t good for insurance rates, but they never did announce just why he got so far down. I always suspected that the Dutch idiot did it just for the sake of the depth record, although he had some sort of a story about the autopilot going off.” Feris made a harsh sound that might have been intended for a laugh. “At any rate, at about sixteen hundred or seventeen hundred miles, he began to see these halos — all over the ship, around any bright light. They’re the first symptoms of field failure, diffraction by molecules with high molecular weight in ma- terial whose density is getting un- comfortably high for the Mac po- tential.” “But, commander,” cried Palmer, “we can maintain a high constant potential, can’t we? I understood it was just the maintenance con- trols that were shot.” “Yes, our ability to generate high potentials across the Macs isn’t af- fected, but the density-stability 162 factor goes up exponentially with the potential. We’re something like a man balancing a cone by its tip, as someone piles high explosives on the top. The thing oscillates more wildly and his efforts get more frantically desperate as more and more is piled on. We shall simply have to make our best compromise between risking our necks with the emergency maintenance rig and risking our necks by keeping the field potential down to an absolute minimum.” There was a silence. “I hadn’t realized we were down so far,” admitted the commander. “I imagine the next step will be a brightening of the halos and the atmosphere will start to get milky.” “The temperature will begin to rise, too, I suppose,” mused Palmer, half to himself. “The refrigerating system can cope with external heat, but this internal molecule-on-mole- cule friction will work everywhere. We’ll have our body temperature going up, also.” Feris did not reply for several minutes, but finally raised himself from the seat. He glanced at Pal- mer. “I’m going to see how things are going in Maintenance Sector, and let the crew in on all the story of what we’re up against. I’d sug- gest, Mr. Palmer, that you find something to keep you a little more busy than inspection of that wall. Didn’t the Geophysical Institute send you along on this run to gather data of some sort? It would strike me that this is a golden opportunity to collect information about condi- tions down here that is certainly ASTOUNDING SCIEN ('E-FICTION

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accessible to no one else.” As the two of them departed Control Sec- tor in opposite directions, neither mentioned the unspoken rejoinder uppermost in both minds — there was an increasingly good chance that said information would never get back to the surface. In the pimple on the Emerald’s flank that was the emergency port where his equipment was installed, Erik Palmer tried to lose himself in an inspection of the battery of instruments which covered the floor and walls. The Institute’s equip- ment was entirely self-recording and usually required no attention dur- ing transit, but Palmer had gone along on this trip as more or less of a joy ride, with the excuse of checking the operation of his newly designed high-resolution spectro- radiometer. Some joy ride, he re- flected bitterly, as he absently spun through the spools of tracings that his instrument had already turned out. Side by side, there were re- cordings of the spectral-energy dis- tribution from the hard X rays up to the Hertzian region, at ten differ- ent levels of excitation, and the electron scatter patterns of the rocks through which the Emerald had passed. Palmer suddenly realized that he was staring blankly, unseeing, at the records, his mind anywhere but on the fine black lines that zigzagged along the thin strip of translucent parchflex. He shook himself men- tally, and focused his eyes back on the tracings with a conscious effort. He stared at the section unrolled before him. Amid the maze of steep-sided peaks that were the usual weak background of faint emission lines to be expected in the ultraviolet, a few mammoth lines reared their flat-topped heads. What caught his attention were the ripples in the tracing along the plateaulike contour of the center of one of the lines. He checked the wave length and the term designation of the line: it was the strong resonance line of neutral manganese at 2794, angstroms, arising from the 3d5 4s2 6 S-3ds 4s 4p °D° transition. But there was something vaguely wrong with its hyperfine structure. After a moment’s -thought, he took a thick volume from a drawer and leafed thoughtfully through it. Sure enough, the hyperfine intensities zvere off. When Feris bent over his shoul- der, an hour later, the tiny desk was strewn with crumpled masses of parchflex and sheets crawling with diagrams and symbols foreign to the commander’s eye. “I see you've managed to keep yourself occupied.” Palmer started, not having heard the hum of the teleport. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “With a vengeance, commander. These tracings are enough to . . . what’s the matter?” He knew what the matter was from the look on Feris' face. “It looks as though the situation is hopeless, Mr, Palmer,” said the commander quietly. “Maintenance Sector cannot he even jury-rigged in less than fifty hours. In ten hours we shall be three thousand miles DEPTH

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down, in densities of better man ten. At the present time, we are having difficulty stabilizing the field at a density of four and a half.’' Erik Palmer could say nothing. In a curious mood of introspection, he tried to analyze his feelings as he realized that certain and inevit- able death had crept very near the Emerald. He was not afraid, but a great dull feeling of utter help- lessness nearly made tears rise to his eyes. What could any of them do as Mother Earth dragged them closer and closer to her bosom? He felt sticky perspiration in his palms, He looked up suddenly — that was no way to behave. Feris was watching him. “I know precisely how you feel, Palmer. It’s the cursed feeling of helplessness that affects me. If I could do something personally . . . but the only men that can help us now are the engineers. They know how desperately vital those repairs are, and they’re sweating blood to put the Sector back into, some sort of operating condition, but it’s no trifling job. I was really appalled to see the mess that the back-surge made of the shunt banks, not to speak of the control equipment that they operated.” Feris found himself a seat in the corner of the little cubicle ; he some- how felt more comfortable here than in the taut silence of Control Sector. Besides, what was there to do there? Nothing but pace the elastic metal plates, and wait. He looked across the room at Palmer. The faint halos around the illumina- tion panels had become shimmering 164 bands, reddish on the outer edge, bluish on the inner. The room was misty and the opposite wall, where Palmer sat, seemed hazy and indis- tinct. Feris tried to ignore this as he said : “I see you’ve managed to find some interest in your work. Any- thing exciting?” Palmer suddenly became aware of the desk strewn with parchflex. “Yes . . . the most peculiar thing shows up in these spectrum trac- ings.” He unwound a spool and held it up for the commander to see. “This black line is simply a graph of the distribution of energy with wave length in the spectrum of the material that we happen to be penetrating at the time. There’s an exciter mounted between a pair of small Mackensen coils which neu- tralizes the Emerald’s field just enough to produce atomic excita- tion by frictional processes. As it’s working now, every thirty seconds we’re taking the complete spectrum from 0.5 angstroms up to about a centimeter wave length, at ten levels of excitation, from practically zero for the long-wave metallic molec- ular bands up to around 1000 elec- tron-volts to tickle the core electrons in some of the complex atoms.” He indicated the strong line with the tiny waves across the top. “This line is a perfectly ordinary one, pro- duced by neutral manganese, of which there is plenty down here. The little ripples running across it show that it is not a single line, but is actually composed of a series of weak ones, very close together, which aren’t completely resolved ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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with the low dispersion that we’re using in this spectrograph. Such a structure is quite well-known, and we understand perfectly what causes it. It is produced mainly by the quantization of the energy of the nuclear spin, and the effect of the presence of any isotopes. There are also effects produced by the precession of the axis of rota- tion of the nucleus, the mutual electrostatic perturbations of the nuclear protons and the relativity- mass changes due to the neutrons’ gravitational potential, but those are usually second-order stuff.” He smijed at Feris. “The trouble is that, although all this has been perfectly understood for centuries, and is predictable with great pre- cision for any line of any atom, the structure of this line, as well as of hundreds of others of all wave lengths, is utterly anomalous in terms of our knowledge of quan- tum mechanics and nuclear statis- tics.” “Anomalous in what way?” “Well, you see, we know all the numbers of degrees of freedom which the energy-carrying particles of an atom can have. On the basis of this knowledge we can predict just what spectral lines will be emitted by exciting the atom in vari- ous ways. The thing that’s im- portant is that all of these energy changes must be consistent with the behavior of the atom in every pos- sible manner. This peculiar hyper- fine structure that I’ve run into here is as abnormal and incredible in its way as if a minus sign sud- denly appeared in the law of gravi- tation, or if the commutative law for positive integers abruptly failed to hold.” Feris looked at the tracings again, and almost had difficulty in sup- pressing a smile. It seemed to him that a few extra wiggles of the black line were pretty small things to get excited about in their present situation. Still, the discussion was probably just as profitable as any- thing either of them could manage for the moment. “Well,” he said, “isn’t it quite possible that the conditions of tern- 168 DEPTH

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perature and pressure down here have mutilated the atoms in some way so the hyperfine structure is modified ?” Palmer shook his head impatient- ly. “No, that’s quite impossible. Any pressure effects that we’d en- counter would just change the pro- files of the individual lines a bit; temperature’d just raise the level of ionization a little, but the pressure would probably push it back down, so that there would be very little net effect. The peculiar thing here is that there are new lines present in the hyperfine structure. For- bidden lines are nothing new of course — such lines show up under conditions that we can’t easily dupli- cate in a laboratory, but their posi- tions and intensities are perfectly predictable on the basis of the known structure of the atom. These lines are in positions where no strange quirk of quantum mechanics could possibly have put them.” He ruffled through the sheets of parchflex and extracted one. “A funny part of the thing is that the structure gets weirder and weirder as you go up the periodic table. I’ve listed here all the elements involved — the effect seems to start weakly with manganese, iron, and cobalt, all with atomic number less than 30. It builds up gradually to iridium and platinum ; their hyperfine struc- ture looks like a spectroscopist’s nightmare. For some reason, all the radioactive elements are per- fectly normal, but the stable iso- neutronic elements of number 97 and above are hashed up so that it’s hard to recognize them.” 166 “Could it be possible,” said Feris, “that the relative abundance of the isotopes of the various elements aren't the same here as they are at the surface, so that all you’re getting is an isotope effect, like you mentioned ?” “I’m afraid not,” replied Palmer. “The isotope effect is easily recog- nizable; this is utterly unlike any- thing that’s ever been observed be- fore.” He stared very hard at the wall as he spoke. “You see, this is the problem. The only way an atom can emit a spectrum line is to change its energy in some way. The only way it can hold energy is to have some sort of latent way of concealing it in a mode of motion, such as rotation of the nucleus or of the orbital electrons, or in the motions of the electrons. The diffi- culty is that every mode of motion that the components of an atom can conceivably possess has been classi- fied.” Palmer turned suddenly to face Feris. “The only way that these extra lines could be produced is by the artificial incorporation of a tiny amount of extra energy into the nuclei of the atoms” Not a muscle moved in Feris’ face. After a moment of silence: “Artificial did you say?” “Yes,” snapped the answer, for Palmer sensed that Feris had smothered a smile. “It can be done, I’m sure. It’s been almost twenty years now since Jacossen showed that it was possible to in- duce submultiple quantized energy levels in the movements of orbital ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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electrons.’' Palmer smiled crook- edly. “Of course, he had only a finite amount of power available, so could just manipulate a few of the lighter elements. Anyway, the subquanta coalesced and left the atom as X ray photons as soon as he quit pouring on the juice. So, although I shrink from predicting the energy necessary to operate on a manganese nucleus, it's not im- possible in principle.” Feris tossed his hand. “I’m not concerned with the mechanics of the thing, Palmer. You used the word artificial. By that do you mean that you think this is the result of some human agency?” “Possibly. I am willing to guaran- tee that it has not come about through any natural process. Now just a minute” — the commander had tried to interrupt — “I know that you're going to say again that such things as mutilated nuclei might be expected to occur down here in the interior where conditions are so ex- treme. You might conceivably have an argument if this were the Jacossen effect in hydrogen, al- though I’ll be blasted if I can see where the energy would come from, even there. But remember, com- mander, this is a nuclear effect! No combination of temperature or pressure that you can dream up in- side a body of planetary size is enough to do this to nuclei” Pal- mer hesitated. “About the only guess I can make is that the Mac field does funny things at these densities. Although why then doesn’t it do the .same things to the Emerald's hull? I’ve tested that, but the metal is perfectly normal.” Feris looked at the small fused patch of metal on the bulkhead and smiled wryly. “This is very inter- esting, Palmer, but don't you think that the whole thing is rather, well, academic? If you can think of some way that it can benefit us in our present fix, I’ll be delighted to abase myself before the altar of pure Science, but — ” He shrugged. Palmer was not listening. He was staring again at his diagrams. Half to himself : “If I could only under- stand what’s holding up this utterly unnatural energy structure. It can't conceivably be under equilibrium. The spacings violate half the quan- tum rules in the book.” He looked up suddenly. “Commander, can you haul me in a sample of this stuff we're passing through?” “I suppose so, if you’ll be satis- fied with a small chunk. We can’t depolarize the field very much.” Palmer peered eagerly over Feris’ shoulder at the temperature indi- cator. The blasts of icy air had cooled their catch sufficiently, and the thick metal sampling cartridge slid out smoothly at the touch of a stud. With the sudden removal of the pressure of twenty-five hun- dred miles of metal and rock, the sample had exploded into a shat- tered double-handful of black rock with a brilliant metallic sheen. It was a matter of minutes before the spectrograph had spewed out an- other roll of tracings. “Identical,” muttered Palmer as he spun through the tape. “Abso- lutely the same. You see, this elimi-

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nates any explanation on the basis of depth or pressure or anything like that. The stuff's the same under surface conditions.” He went farther along the record and frowned in puzzlement, and looked at Feris. As he spoke, he tried to ignore the thick iridescent mist that seemed to fill the room ; the com- mander was almost lost in the milky, almost luminous haze. The cubicle was uncomfortably hot. “I would certainly expect that anything as unnatural and as . . . well, artificial, if you don’t mind, as this nuclear structure wouldn’t stand up under very much excita- tion. But it’s amazing the amount of energy necessary to get it to break down.” Feris said nothing as he went on : “The test of whether this thing is an enforced consequence of the en- vironment is whether the atoms will recover if the structure is broken down.” Palmer crossed the room and fumbled about in the baffling haze for something in his equipment. '’What are you going to do?” asked Feris. “I'm going to give some of this stuff a right smart jolt,” was the answer. “I have here a very similar gadget to the exciter on the spec- trograph, but with more capacity, and a very accurate excitation con- trol. I am now setting . . . this . . . vernier . . . there !” He straightened up “I’ve just set the excitation at a level to break down the strange structure in a manganese nucleus, without damaging the rest of the nucleus Luckily, it’s the lowest 168 energy level; so it’ll be easy to de-excite.” “But how about the other ele- ments ?” queried Feris. “There are others that have this same funny business, aren’t there?” “Sure,” replied Palmer as he worked rapidly. “Some of the lighter ones will get roughly handled, while the heavier ones \fcon’t be bothered very much. But there’ll be plenty of free electrons and neutrons flying around, so all normal atoms and nuclei will build themselves back up again.” He dropped a tiny grain of the rock into the cup of the lower electrode, closed the case, and pumped down the excitation chamber. He hesi- tated in thought for a few seconds, then jabbed a button. A split instant after the flare of the spark behind the thick window, the illumi- nation panels went out and left them in thick darkness. There was a thump as Feris ran into the very solid barrier of the dead teleport He cursed viciously in the darkness and then Palmer heard his fumbling hands find the little-used door and jerk it open. The sound of his running feet faded up the long corridor outside the compartment. Palmer had no intention of follow- ing him to Control ; he stood in the hot blackness and frowned in the general direction of the exciter. Had its puny discharge been enough to knock out the electrical system of a craft of this size? Ridiculous, and yet, the power failure had fol- lowed instantly on the heels of the spark. He was still there when minutes ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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later, Feds' haloed light flickered in the doorway . “Come out here,” said the com- mander grimly. “I want you to see something.” Palmer stared blankly at the elec- trical panel which guarded the cir- cuits of the forward starboard octant of the Emerald. It blazed with a double row of scarlet warn- ing lights ; every miniature ion shunt on the panel had not only broken circuit, but had flicked over to outside ground. “All right, Mr. Palmer,” gritted Feris, “just explain this to me. The juice that killed these circuits was flowing towards Power Sector, not being drawn out of it!” There in the hot corridor, with the brilliant beam of the hand lamp glaring back from the shiny metal, Erik Palmer felt the skin shrivel along his spinal column. He peered at the panel. “Two hundred amp shunts? And you mean that all that going to ground didn’t kick your emergency field maintenance out of this world ?” Feris laughed harshly. “You ex- plain it.” His fingers raced up the panel and the corridor was flooded again with milky, iridescent light. “What did you do to that speck of rock to make it kick back like that ?” “Nothing I hadn’t already done on a very much smaller scale with* the exciter on the spectrograph,” muttered Palmer, as he stared into space in intense concentration. The explanation must be that the strange energy levels were danger- ously unstable and had dumped their quanta instantaneously as the level of excitation went past the critical point. But a spark of the sort in the exciter was hellishly inefficient ; it would be remarkable if more than one out of a million million manganese nuclei could have encountered quanta of the proper energy to knock down the structure like a house of cards. _ But all that energy could only have come from a majority of the nuclei. Palmer felt his jaw thoughtfully. If some sort of resonance process has operated, so that all the nuclei went down like a row of dominoes, why hadn’t the energy going to ground set off all the manganese nuclei down here in the center of the Earth with a bang that would have blown the planet to dust ? And why hadn’t the spectrograph exciter kicked back like this? “I’d like to see your field tracings — perhaps this business may not be so abstract after all.” Feris ignored the dig, and in sec- onds they were in Control. As he spun through the roll of graphs of the Mac potential, Palmer could not but notice how, hour by hour, the wanderings of the jagged line had become wilder and greater in amplitude as Maintenance fought its losing battle with the field. “What would happen, com- mander, if you put on the drive and we started up?” Feris stared at him in amazement. “We’d probably go fine for a few minutes until we hit a soft spot. Then the Macs would flood back through the emergency shunts, and DEPTH 199

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something would give up. Blooey. I thought you understood — ” Palmer interrupted. “What would happen, then, if instead of letting the drains pull the back-surge off the Macs and sending it to Main- tenance, you simply grounded it?” “It might work the first time if it was done very, very carefully, by pre-setting the maintenance shunts, but the loss of that much juice several times would probably not leave us with enough reserve to get through a hard spot. If atomics could work in a Mac field, it wouldn’t make any difference, but we’re utterly helpless as far as building up any more reserve than we took on in California. Or- dinarily, we’d expect about five per- cent energy loss on this trip, al- though the field is theoretically one hundred percent efficient in a sur- face-to-surface cycle. Even so, if we lost as little as fifteen percent, it would be mighty close sailing. But the main thing is that all that energy diffusing out to ground would most likely puncture the field and we’d go out like a light.” Palmer was sketching a rough diagram on a parchflex sheet. “Let’s say we built up a gadget like this — it’s nothing more than a big edi- tion of the exciter that I used in our funny little experiment— and hooked it up to the Mac drains, filled with a few hundred cubic feet of this metallic stuff from out- side, and grounded it. What’s your guess on what’d happen when a back-surge came through there?” Feris laughed dryly. “Do you need me to answer that? There’d 170 be a flood of juice out of there that would make a nova look feeble. I hate to think what would happen to this poor old boat; she’d prob- ably be scattered from here to Saigon.” Palmer shook his head. “I don’t think so. If a couple of million coulombs didn’t even make the po- tential wiggle, I suspect that there’s something operating that will keep a mighty lot of juice under control. Anyway we’re not going to throw it all away.” He turned over the sheet and sketched swiftly. “It’ll be a simple matter to rig the shunts so that they’ll drain only the juice they can handle from that going to ground. That way, there’ll be no net loss if we’re careful.” Feris shook his head slowly. “I don’t think that our fix is so des- perate that we should try something that looks like sheer suicide to me. I'm sorry, but I’m not going — ” As he fell limply across the desk, Erik Palmer knew dimly that the illumination panels flickered des- perately, but all was lost in a red, searing world of heat and agoniz- ing, tearing pain. The parchflex under his head shriveled in the heat. His very consciousness seemed to recede up some flaming, pain- tunnel, although he know distantly that he was writhing and twisting in the bucket seat as muscles jerked and knotted wildly. And then, sud- denly as it had begun, it was over. In the blessed coolness, his tortured body subsided. It was minutes, however, before he could lift his face from the metal table top. The room was filled with the smell of ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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scorched cloth. It was an effort to turn to where Feris lay sprawled against the bulkhead, still twitching slightly. He was watching dully when the commander’s eyes opened. They stared at one another, unable to move. “The Macs almost went under,” rasped Palmer. His throat ached horribly. “God only knows how Maintenance ever managed to drag them back.” He fought to his feet and half fell across the room to Feris. “Don’t you see?” he grated harshly at the commander. “Another one of those will finish us off. By all rights, we should be dead now. There’s certainly nothing to lose by trying my scheme.” Feris’ lips moved, but only a harsh noise came forth. He nodded weakly. It was a work of minutes for the sweating crew, groping in the blistering shimmering haze, to throw together the chamber. It was built of heavy slabs of metal, fused together at the edges. Thick cables ran from the multiple electrodes to conduits which led directly to the Mac drains. Others ran to the grounding circuits. Every sampling chamber on the Emerald had been worked with feverish haste to sup- ply the thousands of pounds of heavy, glossy rock that now crammed the chamber almost to the evacuation vents. As the pumps went swiftly to work. Palmer turned to Feris. The older man was al- most done for. His skin was dry, haggard, and hung in unhealthy Brenda Linahan, ace woman re- porter, was out to get an exclu- sive story; but what was the story behind the mysterious, maraud- ing submarine that pirated the Poinsettia ? And who was the man with the _ skin-colored skin, the hair-col- ored-hair — and the dead-white eyes? Don’t miss FIVE FATHOMS DEAD, the latest exciting adven- ture of Doc Savage and his aides, in the April issue of DOC SAVAGE AT ALL NEWSSTANDS m DEPTH

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folds. His eyes were closed and he was slumped unheeding against the hot metal bulkhead. He forced open his eyelids as Palmer spoke: “We’re just about ready. The idea, of course, is that this gadget will act as a cushion to ground any back-surge without knocking us out of this world.” He glanced back at the chambers. A man at the pumps signaled. “All right. Clear the room.” Feris and Palmer were the last to step through the teleport screen into Control. The latter reflected that, curious as he was about what would take place there, he had no intention of being present when the first surge came through. He cut off the teleport, made certain that the com- partment was completely shielded and insulated from the rest of the Emerald and connected directly to outside ground. Finally he turned and nodded to Feris : “Let’s go up.” The Emerald's drive lifted her gently. Cautiously, she felt her way upward. To Palmer, the hesitant trembling of the Mac potential was symbolic of the slipping clutch of the depths, out of whose realm they were slowly rising. Curious as he was about the efficacy of his crude excitation chamber, he hoped des- perately that they would never find out. The minutes passed — the tem- perature gradually fell, and the irri- tating mist thinned. An hour slipped agonizingly by, and the po- tential fluctuations still remained within the capabilities of emergency maintenance. But all was not well. If he had ITU examined the instruments which registered the conductivity of the material through which the Emerald was passing, he would have noted the peculiar fact, that, instead of dropping off as the metallic content of the rock decreased, it had re- mained constant since the incident of the backfiring exciter. In fact, the Emerald was surrounded by what resembled nothing so much as a clinging electrostatic field. But it was not . For out across a distance so vast that light could not cover the lifetime of a galaxy the impulse of the alarm had just that instant been received. Then, in the time of the flicker of an eyelid, the Emerald slipped across into a denser stratum of rock. The potential steadied as power poured into the Macs, and then the density dropped again suddenly. The weakened ion shunts hesitated too long and the impatient surge leaped to the next lowest potential in Maintenance Sector — a tantalum- silver basketwork of thick cables walling in the shunt banks, which a praying crew of engineers, work- ing side by side with their meclios, had thrown together scant minutes before. A fraction of an ultra- second later, the surge hit the ex- citation chamber. No man can say exactly what happened there, for the intership stereos went out at the same instant. The racing Emissaries, at that instant, were sighting far ahead the faint misty spot that was the Galaxy, ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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by light that had left it ten million years previously. The Being awoke to terrible, ex- ultant life. The tiny wisp of His life-field, which had hung so hesi- tantly around the hull of the Emerald, expanded under the out- pouring energy from the collapsed nuclear structure of trillions upon trillions of very slightly unstable atoms. Like a fire in a tinder-dry forest, the outfiishing wave of more- than-energy released the individu- ally insignificant quanta in more and ever more nuclei. The planet leapt to an awful cosmic consciousness in a time so short that needles on the Emerald’s indicators had no chance to kick over. The Being expanded invisibly, al- most instantaneously. Kindred atoms on Mars, Venus, the Moon, delivered up their contributions of life energy. Compass needles all over the solar system spun like propellers ; magnetic and electro- static instruments either crumpled needles against their pegs or twisted delicate suspensions into filigreed rubbish. If it had not been for the incredibly rapid expansion, the Earth would have been twisted from her orbit by the momentary interplay between her magnetic field and the Being’s life- force. As it was, the dynamic equilibrium of the solar system was subjected to one sudden, terrible shock, and then left to its own resources.. For the Being was then, a hundredth of a second later, at the boundary of the Galaxy and face to face with His hereditary antagonists. The Emerald reached Calcutta hours later. Her instruments were mangled junk; she had found the depth port only by Palmer’s labori- ous triangulation fixes on the seismic beacons. The story of her narrow scrape in the depths ran a very poor second in the news to reports from all over the System dealing with the terrific magnetic storm. The astro- physicists had conclusively shown that it was all the fault of the great subcoronal disturbance— -an enor- mous crevice in the surface of the sun had sprayed the inner planets with a devastating sample of Sol's interior energy. It would be a matter for tardy light, arriving in a thousand cen- turies, to tell the story of the sud- denly missing Magellanic Clouds. THE END. DEPTH m

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Brass Tacks Maybe the jet not the V-2, was staggering around f Dear Mr. Campbeil: About the wavy V-2 trajectory reported by jerry Shelton — it’s ray personal opinion that he was fooled by a gyroscope! Of course V-2 is gyrostabilized ; probably the control system was developed from the late Dr. God- dard’s designs, but even if it were developed entirely from scratch it would still bear a family resem- blance to them— Goddard’s work is basic (so basic, in fact, that one of his earlier patents, about 1914, I believe, covers the liquid- fuel rocket.) Goddard patented three distinct types of gyrocontrols for rockets. The first involves the use of gyros, pure but not so simple in its design — this control is suited only for spaceship use, in all probability. The second involves the use of deflection vanes introduced into the rocket exhaust. This is the type V-2 uses in a modified form. In the third type the entire tail of the 174 rocket, motor and all, is swerved about as necessary. Obviously, the two latter types require that control be achieved by deflecting the ex- haust as required at the proper times. “Liquid-Propellant Rocket Devel- opment” contains two sets of movie stills taken during ascents of test- rockets using control method two. Those rockets weren’t built for velocity — and consequently range —but just to test the mecha- nism; they never attained velocities of more than 750 mph. Under those conditions, then, the course corrections were rather mild and leisurely applied — the course wasn’t jagged, but merely sinuous. In addition, the jet flare wasn’t long enough to project appreciably beyond the rocket’s tail. However, V-2 doesn’t — or didn’t mosey along at a miserable 750 per, but hit it up at speeds sufficient to produce plenty of compressibility effect, which would call for immedi- ate and emphatic corrections in course if the rocket weren’t to veer like an arrow in a typhoon. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

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And, the jet flare from a twenty- six ton thrust motor being rather long, the course corrections con- stantly swerving the jet to one side and the other would probably make it look as though the rocket itself were describing an extremely ir- regular trajectory. From where I stand it looks as though it would be impossible for the rocket itself to sashay about to any great extent — after all, it’s a fairly lightly-constructed affair, and couldn’t stay in one piece very long if it did. — Keith Buchanan, Box 148, Amsterdam, Ohio. V-2 should have had that proximity fuse! Then its force would all have gone into air blast instead of uselessly digging a crater. Dear Mr. Campbell : The wavering, unsteady flight path of a V-2 rocket bomb as re- ported in a letter from Jerry Shelton in the October issue is very inter- esting. You requested comments, so here arc some from an aeronauti- cal engineer. You mentioned that the violent continuous-explosion process in the combustion chamber would lead to irregular thrust. The wavering flight referred to by Mr. Shelton seems to be a yawing or deviation of the V-2 off its course and sub- sequent return to it. I would sus- pect that the aerodynamics of the bomb itself and the mechanics of the gyro control mechanism would be the primary causes of the ir- regular flight, with the unsteady thrust being an aggravating factor. The body of the V-2 is a sharp- nosed streamline body of revolution with a truncated tail. This form is directionally unstable at subsonic and supersonic speeds, so the V-2 is stabilized by four fins mounted on the aft portion of the body, and is guided by aerodynamic control surfaces hinged at the trailing edges of the stabilizing fins. At supersonic speeds, the control surfaces are in the extensive, turbulent wake of the fins and their effectiveness in guid- ing or turning the V-2 is consider- ably reduced below that at subsonic speeds. Directional control in the power-on condition is achieved by small control surfaces lying in the rocket jet. These may not be very effective; especially after the hot, corrosive jet has been playing on them for a little time. The control surfaces are actuated by gyroscopes. Any angular devia- tion from the desired path brings about a correcting movement of the control surfaces and the V-2 is brought back to its original course. There must be a definite, though small, angular deviation before the gyroscopes initiate the correcting motion. This time-lag in the con- trol mechanism, at the terrific speed of the rocket bomb, might result in an appreciable deviation from a smooth course. The unsteady thrust is an ag- gravating factor in the already un- steady flight, as the effectiveness of the control surfaces in the rocket jet is a function of the jet speed. Sup- pose that the control surfaces were deflected during a short period of low thrust Then the deviation from IT# BRASS TACKS

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the course would not be corrected as rapidly as usual, and the V-2 would go off course further than usual before being brought back again. Also, the unsteady thrust would give varying frictional forces on the gyroscope gimbal bearings and other bearings in the control system, resulting in unsteady opera- tion of the controls and irregular course corrections. I have heard that some V-2’s and other guided missiles have crashed untimely be- cause of bugs in the individual con- trol mechanisms. It may be that the V-2 seen by Mr. Shelton was a poor example of the type and that others fly more smoothly. At any rate, the mechan- ical difficulties can be solved, and the unsteady thrust can probably be ironed out. So I don’t think that future rocket passengers will be badly shaken up. The guided- missile research now being done will give the next answers, unless it is beaten to the press by the find- ings of some of the technical rep- resentatives of the United Nations in Germany. — Douglas A. King, 406 Armistead Avenue, Hampton, Virginia. Now you’re thinking of “Gather, Darkness !” Dear Mr. Campbell: From L. Adams Beck, quoting Lao Tsu, the great Chinese mystic: . . These two things, the spiri- tual and the material, though we call them by different names, are one and the same in their origin. This 17# sameness is a mystery, the mystery of the mysteries. It is the gate of all that is subtle and wonderful.” From “World of A,” ASF, Octo- ber 1945. “. . . . It might indeed be said that science is striving to force similarity because only thus — .w From “The Cream of the Jest,” by Cabell. Chapter, Evolution of a Vestryman. “But Kennaston bemused himself with following out the notion that life was trying to evolve symmetry * — It was this course of specula- tion which converted Kennaston to an abiding faith in Christianity.” Does the curious similarity of these quotations foreshadow the scientist taking holy orders, with acolytes swinging microscopes in- stead of thuribles, and that a slide rule is to be handled with reveren- tial awe? — C. R. Wells, 35 West Ninth Street, New York 11, N. Y. Not all Congressmen have even bothered to read the Smyth Re~ port! Wonder if your representor tive has f Dear Sir: I have just read your editorial in the November issue of Astound- ing and I believe that it is something that should be read by everybody. That the vast majority of the peo- ple of the United States, and of the world, have not the slightest reali- zation of the implications in the atomic bomb is evident to anyone who reads the daily papers. Con- gress seems to think that the way ASTOUNDING S CIBNCE-FICTION

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to preserve peace is to prevent United States scientists from talk- ing, thinking or working on any aspect of atomic energy without the consent and guidance of the Army. That people must wake up is es- sential— if we value our lives! I think, therefore, that since the only thinking on the subject that is avail- able is in the realm of science-fiction — which has ceased to be fiction — these stories should be available to the public. Yes— what I’m suggesting is a reprint of the tales mentioned in your editorial — and any others which you deem important — all of them to be introduced by your edi- torial. If only a few people are fright- ened into doing something about the present situation, the project would be worthwhile. (It also might be the source of some revenue to the publishers. ) We are in a period where the only people who know the possibilities of atomic power are gagged by the es- pionage act. They can’t arouse peo- ple to the danger of thinking in our old ways. Someone must arouse those in power before it is too late. I'm frightened ! — Roy V. Hugh- son, 1412 Caton Avenue, Brooklyn 26, New York. The Moon would make a wonderful O. PJ Dear Mr. Campbell : I agree with Mr. Streiff’s letter in October Brass Tacks, but since the letter was written things in the world have changed considerably; namely Atomic Energy. With the demonstration of Atom- ic Energy as it is used now, there is, or should be an entirely new viewpoint toward the rocket or spaceship in the near future. I am not sure how practical it would be to use the Moon for a future military base but with only one side toward the Earth at all times, bombing out such a base lo- cated on this rear side would be almost impossible, at least without highly perfected spaceships. Con- struction and details of ships meant only to carry materials and person- nel, possibly only one way, would be much simpler. The difference in gravity between the Earth and the Moon would put the odds in favor of the Moon based ship in times of combat. On the other hand, an enemy force based on the Moon could wait for his target to come into view and aim his torpedoes accordingly. Naturally these torpedoes would have a war head using atomic en- ergy and consequently a far greater damage area than old type bombs or even “old” type atomic bombs. Just the thought of the Moon as an offensive military base should cause the responsible persons to push the development of a practical spaceship. We can not let basic patents, psychological reasons or anything else stand in our way. The nation who controls the Moon in the future will control the Earth too. — William S. Lindsay. BRASS TACKS 177

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Concerning The Atomic War ( Continued from page 5) out a little better, in relative position, than he went in. The atomic bomb lauching sites must, of course, be absolutely secret sites. Probably even the personnel of the stations won’t be allowed to know where they are stationed, until war strikes. The bomb sites, incidentally, will not be able to use radar directly; radar works on the principle of shout- ing and waiting for the echo, and nothing is quite so easy to locate — and annihilate with atomic bombs — as a radar station. Instead, infrared de- tection devices, operating on the natu- ral, inevitable radiation of the enemy device, will be the main reliance for location. Infrared detection was enor- mously improved during the- recent war. The Nazis, who failed miser- ably in microwave radar, concentrated on infrared, and made more progress on that line than we did. To communicate with each other, and with the outside world, the secret sites cannot use any ordinary trans- mitters. Perhaps some sort of tight- beam link to a series of distant trans- mitters, so phased and so excited, and so varied in amplitude as to give any direction finding equipment the im- pression that they are one single sta- tion, moving about the country errati- cally and at enormous speed, would be the answer. The bomb launching stations them- selves would not simply be located underground. Any place in which men must work in health and efficiency must be heated. Heat escapes," and warms the ground above. Modern infrared detectors could spot a buried fortress by the infrared radiation of the overlying rock. But there are various dodges to overcome this. A station under the lake formed by Boulder Dam, for in- stance, wouldn’t reveal itself; the water of the Colorado River would wash the heat away. A station under a known hot-springs area wouldn’t be suspected. And no radiation of heat could escape from a station under, an Alaskan glacier. On Hawaii, a sta- tion placed near one of the volcanoes might well pass undetected. As we’ve said, hundreds, even thou- sands of feet of rock, do not consti- tute a barrier impenetrable to atomic bombs — if the bombs are simply de- signed to dig out that retreat. But rock in fairly thick layers can serve as successful camouflage, and protec- tion against chance near-m'isses. Noth- ing on Earth — nor the Earth itself — can be protection against a determined, directed attack. Atomic science today is a long, long way from the situation E. E. Smith proposes in his Galactic Patrol series. We can not shield out, ground out, or otherwise entirely eliminate atomic radiation from an active uranium .pile. Somewhere, there must be an escape for waste products, gases and cooling water and byproducts. It seems rather doubtful that a uranium pile can be made proof against detection by ground and/or air spies. Incidentally, in the suggested situa- tion, whatever nation the United States Atomic Bomb Service finally selected as the aggressor would be subjected to a course of annihilation that would make the -Roman treatment of Carthage picayunish. Not only the United States, but every other nation would automatically and instantly*— in a literally hysterical hurry — atomic bomb its every city, town, village, hamlet, cross-roads store, and farm. Which would be a very salutory thing. If the right nation were chosen as the villain. But it would be very hard for the remaining Americans to be calm, judicial, and careful in their de- cisions and weighing of evidence at that moment. The Editor. ASTOUNDING SCIENCE. FICTION

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