Science Fiction Adventures v01n04 (1953 05) (cape1736)

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SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES MAY 1553 SCIENCE EICTION ADVENTURES

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SCIENCE FICTION AD venture; magazine CONTENTS • MAY 1953 • VOL 1. NO. 4 FEATURE NOVEL THE OTHER CHEEK, by Theodore R. Cogswell 6 NOVELETTE STREETS OF GOLD, by Irving E. Cox, 'Jr. .astatt* 59 SHORT STORIES WHAT GOES UP, by Robert Sheckley a a a a , 36 SURVIVORS, by Richard K. Snodgrass 79 THE ROCKET PISTOL, by Robert D. Sampson ....... 91 SERIAL POLICE YOUR PLANET, by Erik van Lhin (Second of Three Ports) , 106 DEPARTMENTS EDITORIAL ..... . 4 AMONG THE FEN 52 THE DISSECTING TABLE 86 THE CHART ROOM 153 COVER BY VAN DONGEN • ILLUSTRATJONS BY BEECHAM • EBEL • EBERLE • ORBAN SC1EN(* per copy

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AN EDITORIAL ON FAN CLUBS Starting in this issue, we’re running a regular column on science fic- tion fan clubs. This isn’t anything which requires a fanfare of trumpets, admittedly — we’ll save that for the stories that sometimes deserve it. But it does seem strange that no adequate account of these clubs has yet been published, so far as we can determine. Books and fanzines — as the magazines put out by science fiction fans are called — are reviewed in most of the magazines. Cursory chit-chat about the doings of the fans is fairly common. But there seems to be almost nothing directly related to the clubs which have sprung up. We feel that it’s about time something was done about this. Hence, we’re doing something. We’ll try to give reasonably complete coverage of one fan club each issue. We’re setting aside enough pages for that purpose, and we'll be happy to let the clubs use that In what- ever way they wish to tell us about their organization and activities. We’ve begun with the Philadelphia group, of course, because they’re putting on the next World Science Fiction Convention in 1953, which makes them of particular interest just now. But after this, weTI welcome information from any other club which would like to receive some national publicity, and at the same time let others know what they are doing. We’d like to receive something of about two thousand words, covering whatever you feel would be of the widest general interest, but it’s up to the club to decide what it wants to say. And don’t forget to give an address where other fans (or fen) can write. For every organized fan there are probably twenty others who would like to belong to some club, if they only knew how to get in touch with others. Frankly, we’re doing this for the man who reads science fiction, but hasn’t joined any group — not for the fan who is already in such a group. But it should be to everyone’s interest. It’s rather surprising, too, how little information there is available on fan clubs. We recently tried to find the addresses of the clubs, and came up rudely against a blank wall. Oh, there were a few listed — Captain Ken Slater provided us with the best list we’ve seen. But even old-time fans who are supposed to know everything were uncertain about a lot

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of addresses, and admitted there must be dozens of clubs about which they knew nothing. Is there really no fan club anywhere in Indiana — or Missouri — or Washington State? From the stories we get, as well as the letters, there are plenty of people genuinely interested in those places. Are there only fourteen fan clubs in this country? We know that there are a lot more than that— because we've run across groups not listed. It seems to us that someone should ' make up a complete directory of all clubs, as a generol service to everyone. Fandom, after all, has done a lot for science fiction. It’s true that no editor can cater exclusively to the fans- — but on the other hand, every editor we’ve known has admitted that the fans have had a large influ- ence on his magazine. The fan clubs have helped here, too. They’ve encouraged fans, and they’ve helped to win some of the general ac- ceptance with which science fiction is regarded today. The World Science Fiction Conventions have been a direct outgrowth of these fan groups. So have many of the publishing houses which first began putting science fiction in hard covers, before the major publishers took it up. And in case anyone thinks that fan clubs are made up of screaming kids in Buck Rogers suits with atomic water pistols, they should see for themselves how wrong they are. We’ve been at a number of such meet- ings, and we’ve found that the fans are interesting, mature-minded (re- gardless of age), and generally nice people to meet. Girls are as welcome as men, incidentally; while fans are still more commonly male than otherwise, the clubs we've seen have had a pretty fair mixture in them. Just as a passing thought, most of the stories in this issue are by fans, new and old. Unlike other fields of writing, science fiction is tough going for any writer who hasn’t followed it for years. With the science fiction boom on, authors are turning from all other fields to science fiction — and then turning back wearily, because it takes something special here. The few who have made the grade seem to wind up being more rabid fans than anyone else! So — look up your nearest fan club, if you can find one. Send your buck to the Eleventh World Science Fiction Convention, after reading about the PSFS, and — if you belong to a club — let’s hear about your group! PHILIP ST, JOHN Editor

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THE OTHER CHEEK BY THEODORE R. COGSWELL ILLUSTRATED BY EBEL Cbrpefiter liked the quiet life, until they put him on a military ship he couldn’t operate and tossed him up against an enemy that couldn’t be there. ^ Then he discovered his military etiquette was wrong!

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8 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES All things being considered, Pilot Officer Kit Carpenter was as calm as a young and some- what unwilling reserve officer who had never seen a planet blown up in anger could be ex- jiected to be when his ship was about to be blasted out from un- derneath him. His only outward si.gn of agitation was the way in which his eyes kept shifting back and forth as he tried to focus them simultaneously oh the image of authority on his num- ber one telescreen and the image of wrath on his number two. He was trying to consult the first about the second but he wasn’t getting very far. “Can’t hear you, sir,” he bel- lowed to the figure on the first screen. Commander Simmons’ voice sounded back faintly through the surrounding din. “Turn off your hooter, you knucklehead!” Kit gave an abashed start and ]iLinched a stud on the control Ijoard in front of him. The rau- cous beep BLOOP beep BLOOP of the alarm siren that had been echoing through the deserted companionways and empty com- partments of the old freighter dwindled to a last despairing squawk and silence. “Well?” said the commander sourly. He obviously wasn't happy about wasting his time. “WCD! Six o’clock at thirty- seven degrees. What do I do now?” There was a moment of si- lence and then Commander Sim- mons snorted. “The first thing you can do is to familiarize yourself with your code book. For your infonnation, WCD means ‘enemy spacecraft pi'eparing to attack.’ When you’ve checked that, you might also take a look at your Officer’ Guide and brief yourself on the proper way to report *o a su- perior officer!” “Sorry, sir,” said Kit, “but I thought . . “Pilot officers aren’t supposed to think,” growled the other. “They’re supposed to pilot. Now if it’s not asking too much — your name, ship, and destina- tion!” Kit was trying desperately to sit at attention, but in spite of his best efforts, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the other telescreen. “When you’re being addressed by a superior,” the commander continued, “look him square in the face. The service has no place for shifty-eyod officers. Now re- port ! ” “Pilot Officer Kit Carpenter, sir. Auxiliary freighter Pelican on courier detail. I’m supposed to rendezvous with a guard squadron some place around hej’e and continue on to Saar with

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THE OTHER CHEEK them. I’ve a pouch for Space Mar.shall Kincaide.” “That’s better,” said the com- mander. "We’re the outfit you’re looking for. Now what’s your trouble? It better be serious enough to justify that all-chan- nel alarm you just blatted out or you’re going to find yourself on report.” “WCD,” said Kit. “Begging .vour pardon, sir, but there is an enemy spacecraft preparing to attack.” The commander jerked himself erect in his seat. “What!” He swung as if to bark an order and then caught himself and looked back at Kit with a dubious ex- pression on his face. “Are you sure you aren’t see- ing things? Let’s have a look at what’s out there.” After a moment’s fumbling Kit managed to swing his number two plate around on its gimbals so the commander could see it. “There she is, sir. She must have on her battle black because all that comes through on visual is a big blur.” Commander Simmons sighed and relaxed in his seat. “Sorry to disappoint you, Carpenter, but it would take a star class cruiser to throw a smudge that size. And star cia.ss cruisers don’t go around jumping on auxiliary freighter.s. What do you get on 9 your radar scope? Battle black won’t soak up UHF.” Kit squirmed unhappily. “Nothing, sir. But . . .” Kit stam- mered to an embarrassed stop. “Stop stuttering! What’s the matter, your scanner out of kil- ter?” “Not exactly . . .” The words came out in a rush. “The truth is that I just don’t know how to operate the darn thing. I missed that lecture when I was taking basic.” “You what?” howled the com- mander. Kit’s look of embarrassment was becoming chronic. “You see. Commander, I’m a Planetary Ferry Command service pilot and . . .” Simmons clapped his hands dramatically to his head. “Oh, no! Are they going crazy back home? What’s a peefee doing out in deep space?” “Couldn’t we go into that later, sir? I’m about to be blown apart.” "Stop that nonsense!” snapped the commander. “When a supe- rior officer asks you a question, you will give him a direct an- swer.” Kit looked unhappily at the blur on his other screen. “This was a rush job and there weren’t any fleet pilots available so they punched out a navigation tape for me and sent me out on full

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10 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES automatic. They said once I made contact with you, you’d take me in the rest of the way. I came out of warp ten minutes ago and this baby jumped me. I’ve got three minutes to surrender or else.” “For your information,” said the commander with a strained sweetness in his voice, “ships of one .system do not attack ships of another without a prior dec- laration of w-ar. We are not at war. Do I make myself clear? You’ve probably got a bug in your detection gear that’s throw- ing a shadow on your screen.” “Commander,” said Kit dog- gedly, “maybe we aren’t at war with anybody, but somebody is sure at war with us. Or with me anyway. Fouled up detectors don’t talk. Whatever it is that’s out there does. If I don’t surren- der within the next couple of minutes she’s going to open fire !” On the innermost planet of the system of Saar, the hundred and twenty-seventh consecutive meet- ing of the respective liberation forces of the Solar Alliance and the Polarian Empire were under way. In one tent Space Marshall Kincaide, Supreme Commander, Solar Expeditionary Forces, and His Royal Highness, Prince Tarz, Duke of the Outer Marches and War Lord of the Imperial Polarian Fleet, had passed from the table thumping stage and were now busily engaged in try- ing to outshout each other. Off in one coi’ner by himself, his usual dignity completel.v surren- dered, .sat the unhappy represen- tative of the Saarians, his eyes closed and his hands pressed tightly against his ears. As usual, nobody was paying him the slightest attention. Two tents down, the sub-com- mission on the exchange of civilian prisoners was in full ses- sion. Since thei'e were no civilian prisoners to be exd’.mged, they were passing time by showing each other pictures of waves and fiancees. Both Terrestrials and Polarians were finding the ex- change rather stimulating be- cause, though female anatomical structure was the same in both systems, ideas as to which areas of the body should be clothed as a matter of natural modesty varied greatly. Back of the cookhouse a couple of privates were shooting craps. The Earthman had already taken over the Polarian’s thurk skin and was busy working on his green battle beard. The dice weren’t loaded, but they were a little flat on one side. Squadron Commander Sim- rnons knew that Kit couldn’t be in any l eal trouble, but he found

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THE OTHER CHEEK himself wishing half consciously that he weie. The commander was facing technological unem- ployment and he wasn’t happy about it. He had a vested inter- est in the coming war — and now the coming- war wasn’t coming. Once the stellite deposits on Saai’ — which, as everyone agreed, the Saarians had little use for, having no expensive battle fleet to maintain — were equitably divided between Earth and Polarius, there would no longer be any necessity for a show of force, and the reserve components of the Solar Fleet would be demobilized. Squadron Commander Sim- mons’ permanent rank was Pilot Officer, Senior Grade, and he wasn’t particularly anxious to re- turn to it. He ran his fingers regretfully over the golden comets on his shoulder straps. This was his last mission. Nego- tiations for an agreement where- by the Saarians would turn over part of their stellite to Earth for protection against the Polarians and the remainder to the Polar- ians for protection against the Solar Alliance were almost com- pleted. Escorting Space Marshall Kincaide back to Earth would be his last flight as commander. After that . . . His fingers were creeping up to the golden comets again when a crisp voice snapped him out of his reverie. 1 1 "Word from the spotting room, sir. They swept the courier and there is a ship alongside her. A big one! She looks like a Po- larian star class cruiser, com- mander. Her nose turrets show up plain as day!” Simmons’ fist crashed down on the general alarm button. “All hands to battle stations! Prepare to proceed under full emergency power! You!” he barked at Kit. “Make a run for it. Throw on your boosters and take evasive action! We’ll get to you as fast a.s we can.” “Beg pardon, sir,” said Kit, “but before I took off they gave me strict orders not to touch the controls. Said I’d get lost for sure if I started fooling around with them.” “I don’t give a damn what they said,” roared the commander. “I’m giving you a direct order to make a run for it. And above all, don’t let that pouch fall into enemy hands. If it looks as if you aren’t going to get clear, de- stroy it. Is that clear?” “Yes, sir. But about that pouch . . .” “Carry on,” snapped Simmons. The screen went dark. Kit looked up unhappily at the sweeping second hand of the clock above the instrument panel and prepared to obey or- ders, to his best ability.

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12 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Squadron 7 hurtled through the gray nothingness of hyper- space in a tight cone. In the lead ship Commander Simmons sat hunched before his blank combat screen, battle ready, his fingers spread over the controls that bound the whole squadron to- gether into a flashing thunder- bolt of destruction. A flat mechanical voice echoed from the concealed speak- er behind him. “Request permission to snap out, sir.” Without turning his head, Simmons grunted, “Permission granted.” There was a sudden wrenching and then the combat screen lit up as the squadron flipped into noi-mal space. There was the usual exasperating mo- ment of waiting for the detector beams to bridge the distance to the objective and back, and then two sharp silhouettes leaped into being. Simmons’ executive officer pointed excitedly at the larger of the two. “It’s a Polarian all right, sir!” Simmons nodded tensely. As the squadron closed in, the smaller silhouette began to move rapidly away from the larger one, zig-zagging as it went. “He’s making a run for it!" For a moment it looked as if the courier might make it. Then with an easy twist like a shark ■ pursuing a mud turtle, the larger silhouette overtook the smaller one. Suddenly the battle screen be- gan to shimmer. Action was lost in a spreading cloud of light points. Commander Simmons punched the spotting room call button. “What the hell’s going on down there?” An apologetic voice answered. “The big ship’s jamming, sir. There’s nothing we can do until we get within range of the vis- uals.” Minutes went by and still the screen remained blank. Then suddenly it cleared and the two ships could be seen again. There was little change in their po.si- tions. Then again the little ship changed course suddenly and be- gan to pull away. The cruiser made no effort to follow. “Two minutes to target, sir,” called a voice from the wall speaker. The courier drew farther and farther away. Commander Sim- mons was just beginning to re- lax when without warning from the nose of the great cruiser darted a flashing speck. “There’s a homing torp after him!” The courier seemed to realize its danger and began to take evasive action but the tiny point

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THE OTHER CHEEK 13 kept on its trail, closing in with relentless persistency. A second latei' the two points touched. A blinding burst of actinic light dared up on the screen and then nothing was left but a glowiTig spreading cloud of I’adioactive gas. The enemy cruiser hung mo- tionless tor a moment and then with a dick, vanished as its great coinertei’s wai'ped it into hyper- siiace. Commander Simmons’ comets seemed to griji his .shoulder tabs as if the.^ had a permanent place there. “Set course for Saar! If it’s war they want, war is what they will get!’’ He adjusted his look of com- mand and glared sternly around at such of his staff as were on duty in the control room. “Gentlemen, it may take twen- ty years, but the Pelican will be avenged!’’ He frowned as he de- tected a certain lack of enthus- iasm in the "Aye, aye, sirs’’ with which the more civilian-hearted membcu's of his staff responded. “Sei'\'ice tie fore Self,” he bark- ed, and llicn, chest out, shoulders back, and chin in, he marched fioni the control room. 0?i Saar negotiations were pioceeditig as usual. Pi'ince Tarz and Space I\ta]’shall Kincaid(> W'ere glaring at each othei' in sullen silence while the Saarian emissary fidgeted forgotten at the end of the table. Finally the little man spoke in a quiet voice. “Please, gentlemen, you know' how these scenes upset me. Couldn’t we adjourn until you are in a better frame of mind?” Kincaide looked dow'n at him in disgust. “If you’re not happy here, wh\’ don’t you go home? We’ll send word to you when it’s time for .you to come back and sign the treaty.” Prince Tarz nodded. It was the first time he and Kincaide had agreed upon anything for days. “Let’s get back to work,” grunted Kincaide impatiently. He pulled a topographical map of the northern hemisphere to- ward him and indicated an irregular area marked in red. “My government contends that ...” The Saarian interrupted foj' the second time. “That area con- tains some of our best grazing land !” Prince Tarz gave a wolfish grin. “It is unfortunate, but think of the protection you’ll be getting. If anyone ever tries to bothei' you, we’ll drive them out. I don’t .see any wniy that occupa- tion can be avoided — unless of course you’d prefer to detail a couiilc of your own battiilions for defense detail.”

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14 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “You know that we have no troops,” said the Saarian with dignity. ' Tarz winked at Kincaide. “Then draft a few.” The little man caught the ex- change of amused looks. “You find it amusing that our culture is such that my people are incapable of any act of true violence, don’t you? This is not a matter for daughter, but for thought. I have warned you be- fore that if you insist on thrust- ing yourselves upon us, terrible consequences must follow. On your heads be it, then.” “Nuts!” said Kincaide. Turn- ing back to Tarz he stabbed his finger down on the map and pro- tested violently. As voices began to rise again, the Saarian shuddered and slip- ped down in his chair. He didn’t think they would come to the point of actually striking each other, but even the threat of vio- lence nauseated him. Kit did the best he could but his best wasn’t good enough. Trying to carry on evasive action in an old clunker whose worn plates begin to buckle at a 5G side-thrust is a rather pointless procedure. His run for it lasted exactly fifteen seconds. Then, with an effortless spurt of its great planetary drives, the cruiser flashed up to his side and gripped the Pelican securely with her magnagravs. As he was hauled closer to the great ship, he followed out the last of his orders. The sealed package ad- dressed to Space Marshall Kin- caide was tossed regretfully into the incinerator chute. Kit wasn’t happy about being captured but there didn’t seem to be much he could do about it so, after switching his number two screen to BOW CLOSE so he could see what was going on, he busied himself with collecting his few belongings in his flight bag. Lovingly he took down a framed photo from the bulkhead and gazed regretfully upon his past greatness. There next to a small shed that bore a very large sign, AJAX CARRIERS, rested the Ajax fleet, an old flare-jetted DeWitt open-system lunar cargo rocket. Beside its open cargo hatch stood the Ajax staff, owner and chief pilot Kittridge Carpen- ter, and his chief of maintenance and supply. Egghead Shirey, w'ho in addition to being the mechan- ic, kept the books, collected the bills, and loaded and unloaded the ship. Kit sighed as he placed the picture gently in his bag. Egg- head was doing all he could to keep the business running but he couldn’t swing it alone. It would take Kit’s presence and a fistfull of money to get the Ajax Car-

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THE OTHER CHEEK 15 rio's back off the rocks. And now — Kit stared gloomily at the telescreen. The cruiser’s midship landing hatch was gaping open, but the man at the magnagrav controls seemed to be having trouble esti- mating relative speeds. At last after several false swings the Pelican was jockeyed in through the landing hatch and lowered roughly to the hangar floor. A clanging vibration ran through the deck plates of the cruiser and up into his ship as the great entrance hatch clanged shut. And then his vision screen went blank as air hissed into the hanger compartment and frosted over the scanner ports. Kit sat watching the' external pressure needle climb until it reached Earth normal. When it did, he climbed down into the pressure chamber and undogged the locks on the outside port. There did not seem any point in hanging around. The actual surrender was only a formality that he might as well get over with. When he stuck his head out the hatch and looked down, he almost changed his mind. Waiting for Kit on the flight deck were several unsavory-look- ing characters clumped together in a disorderly knot. Over their massive shoulders were slung tawny thurk skins, and partially covering the stubble on their scowling, unshaven faces hung the false green beards that were the traditional battle wear of Polarian fighting men. As Kit started down the ladder that led from the exit hatch of the Peli- can, they began to howl up at him. They carried a miscellan- eous assortment of blunt objects in their hands and seemed intent on making as immediate and forceful a presentation of them as possible. Kit scurried back through his memory trying to pick up something in the way of a guide to survival. There had been a training film on What To Do If Caj)tured — but the only thing he could remember from it was that it was highly important that one reveal nothing more to the enemy than his name, rank, and serial number. Unfortu- nately, the menacing crowd down below seemed more interested in collecting blood than informa- tion. He was tempted to reverse his direction but a moment’s reflec- tion convinced him that forcing them to cut their way into the Pelican to get him wouldn’t im- prove their tempers. Somewhat whitefaced, he continued on dowm to the deck, raising both hands above his head in token of surrender. The green-bearded warriors closed around him in a mutter-

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16 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES ing semicircle. Kit licked his lips nervously and fumbled be- hind his back for the first rung of the laddei’. He tensed, ready for a quick -pivot and a fast scramble, when a massive officer ])ushed his way through the ranks and came to a stop in front of him. The bi-ight green ringlets of the ceremonial beard that draped the lower half of his face only half concealed the three days’ growth of stubble undeimeath. ITi.s tunic was smudged with food stains and his bloodshot eyes had a mean and crazy look in them as they eyed Kit with the intentness of a hound dog sui'- veying a chunk of raw meat. Kit felt an immediate and p)-essing need to talk things over. He wi-acked his hrain in an effort Ic salvage something of the two v'.'eeks course in e.rtra-terreMrinl, the linniw franca of the space- ways, he’d had at OCS, but all lu could remember was pigna- sna krntvik, ‘have you lost your toothbrush.’ Considering the con- dition of the other’s teeth, it hardly seemed like a politic (lue^tion. With a scowl, ^he officer ges- tured to tha blaster that iiung at Kit's side and barked, "Therka!" Kit meekly unbuckled it and Ihanded it over, butt- first as the regulations provided. The other gripped the heavy weapon and with an ugly chuckle raised it up until it was aligned with a point roughly one inch above Kit’s snubbed nose. The landing area grew suddenly silent as one grimy finger began to crook down on the firing stud. The officer’s eyes narrowed a.s he slowly begati to count, “Urp! . . . Det! . . . Twik! ...” Kit’s lesson in Polarian num- eials was suddenly interrupled iDy the dissonant clang of a gong. Then it sounded again, and from the othe.)' side of the'hangar deck came a procession of white lobed figures. Their leader wa.s a slight elderly man hut the wand he bore impi-essivoly before him had an unpleasant resemblance to a hu- man thigh bone. He stopped a short distance from Kit and ad- diessed the W'airior.s 1>rief1y. They responded with short snarls of protest and -then reluctantly began to struggle away from the landing area. Only the officer re- mained. “I am the Soother of Souls. The position is somewhat equiva- lent to that of chief chaplain in your forces. It’s a bit messier, though. When we sacrifice a cap- tive, I have to examine his en- trails to see whether Thweela is kindly disposed toward our ven- ture.” Kit gulped and changed the subject in a hurry.

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THE OTHER CHEEK 17 “What’s behind all this? One minute I’m cruising along mind- ing my own business, and the next I’m the prisoner of a bunch of loonies whose only interest in life seems to be finding newer and moie interesting ways to beat my brains out. What gives?” “You’re an Earthman,” said the Soother of Souls, as if that explained everything. “So what?” “Earth always take.s! She mas- ses her fieet.s oIT a little system, points her guns, and takes. I think maybe Polarius will change things. She’s got big ships — big guns too. Thweela will drink much blood soon!” “Why pick on me?” protested Kit. “I’m not mad at anybody. All that I want to do is get home be- fore my business goes bankrupt. What have you got to gain by taking me prisoner?” “You’ll find out,” said the Soother of Souls cryptically and then turned as the officer beside him tugged at his sleeve, ges- tui'cd toward Kit, and growled something. “What does he want?” asked Kii, nervously. “Captain Klag says he’s leav- ing now. He says he’ll see you at dinner.” “Tell him I’m not hungry.” “That’s irrelevant. You are the dinner. The ritual banquet is an old Polarian custom. By eating the enemy we rob him of his power. A long time ago we used to use a spit and roast him over a fire. Now we use diathermy so as not to spoil so much meat.” As Kit’s face went white. Cap- tain Klag gave a satisfied smile and swaggered away. The high priest barked a quick command and suddenly the hangar deck became a hive of activity as his followers tossed their robes to one side and went efficiently to work. A cart was trundled up carry- ing what Kit recognized as some soil of remote control rig. Four of the priests grabbed it and quickly muscled it up the ladder and into the hatch of the Pelican. They remained inside for several minutes, and then one stuck his head out and nodded to the high priest. A moment later all four came out of the ship and closed the hatch behind them. While the first crew was work- ing inside the Pelican, another had trundled out a space torpedo and was busy armiiyg its atomic warhead and adjusting its hom- ing controls. They .set it carefully on the guide rails that lead to the exit hatch and then, after a careful check, waved a go-ahead signal to the high priest. He called a quick order. Robes were reassumed, the procession re- formed, and, with a bang of the

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18 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES ceremonial gong, double-timed toward the entrance port that led to the interior of the ship. Kit brought up the rear, assisted by two husky priests. As the hatch banged shut be- hind them. Kit stole a glance back through the transparent port. The Pelican rose slowly from the deck and with a short spurt from her rear jets vanished through the exit hatch into the blackness of outer space. A mo- ment later the homing torp vi- brated slightly and began to move slowly in pursuit. It was pitch dark in the cell block. Kit slumped on the iron ledge that served him for a bunk and tried to estimate how long it had been since they had brought him down from the flight deck and locked him up. On the wa.v down there had been the muffled thunder of drive tubes and then, just as they clanged the grilled door shut on him, the familiar wrenching as the cruiser Twisted into hyperspace. Ilis stomach was his clock and for obviou.s reasons he tried to avoid thinking about any paid of the eating process. Being a pris- oner of war under normal cir- cumstances was bad enough, but to be the piece de resistance at a ritual banquet was a course of another color. What he had to do was obvious; it was the iuna that was putting pinwheels in his brain. There were scout ships on the landing stage, but to get to them he would first have to get out of the cell. And then, even if he could slip down to the flight deck undetected, there was still the pi'oblem of getting the launching port open so he could blast out. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had to get out, and he had to get out fast. Suddenly a dim light blinked on overhead and he heard the sound of a hatch opening at the other end of the cell block. Thei'e was the sound of footsteps and a moment latei- he could distin- guish an aiiproaching figure in the semi-darkness. It stopped in front of his cell and looked in. Kit glanced down at the gleaming, sharp battle sickle that hung at the other’s side. A horrifying susriicion grew that this could very well be the shiji’s butcher come to prejiare him for dinnei'. Drawing his shouldei's back, he said in a voice whose sternness was somewhat siioiled by a slight quaver, “I am an officer in the Solar Fleet and I demand to be treated as such. Interspatial law provides ex- treme penalties for the mistreat- ment of prisoners!” The other answered his pro- test by hoisting up the broad, flat lail of the tinirk skin that

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20 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES was draped over his left shoulder and blowing his nose on it noisily. When he made no overt move Kit advanced to the front of his cell, tapped himself on the chest, and said slowly, “Me Earth,” and pointing toward the other, “You Polarius. Friends.” Then he stretched his hand out through the bars, "Shake.” The warrior looked at him coldly. “Regulations of the Polar- ian Imperial Fleet provide that all personnel refrain from un- authorized physical contact with prisoners. You are a prisoner. Shaking hands with you would be unauthorized physical contact. During my current avatar I am appearing in the physical guise of a Polarian officer. Do I make myself clear ?” He was smug about it. Kit withdi-ew his hand. “Not quite. Would you mind going over that ‘current avatar’ part again ?” “You may substitute the terms ‘embodiment’ or ‘manifestation’ if you pi'efer,” said the other stiffly. “Regulations also provide that guards shall not carry on unnecessary conversations with prisoners. This conversation is unnecessary.” With that he turn- ed his back to Kit. Kit was bothered. There was something about the whole sit- uation that was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Why should the Polarians want to break the peace? And if they did, why did they tip their hand by knocking off an old clunker like the Pelican? And above all, why did they go to all the trouble of taking him prisoner? He cer- tainly didn’t know anything that would be of value to them. It didn’t make sense! Nothing made sense — including the posi- tion of the guard who was now leaning against the bars with his back toward Kit so that the bunch of keys protruding from his back pocket were within easy reach. Without stopping to think. Kit stretched out his hand cautious- ly. His fingers had almost touched the key ring when the guard gave a sudden bound like a frightened rabbit and then lurched into the opposite cor ridor wall. As Kit watched him his eyes turned glass.v and rolled up slightly. He stood rigid, head half-cocked as if listening to in- audible voices. “Do you hear them?” he de- manded. Kit shook his head cautiously. “Who?” “The voices. The voices that are one voice.” The guard’s voice dropped into a rumbling chant. “The voices that cry out through

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THE OTHER CHEEK 21 the empty blackness between the stars.” Kit shifted uneasily. He couldn’t }:et at the guard, but the guard could get at him. “The rabbits have gathered in their wajrens. They are sum- moning death, cold wracking death streaming in from the dark nebula. The millions are kneeling together, their minds throbbing out a single cry . . . ovei’ and over . . . over and ovei- , . . Come Thweela . . . COME THWEELA!” He pi'e.ssed both hands against his head and began to shake and tremble. His eyeballs turned up until only the muddy whites could be seen and he seemed to be choking on his own tongue. He pushed back against the bulk- head, spreading his arms out. His head lolled down on his che.st and in the half darkness it almost seemed as if he hung there crucified. Kit felt surge after surge of alarm as he watched the guard. Thweela? Thweela was the old PolariaJi god of death and de- struction. But this! There was silence for a mo- ment and then a strangled sob hurst from the guard's throat. “Not the Death ! Let me live out this avatar in peace!” He stood as if waitfng for an answer. When it came his mas- sive chest expanded as his shoul- ders squared and his head came up. Like a great automaton he stalked slowly, majestically to- ward Kit. High above the liberators’ headquarters on Saar there were brilliant bursts of purple flame as Squadron 7 entered atmos- phere with braking jets roaring out their full-throated thunder. Commander Simmons was in his stateroom checking over his full dress uniform for the umpteenth time. When he was quite satisfied he stiffened, adjusted his face to a maximum of sternness, and said briskly to his mirror, “At 0748 this morning a WCD was received from the auxiliary freighter Pelican . . Kit retreated rapidly to the rear of the cell and looked around desperately for something he could use as a weapon. There wasn’t anything. Realizing the hollowness of the gesture, he cocked his fists and assumed what he hoped was a defensive position. A roaring contemptuous laugh came from the guard. “You dare raise your hands against Thweela the Mighty?” Kit’s fists and jaw dropped at the same time. “Thweela?” The guard nodded majestic- ally. “I have selected this body for my purposes,” he said.

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22 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Even though Kit carried a rab- bit’s foot in his pocket, he had always vaguely considered him- self an agnostic. As a result he wasn’t quite sure how one was supposed to behave in the pres- ence of a god — but he did the best he could. Trying to keep thought one step ahead of action, he flopped down on his knees and stretched out his arms. “My Lord!” “You know me then?” A ter- rible light shone in Thweela’s eyes as he glared through the bars at the Earthman. “There is but one Thweela and Carpenter is his prophet.” The guard’s expression of wrath changed to one of doubt. “Thou art somewhat flat- chested to be the chosen sword of Thweela.” There was a mo- ment of pregnant silence. “But so be it. Thou shalt stand at our right hand and be our sword and buckler.” Kit knocked his head three times against the deck plates in acknowledgment of his gratitude. “Have I my lord’s permission to rise?” Taking silence for assent Kit hoisted himself to his feet. A vague plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind. “Will not my lord now reveal himself to the others on this ship so that they too may wor- ship him?” he pleaded. A grim smile played ovei- Thweela’s face and his hand di-opped to caress his battle sickle. “They shall know' me in my time and in my fashion.” Kit had a feeling it was now or never. Trying to keep from sounding too concerned, he asked, “Would it not be well for the Prophet of Thweela to go before and prepare his people to greet him? It is not well that a god should go forth unannounced.” The other considered the sug- gestion gravely and then nodded. Taking the keys that dangled from his back pocket, he pro- duced a small glowing sliver of metal and inserted it in the lock. There w'as a click and the cell door swung open. Kit slipped out quickly and bowed. "If m.y lord will wait here, I will go ahead and assemble the ship’.s company to do him homage.” Thweela shook his head. “My mi.ssion brooks no waiting!” Kit made another quick ti’y. “IMay I suggest then that we p)'o- ceed at once to the flight deck. There is space there sufficient for grouping all those who will assemble to hear thy words.” He waited, taut. Finally there was a majestic nod of assent. Three minutes later he was half way to the flight deck. He

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THE OTHER CHEEK 23 kept two steps behind the guard, trying to look as much as possible like a pi'isoner being conducted some place on official business. Several green bearded warriors passed, but none gave the pair more than casual attention. With the occasional white- robed priest that went by, the situation was somewhat differ- ent. It seemed to Kit that they recognized him but for some reason or other wanted to give him the impression thdt they didn’t. There was something fi.shy about the whole business. Things were going too smoothly. Then, suddenly, everything blew up in his face. As he turned into a narrow passageway that looked as if it might lead to the flight deck, he saw a noisy procession advancing toward him. As it drew nearer, he saw it was headed by a famil- iar figure. It was Captain Klag, the officer who had threatened to blow his head off. He was still wearing Kit’s blaster. Be- hind him came several warriors who were beating out a caca- phonous march on an odd assort- ment of pots and pans. It occur- red to Kit that they might be celebrating the coming banquet, and he pressed against the cor- ridor wall to get out of their way. Head averted, he started to sidle by the group. For a mo- ment he thought he was going to make it, but just as he was al- most past them, a harsh voice bawled in his ear and a rough hand grabbed him by the shoul- der. “Where do you think you’re going?” Kit decided not to answer on ground that it might incriminate him and turned to Thweela for assistance. The guard wasn’t there. He was thirty feet dowm the corridor, leaning against a bulkhead and shaking his head as if to clear it. “Lord Thweela,” shouted Kit, “this person is trying to inter- fere with our mission.” The warrior who was holding Kit started to laugh. “That’s not Thweela. Sometimes he thinks he is, but the real God is w'ith us!” He pointed trium- phantly to Klag. “Behold the god of death and destruction !” The towering figure of Klag stalked foi-ward with the intent- ness of a panther preparing to pounce upon a rabbit. The men behind him began to inch in until Kit found himself penned back against the cold steel of the corridor wall by a menacing hu- man bulwark. A tremor ran through the crowd, a ripple of hostility that grew in intensity until it hung over him like a tidal wave. As it started to break, he saw a white-

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24 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES robed figure trying to force its way through the crowd to him. The new Thweela shoved his ugly face close to Kit’s, cleared his throat and changed the course of Terrestrial history. Pilot Officer Carpenter was a peace loving citizen who enjoyed nothing more than avoiding a good brawl, but there are cer- tain insults that no noi'mal hu- man male can accept. When the small savage that lurks within all of us saw what the warrior was preparing to do, it seized control. Raw inij)ulse pulsed down Kit’s neurons and lie sud- denly exploded into an awkward pistolling of arms and legs. By luck more than design, one fist smashed into a scowling bearded face. The result was chaos. Warriors went hooting and screaming in all directions. In a moment only the priest was left and even he seemed to be on the verge of becoming vio- lently sick to his stomach. “Barbarian!” he choked. “Madman! You hit him! You struck another entity! You — ” His words choked off as matter momentarily triumphed over mind and his stomach broke out in open rebellion. Kit left him gagging in a corner and started down the cor- ridor. His knuckles were sore but there was an uncommon erectness to his carriage. Green bearded warriors peeped timidly out at him from side passage- ways, but none of them came near. On Saar negotiations had skidded to a sudden halt. In spite of the strain impo.sed b.\' keeping a thirty-eight inch waist sucked in so that it approximated a reg- ulation thirty-two. Squadron Commander Simmons was com- pleting a report that was a model of militai'y crispness. “. . . and at 081.’,S galactic time our courier again took evasive action. The Polarian cruiser launched a ho.ming tor- pedo which completely destroyed it. We came in to attack, but the ciuiser flipped into hyper-space and disappeared.” Prince Tarz pounded his fist on the table angrily. “I tell you again it’s impossible. All our units have received strict orders to observe the peace.” “You are sui-e that the cruiser was Polarian?” asked Space Marshall Kincaide. "No doubt about it, sir,” answered Simmons. “They are the only ones that have their fj'ont blasters mou.nted in ball turrets.” Kincaide’s face was white with anger as he turned to Prince Tarz. “I think you have some ex- plaining to do.”

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THE OTHER CHEEK 25 “I have already said that all our units were under orders to refrain from any hostile acts,” said Tarz. “Polarian spacemen do not disobey orders. Your man is obviously mistaken.” Kincaide rose slowly to his feet. “The squadron commander is not mistaken!” He pointed to a folder of documents on the table. “There is the evidence. Sworn statements of other crew members. Photogi’aphs of your ship. Examine it, sir.” Pi'ince Tarz brushed the . pile of documents aside contemptu- ously. “It is not necessary to ex- amine them.” His voice was fiosty. “The word of a Polarian oflicei’ is sufficient in itself!” Kineaide’s voice carried an ecpial chill. “In this case we shall hiive to insist on something a little more substantial.” Prince Tarz’ face tightened, and he came slowly to his feet. With an angry shake of his shouldei's he shi ugged his thvrk skin to one side, exposing his gleaming battle sickle. “I trust I misunderstand you, sir.” His 'hand dropped to the hilt of his curved blade. “Though we wear these for tradition’s sake, we have not forgotten how to use them!” There was open anger in the space marshall’s voice as he said slowly, “In the face of evidence, my government will recjuire more than the word of a barbarian- even though it is backed by the weapons of a barbarian.” As the Polarian’s blade hissed out of its scabbard, the Saarian emissary gave a horrified gasp and fainted. “Barbarian, is it! My ances- tors were blazing the starways when yours w'ere still crawling around in the mud of your stink- ing planet. And by Thweela, if it’s war you want, we’ll beat you back so deep into that same mud that you’ll never dare brave space again !” The Saarian had by now re- vived and was forcing himself to watch. Tarz suddenly caught himself and bowed formally. “M.v apologies, sir. In my anger I forgot that we were meeting under a flag of truce. Unless ,v.ou wish to apologize, I suggest fhat we continue this beyond planetaiy limits.” Kincaide bowed with equal formality. "It will be a pleasure, sir.” He turned to his executive officer who was standing by with jaw' hanging. “Give orders for immediate embarkation of all personnel. We are leaving Saar.” “But Marshall,” protested the other, “what about our business here?” “Pile it under ‘unfinished’,” snapped Kincaide. “Right now we’ve got a w'ar to fight.” At the word "war”. Com-

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26 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES mander Simmons brightened perceptibly. So, oddly enough, did the Saarian emissary. Space Marshall Kincaide was packing his personal gear when an orderly entered. “Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a pilot officer outside who insists on seeing you. He says he’s cap- tured a battle cruiser and wants to know what you v/ant him to do with it.” Kincaide stopped pacing. “He what?” “He wants to know what he’s supposed to do with it,” re- peated the orderly stolidly. Kincaide exploded. "Tell him he can take it and . . . No, send him in here. I’ll teach him to play games at a time like this.” A moment later Kit entered and gave an awkward salute. Before Kincaide could say any- thing, Simmons gave a gasp of amazed recognition. “Marshall! This is the officer who was captured by the Polar- iansl” He slapped Kit on the back. “Good boy! How did you manage to escape?” “It wasn’t difficult once I fig- ured what they were up to,” said Kit. “They had me locked up for a while and they said they were going to eat me, so I convinced the guard that I was his prophet and he let me out and . . .” “Just a second,” said Kincaide. “I’m lost already. Whose prophet ?” “Thweela’s sir. He’s the Polar- ian god of violent death and de- struction. And then we ran into another fellow who was Thweela, too, so there was a sort of mix- up until I took my gun away from him and took over the ship. I figured I’d better get here in a huri-y and stop the war before it had a chance to really get started, so I smashed the crui- ser’s main drive and left it hang- ing out there.” “Just a second,” said Kin- caide. “Are you trying to tell me you took over a star class cruiser ai-med only with a blaster?” Kit shook his head. "I used a much more effective weapon. You see, sir, they really weren’t Polarians even if they were wearing green beards. The whole thing was just a plot to make me think they were so that when I escaped . . .” “Let me get this clear,” said Kincaide. “You say that every- body on the ship was plotting against you?” “Yes, sir. But it wasn’t just me. Kincaide turned to Simmons. “Are you sure that this is the pilot of the ship that was de- stroyed by the Polarians?” “No question about it, sir.” A look of compassion came

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THE OTHER CHEEK 27 into Kincaide’s eyes. “Poor devil! They must have used a psycho- probe on him and cracked him wide open. You’d better have him taken over to the psychcorps- men. If his brain isn’t damaged too much, they may be able to bring him around enough to find out how he managed to escape.” His voice became hard. “Tarz is going to pay for this!” “You’ve got it all wrong,” pro- tested Kit. “They didn’t hurt me at all. And they weren’t Polar- ians. They just thought they were. They were really Saar- ians.” “That’s right,” said Kincaide soothingly. “You captured a crui- ser with ,a secret weapon and it was full of Saarians who thought they were Polarians.” “Not all of them,” said Kit. “The priests knew' what was up all the time because they weren’t really priests, they just pre- tended to be.” Simmons beckoned to the orderly. He came up and took Kit by the arm. “You’ve had a rough time, boy,” -said Kincaide, “but we’re going to take care of you. You just go along with the orderly and everything will be all right.” “But, sir, you haven’t heard the whole story.” “We’ll talk about it when you feel better.” Before Kit could say anything more, he was propelled vigor- ously out of the tent by the orderly. As soon as Kincaide’s indigna- tion drained away, a feeling of uncertainty began to take its place. He looked across the table at Commander Simmons and then down at the damning pile of documents. He couldn’t be wrong. But yet he had nevei- known a Polarian officer to tell a lie. He began to wonder how to best break the news to the Solar Alliance that he had managed to involve Earth in a large scale war. Then he thought of what had been done to Kit. He was starting to get angry all over again when, without pausing t© have himself announced. Prince Tarz stormed into the tent. “Will you step outside? There is a matter of personal honor to be settled.” Kincaide had an unhappy feel- ing that he was going to have to eat his words about barbarian weapons. Prince Tarz had hand- led the side arm that tradition required him to wear with an air of familiar competence. An equally traditional and equally anachronistic weapon hung at Kincaide’s side. The only trouble was that he hadn’t the slightest idea how one went about using it. Damning the custom that re- quired flag rank officers to wear

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28 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES sabers rather than blasters, he steiiped out into the bright sun- shine. In trout of the tent stood an Earthman, surrounded by an angry group of Polarian officers. Tarz stabbed a stiff forefinger at him. “This . . .” His voice shook. "This person has subject- ed Phalanx Leader Der to an insult so terrible that it can only be wiped out with blood!” “Why inform me,” said Kin- caidi; stiffly. men ai’e per- fectly competent to conduct their own aft'aii's of honor.” “Your man said he can’t ac- cept the challenge until you give your permission.” “My permission?” said Kin- caide in amazement. “Here, let me talk to him.” He shouldered his way through the crowd with Commander Simmons at his heels. “What kind of nonsense is . . .” His voice suddenly trailed off. “OH, NO! Not you again! Didn’t I order you sent to the psychcorpsman for observa- tion ?” Kit saluted respectfully and nodded. Kincaide snorted in disgust and turned to Prince Tarz. “Much as I dislike it, this is one case where I’m going to have to interfere. I can’t let this man fight, he’s mentally unbalanced.” Prince Tarz looked at Kit skeptically. “He looks all right tc me.” “He’s suffering from delusions of grandeur,” explained Kin- caide. “He was the pilot of the courier that was blasted by ,voui' cruiser. He was captured some- how and later escaped. The [loor fellow’s mind cracked din'ing his ordeal. He believes that he cap- tured your cj’uiser with his bare hands and took it as a prize of war. He’s obviously until foi' combat.” Prince Tai’z’ di.sbelief was obvious. “Since no Polarian shiji has been involved in an incident with one of your fleet iniits, this man could not have been ca])- tured. Since he could not have been captured, ,vou are obviously lying to protect him.” It w'as Kincaide’s turn to have his face whiten. “You are c^dling me a liai’, sir?” “I am calling you a liai', sii-.” “In that case may I suggest that two fighters be made I'ead.v a1 once. I will met you at sunset at eighty thousand feet.” Prince Tarz saluted stiffly, made an abrupt about face, and stai’ted away, his officers follow- ing close at his heels. The gap between the two groups widened for a moment and then suddenly a slight figure

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THE OTHER CHEEK 29 bolted from the Earthman’s ranks. It was Kit. He was yelling hotly. “Prince Tarz! Prince Tarz! Wait up! I can explain every- thing.” He heard Kincaide’s angry voice behind him, “Corps- man, place that man under re- straint!” Grabbing hold of the Prince’s arm desperately, Kit swung him half around. “Sir, you’ve got to listen to me. It was a Saarian ship that captured me. They’re trying to get us to fight each other!” Tarz gave him a look usually reserved for small crawling things and brushed his hand away. Kit’s Adam’s apple jerked con- vulsively as he swallowed twice and then suddenly jerked his blaster from its holster and jammed it into Prince Tarz’ mid- riff. A gasp of horror went up from both parties. Kit’s voice shook. “I’m a peace loving citizen and I’m not going to sit back and let myself get sucked into a war that has no point. I’ve got something to say and I’m going to be listened to or else!” Kit’s voice wasn’t the only thing that was shaking. His hand was trembling so badly that his trigger finger kept bouncing against the firing stud. Prince Tarz noticed it and felt a sudden urge to talk things over. From the corner of his eye Kit saw Space Marshall Kincaide running toward him. “Stand back, sir,” he yelled. “If you try to grab me, this thing might go off.” Kincaide skidded to a sud- den halt. "Put that gun down. Carpen- ter. This is a truce site.” Kit’s voice had steadied. “I’ll put it down under one condition. Yoii two have got to promise that you'll give me ten minutes to explain what’s going on. After that I don’t care what you do with me.” “Certainly not!” snapped Kin- caide. “I refuse to be intimi- dated!” “You refuse to be intimi- dated?” howled Prince Tarz. “Whose belly is that blaster sticking in, anyway? You can have your ten minutes,” he said to Kit. “No!” said Kincaide stubborn- ly. “May I point to the consequen- ces if I should be killed by a member of your forces on a truce site,” said Tarz. Kincaide thought about it for a moment and then reluctantly growled, “All right, ten minutes it is.” “I have complete freedom to do anything I want without inter- ference?” asked Kit. The two commanders nodded. With a shaky sigh of relief, Kit

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30 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES shoved his blaster back in its holster. “Good. Now follow me.” With the two groups trailing behind him, he walked across the field to the six man scout in which he had arrived two hours before. Kit punched the release stud be- neath the outer hatch of its entrance lock. A moment later the assembled officers gasped in amazement as two warriors wearing tremendous thurk pelts and gigantic green beards swag- gered out into the bright sun- light. “It can’t be!” gasped Tarz. Kit stepped back three paces, flopped down on his knees, and knocked his head against the earth three times. He was the only one aware that he had all his fingers crossed and was try- ing desperately to interlock his toes. Raising his head, he ad- dressed a point half wa.v between the two figures. “Your pardon, Holyness, but would you deign to reveal which of these bodies is the vessel of thy terrible spirit? It would be unseemly if we gave homage to the wrong one, for is it not writ- ten, ‘There is but one Thweela.' ” The two green bearded figures stepped forward as one god and proclaimed in unison, “I am Thweela.” Kit uncrossed his fingers. “Lord, we cannot give worship until we know in truth which of thee is the true god of death and destruction. Let* the true strike down the false that we may tremble before him.” A moment went by without response and then simultan- eously the two figures sprang apart and faced each other in a half crouch. There was a flicker of light on steel and each held his glittering battle .sickle ready. Slowly, light as jungle cats and as terrible to the sight, they circled each other warily until without warning, his lips spew- ing insults, one danced forward, his blade set for a miciriff cut. The other dropped his guard and with an underhand swing, caught his opponent’s sickle in the hook of his own. There was a mo- ment’s ferocious tugging as each sought to wrest away the other’s weapon. They pulled closer until they were pressed chest to chest. Faces twisting horribly, they howled at each other. A thin white froth began to form on their lips. Prince Tarz and Space Mar- shall Kincaide stood side by side watching the struggle in amaze- ment, their differences momen- tarily forgotten. With the air of a ringmaster about to pre.sent the special feature attraction. Kit stepped up to them and saluted. “By your leave, gentlemen.”

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THE OTHER CHEEK 31 Before either of them could answer, he -stepped over to the two straining warriors and grip- ped each by the shoulder. With a sudden wrench he jerked them apart and swung them around so they both stood facing him. Then slowly and deliberately, he un- hooked his gun belt and dropped both harness and blaster to the ground. “Watch it, Carpenter,” yelled Kincaide involuntarily. “They’re battle-crazy. They'll split your skull if you interfere!” Kit ignored him and suddenly, without warning, administered the supreme insult as with cold deliberation he spit first in the right eye of the W'arrior on his left, and then in the left eye of the warrior on his right. Then without waiting for either of them to react, he reached for- ward and grabbed hold of both their beards simultaneously. With a quick jerk he pulled toem completely off and threw them to the ground. With the air of a magician pulling -a rabbit out of a hat, he pointed to the bared faces. “Observe, gentlemen. No chins.” Then, pulling his right hand in close to his chest so that it couldn’t be seen by the groups behind him, he made a sudden gesture. The result was electric. Two shrieks of fright rang out and a second later all that could be 'Seen of the two Thw-eelas were their backs as they scuttled in terror back into the scout. Kit turned and displayed his clenched fist. “My secret weap- on,” he said modestly. Space Marshall Kincaide fin- gered his lantern jaw and Prince Tarz rubbed his long pointed one. Then they went to look for the Saarian emissary who didn’t have any chin at all. “. . . and so,” Kit finally con- cluded, “the escape they had planned for me to make didn’t come off. The way they had it set up, I was supposed to knock out the guard, take his keys, and escape in a scout that just hap- pened to be standing by with its jets primed. My report on what they were planning to do with me would have made conflict in- evitable. Fortunately Thweela moved in just at the right time.” An old and walrus-mustached staff officer harrumphed. “But spitting! Really, Carpenter, things like that just aren’t done by gentlemen — not even tem- porary gentlemen!” “I know,” said Kit apologeti- cally, “but you all thought I was crazy. I had to do something drastic to get you all to listen to me long enough for me to show what had happened.” Prince Tarz held up his hand

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32 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES for silence. “I’m still confused. For one thing, the crew of that cruiser carried side arms. A Saarian not only couldn’t carry a weapon, he’d get sick at his stomach at the sight of one.” “A normal Saarian, you mean,” corrected Kit. “What you overlooked was thatj even though they have a fear of vio- lence that you might term psy- chopathic, the Saarians are not a stupid race. We put them in a spot where they had to take ac- tion, so they did. Knowing the pugnacious nature of both our cultures, what easier way to get us off their necks than to have a supposed Polarian cruiser de- stroy an Earth ship during nego- tiations? They predicted the consequence perfectly. Earth would accuse, Polarius would deny, both sides would lose their tempers, and BANG!” He turned to the Saarian emissary'. “If you were up in a tree with two jungle beasts prowling around underneath, would you be able to use a blaster in your own defense ?” The Saarian shuddered at the thought. ’Of course not!” “But if they started fighting among themselves?” “If violent creatures choose to destroy themselves, it is no con- cern of mine,” said the little man. Kincaide w-as still not wholly convinced. “But where could they find a crew for a ship of war?” “It’s simple,” said Kit. “Check over the pattern of violence dis- played by the crew after they captured me. They destroyed my ship, but before they did so they were careful to get me off safely. Once I was prisoner, there was a constant threat of violence, but note that it was never actually carried out. It’s true that no sane Saarian would act as they did — but w'hy assume they were sane? When the Saarians had to find men capable of the show of vio- lence, they went to the only place where such men could be found, their insane asylums. Obviously, in a non-violent culture, the vio- lent men would be considered mad. So the Saarians solved their problem by staffing the cruiser with men they consid- ered to be homicidal maniacs. Unfortunately for them, when it came to an actual show of vio- lence, when I socked one of them on the nose, the madmen weren’t any better able to take it than the sane.” “The sane?” asked Kincaide. “There were some — the priest- hood. They were really the crew’s keepers. There had to be some- body along to keep that bunch in line. Being by profession in con- stant contact with the violent.

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THE OTHER CHEEK they had stronger stomachs than the rest.” He paused and motioned to an alert-looking, white-headed man who had just entered the tent. “Here’s the chief psychtech now. I think he’ll be able to back up what I just told you.” The white-haired man ad- vanced, saluted, and began his report. “A thorough examination of the two Saarians brought in by Pilot Officer Carpenter has just been completed. In both cases we found conflicting delusional syn- dromes. Each of them is a psy- chotic whose paranoia expresses itself periodically in grandiose delusions. What makes these cases interesting, however, is that a second delusional pattern has artificially been imposed on them so that they are usually under the impression that they are members of the Polarian space forces. This, however, occa- sionally breaks dow'n and the oi'iginal syndrome becomes tem- porarily dominant.” “In other words,” said Kin- eaide helpfully, ''they’re nuts!” The psychtech frowned and said severely, “Pai'anoid syn- dromes are a phenomenon that is by no means foreign to normal human psychology. The degree of divergency can only be deter- mined by relating it to the norm. 33 Since the norm itself is rela- tive ...” “All right,” said Kincaide hastily, "they’re not nuts.” The psychtech fi-owned at the interruption and continued. “On Saar these men would be con- sidered detention cases because the Saarian social pattern has moved so far along the road to non-violence that the symbol — the angry W'ord or the threaten- ing gesture — is viewed with the same alarm that more aggressive cultures reserve for the actual deed itself. Placed in a Polarian or a Terrestrial context, how- ever, these men would be viewed as harmless eccentrics. No mat- ter how they rant and posture, they're constitutionally incapable of actual violence.” "Well, I guess that ties it up,” said Tarz. He turned to Kit. “You of course have the grati- tude of the Polai’ian people for- preventing an ,unneces3ai-y war-, but the next time .vou feel im- pelled to pull a stunt like this, leave your blaster at home. The way your hand was shaking, I was afraid you’d let the thing off by accident.” Kit pulled his weapon out of its holster and laughed. “Thi.s'f It isn’t loaded. You see, sir-, regulations pi'ovide that we have to wear these, but I’ve always been afraid that it mi^ht go off by accident. So I never loaded it.

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34 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES See!” He waved the blaster in Tarz’ general direction and {uessed the firing stud. A flash of actinic light fanned a scant six inches above the Polarian com- mander’s head. The back side of the tent and the top half of the communications mast that stood behind it vanished forever. A moment later howls of anguish rose from the encampment as the gaseous cloud of metal from the mast began to condense -and spatter the area with tiny drops of molten metal. Space Marshall Kincaide’s voice was strangely soft when he finally spoke. ‘Tn your short but checkered military career, didn’t anybody ever see fit to in- form you that a Mark IV blaster has a built-in charge?” ‘‘Beg pardon, sir,” said Kit apologetically, “but the day they gave the lecture on side-arms I was on guard duty and . . .” He shrugged. “Get that character out of here,” yelled Tarz, “or we’re go- ing to have a brand new war on our hands I” “One second,” said Kincaide, struck by a sudden thought, “I know you’ve had a hard day. Car- penter, but if it wouldn’t be too much to ask . . . that pouch you were sent out from Earth with . . . it had my laundry in it.” “Regret to report, sir,” said Kit, “that I burned it up. You see . . .” Kincaide looked at Tarz and Tarz looked at Kincaide. Moved by a single thought, they both started to rise from the table. Kit started to back nervously to- ward the door. Then with an effort they both caught them- selves and sat down again. Negotiations returned to nor- mal as Tarz stabbed his finger down at the point on the map that marked the largest of the stellite deposits. “Now my gov- ernment insists . . .” There was an interruption from the Saarian end of the table. “I beg your pardon, gen- tlemen,” said the little emissary, “but I am afraid that on the be- half of my government I shall have to ask you to give up this division of what isn’t yours and remove yourselves and your forces to your home systems.” Tarz and Kincaide stared at him in amazement. Then the Po- larian gave a short barking laugh. “Look at who’s giving or- ders. The rabbit is showing his teeth.” For once the Saarian didn’t subside in frightened confusion. Instead he rose to his feet and held his hands up for silence. He trembled visibly, but even so there was a certain dignity about him as if he were drawing on

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THE OTHER CHEEK 35 sources of hidden interna] strength. “You have called us rabbits,” he said quietly. “This is not cor- rect. Though you cannot under- stand it, we have come of age. In this coming we have put the brawling manners of our child- hood so far behind us that only our unfortunates, our psychotics, are still capable of even the threat of violence. "But this you should remem- ber: there are cultures in this galaxy of a wildness that makes yours seem those of meek and timid children. Space wolves straining at the leash, begging for an excuse to spring at your throats.” He turned to Tarz. “You who boast of martial prowess, would you care to match ships with the Rigelians?” A momentary expression of fear flickered across the Prince’s face. “We have other madmen and other ships,” said the Saarian. "An exact replica of your own flagship is hanging off Orionis now, manned by green-bearded men. If it came out of hyper- space in the middle of a crowded space lane and blasted a mer- chant ship, would not the Rigel- ian war lords be grateful ?” Tarz turned deathly pale and sat down abruptly. Kincaide sickened inside as he had a momentary vision of a blackened, burning Earth en- globed by the blood-red ships of Achernar. The little man left his place at the end of the table and walked through the silence to the door of the tent. "And now if you’ll excuse me,” he said politely, “I am late for my lute lesson. On behalf of the people of Saar, may I w’ish you both a pleasant and speedy voyage home.” Late that evening a pilot ofTi- cei- of the Planetary Ferry Com- mand w-alked happily up the em- barkation ramp of Space Mar- shall Kincaide’s flagship, his dischai'ge papers tucked safely away in an inner pocket. The diamond studded Terrestrial Cross and the great gleaming Polarian emerald of the Order of Merit, Third Grade, that had just been pinned to his chest, sparkled under the floodlights. There W'as a beatific smile on his face and a song in his heart as his fingers stroked these trib- utes from two great peace loving systems. Meanwhile a busy little calculating machine inside his head was rapidly converting them into crisp piles of one hun- dred credit notes. Civilian-to-be Kittridge Carpenter, owner and chief pilot of Ajax Carriers, was going home.

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WHAT GOES UP BY ROBERT SHECKLEY ILLUSTRATED BY BEECHAM What goes up must come down, as they say about even the stock market. It was true enough, until Edgarson found a world where the law of averages was repealed. They ran strictly to flat top square waves: very square. “All right, space rat, out you go,” the junior oflicer said with a wide, boyi.sh grin. “Couldn’t we talk this ovei’?” Edgar.son asked, edging down the gangplank with a certain dignity. “I mean, to leave me in this backwood.s — ” He gestured at the dusty, deserted landing field, the raw bi'ick buildings, the tar road; all the signs of a low-order atomic civilization. “I a.ssure you,” Edgarso-n went on, “I would be glad to work my pa.ssage if you’d just take me to some civilized — ” The port closed with a clang. Edgarson sighed and walked away from the ship. M.v God, he thought. I don’t even know the name of the planet where they’ve gone and dumped me! He pushed ))ack his shoulder.s as he I'eached the tar road. Be- hind him the ship lifted, silently and efficiently, and wa.s gone. Once the .ship was out of sight, Edgaj’son allowed his back to slump. Those damned starships . . . But he couldii’t blame them. A stowaway has no rights. He h.ad known that. But what else could he have done? After his businesses had gone bankrupt on Moira II, Edgarson had to get out, but fast. The faste.st way without capital was to hide aboard a long-haul trans- port. The ship had taken off just in time. The authorities of the Belt Stars, of which Moira II was the proudest jewel, were quite strict 36

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38 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES with what they termed “irre- sponsible” bankruptcies. Unfortunately, the ship’s cap- tain was equally strict with un- paid-for weight. They had drop- ped Edgarson’s scrawny 132 pounds on the first oxygen planet on their course. What was he going to do now? Edgarson glanced back at the signs in front of the little space- port. Luckily they were in Fam- mish, one of the great inter- stellar tongues. The planet was called Porif. He had never heard of it. One of the signs pointed to the city of i\Iif. Edgarson followed it, hand.s in his pockets, scuffing his feet along the rough tar. This, he told himself was the end. The absolute end. He’d never get off this place. Four times he had made fortunes, and four times lost them in the maddening uncertainties of beltstar finances. I’m through, he thought. Might as well hang myself. A passing vehicle almost made hanging unnecessary. An antique gas job, it was rolling along at a good seventy miles an hour. Edgarson heard it, turned, and there it was, swaying over the entire road. His eyes bulged. It was coming straight for him. At the last moment he unpara- lyzed his muscles enough to leap into the ditch beside him. The car ground to a halt a hundred feet up the road. “You maniac!” Edgarson screamed in passable Fammish. Suicide was all very well. But when one is almost killed — “What are you doing now?” he shouted at the man, who was backing his car. “Coming back for another try?” “Terribly sorry,” the man said, smiling pleasantly. He was large, red-faced and red-headed. “Did not mean to frighten you.” “Frighten me!” Edgarson said. “The hell with that. You almost killed me.” “Oh, no,” the man said, eyeing him closely. ‘You’re not old enough.” “Sure I’m old enough,” Edgar- son said. “Anyone is old enough to die.” “You must be an outworlder,” the redheaded man said. “I should have noticed your accent. Well, friend, you can’t die here. Not yet.” “I can die any place or time I want,” Edgarson said, feeling silly. The redheaded man thought that over for a moment, rubbing the side of his nose with a freckled forefinger. “How old are you ?” he asked. “Thirty-six.” “I thought you were about my age. Here on Porif you can’t die

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WHAT GOES UP 39 before you’re fifty-four. At least, •not during this cycle.” Edgarson didn’t have any im- mediate answer for that. He just gaped. “IVly name’s Fals,” the man told him. “Could I offer you a ride into town?” Edgarson climbed into the car. In a few moments Fal.s had it careening crazily over the road. “You’ll kill us both,” Edgar- Eon gasiifcd as the landscape whiz- zed by. "Well, I (tvi a touch euphoi'ic,” Fals said. “But the statistics are against it. I won’t kill either of u.s. And the car’s insured.” Edgarson rode the re.st of the way in stoical silence. He didn’t know what sort of place Porif was, and until he found out, he determined to keep quiet. He didn’t want to break any taboos. He knew that in the bewildei’ing array of planets in the civilized galaxy, there were some pretty odd .spots. Plaues W’hei'e reason and common sense went to hell on a trolley. Places ^v'hcre th(> law' of .gra\ity was re]-.ealec! for six months out of the .vear, and the verities of Flarth .scitmce w'ere looked upon as p(dite fiction. Natui'al law, as d'dined by Earth and Belt .scientists, didn’t mean much to cdd mother nature. Perhaps she just hadn’t wanted to construct, a logical, consistent type of universe. Edgarson w'as prepared to ac- cept, tentatively, that he couldn’t die before the age of fifty-four. On Porif. “Here w'e are,” Fals said cheerfully, pulling up in front of a small brick house in what must have been a suburb of the city. “Is there anything I can do for you? An.v favor, anything?” FJe must be euphoric, Edgar- son thought. But he wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip past him. "I’m temporarily' embarrassed for funds,” he began smoothly. “If you could — ” “Sa.y no more,” Fals said. “Be my guest. Stay at my house. I couldn’t refuse you anything, right now.” "You couldn’t?” Edgarson asked, his eyes narrow'ing, “Practically nothing. I’m at the extreme peak of an altruist upswing. One of my personality characteristics. It’ll pass in a day 01 two, of course. I’ll probably regret all this exceedingly'. But come in.” Just outside the doorway he stopped. “Don’t mind my sister,” he said in a confiding w'hisper. “Hetta’s not feeling so good. You know' how ectomorphs can be? Well, she’s just coming out of the bottom of a depressive trough. Be nice to her.” He

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40 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES laughed uproariously and kicked open the door. Inside, it was what he had expected of a lower atomic age dwelling. Lumpy couches, blobby pictures on the wall, ridiculous curtains and overstuffed chairs. Edgarson looked around warily, trying to figure out his next move. Either his patron was slightly off his track, or there was something unique about this planet. Depressive trough. Even citizens of the more sophisti- cated regions didn’t have that sort of knowledge at their finger- tips. “Are you a psychologist?” he asked Fals, sitting down on a chair. “No,” Fals said. “I’m a fire- man, usually.” “Usually?” “i'es. I’m on a vacation now. All of u.s are.” “Then who fights the fires?” “What fires?” Fals asked, sur- prised. Edgarson was about to start over when the depressive sister came in. “Oh, I’m tired,” she said, ig- noring Edgarson and collapsing on the couch. “Tired and un- happy.” Edgarson stared at her for a moment, before remembering his manners and standing up. The girl was as redheaded as her brother, but slim where he was corpulent. Ectomorph, had he said? Well, Hetta was slender, but she was also filled where a female ectomorph should be filled. Edgarson felt his spirits brighten. Suicide could wait. This might prove interesting. There might even be some ex- ploitable commercial angle. For a while conversation was desultory. Fals tunied on a little screen which seemed to be a primitive brother of solidovision. He was soon engrossed in what purported to be a comedy pro- gram. The redheaded girl, Hetta, didn’t stir. Once she murmured something about the cruelty of the world, but it v/as too vague for Edgarson to answer. Finally, she lifted herself off the couch and essayed a tentative smile. “You see?” Fals whispered. “She’s out of the ti'ough.” Edgarson shoyk his head. A fireman who didn’t fight fires, but who had a pretty accurate psychological Knowledge. Well, he’d have to find out. “I think I’ll make supper,” Hetta said, and jumped off the couch. The meal was very pleasant. Hetta was fascinated by the great outside world she had never seen. She listened breathlessly

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WHAT GOES UP 41 to Edgarson’s tales of inter- stellar commerce, and of the ri- diculous drop in the stock market on Moira II that had wrecked him. She put the soup on the table and asked, “How could that hap- pen?” Edgarson smiled at her charming naivete. “Weren’t you in a cycle?” she wanted to know. “Didn’t you know the market was going to drop ?” Edgarson did his best to ex- plain how business worked. How you could occasionally detect trends, calculate rises, prepare for drops. But not always. And that, even at best, market calcu- lation was guesswork. “But that’s ridiculous,” Hetta said, frowning prettily. “How can you live in such an uncertain world? I’m glad it’s not that way here.” “You must excuse my sister,” I'als said, smiling. “She doesn’t knovy anything of the outside world — ” Edgarson ignored him. “How does it work here?” he asked the girl. “Why, it’s down in the books,” she said, as one would instruct a child. “The statistics books. If a business is going to be good, the statistics books tell you.” “Aren’t the books ever wrong?” Edgarson asked, gently. She shook her head. “Not dur- ing the cycle.” Just then a bell clamored. Fals got up and answered the tele- phone. “Yes. yes, yes. Hm. All right. I’ll check it.” He put down the receiver. “Fire in the ?>lst Wai'e- house district.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t believe it’s going to spread.” “You might as well be sure,” Hetta said. “I’ll bring in the book.” “Hang on,” Fals said into the telephone. Hetta struggled back with a fat volume. Edgarson walked over and watched. The book was entitled Fire Statistics, City of Mif, Cycle B. “Here it is,” Fals said, turn- ing a page. “Margat Building, 31st Warehouse district. Just as I thought.” Looking over his shoulder, Edgarson read: “Margat Build- ing, probability 78.4% against a major fire before 18 Arget.” “Hello,” Fals said into the telephone. “You’re not due for a fire before 18 Arget, and here it isn’t even Hovl yet. Don’t worry about it. I’ll burn itself out pretty soon.” The man on the other end seemed to be giving him an argu- ment. Fals said into the phone, sharply, “Don’t tell me, pal. I’m a fireman. It’s in the book. Prob- ability 78.4 against. Call me if it spreads.” He hung up.

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42 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “That’s how it goes,” he said to Edgarson. "These warehouse owners would root a man out of bed for every little flash fire. I don’t know why they don’t read the statistics on their own build- ings.” “I don’t get it,” Edgarson said. “Was there a fire in that ware- house ?” “That’s what he said,” Fals said, finishing his soup. Hetta cleared the plates and brought in the meat course. “Probably a wastebasket or something. They always look bigger than they are.” “But if he reported a fire — ” Edgarson began. “It can’t be a big fire,” Hetta told him. “Otherwise it would be down in the statistics.” “Statistics can be wi'ong,” Edgarson said, remembering several beatings he had taken on sure things. “Not these,” Fals said. The telephone rang again. “Hello?” Fals said. “I thought so. Of course it burned itself out. No, you didn’t disturb me. Don’t worry about it. But plea.se, buy a fire statistics book. That way, you won’t have to be calling the fire station all the time. I assure you, when a real fire is due, we’ll be on the spot — before it hap- pens. Good night.” “Could I see this fire book?” Edgarson asked. Fals handed him the big volume, and Edgar- son leafed through it, reading entries at random. “Joenson farm,” one entry read. “Probaijility 5(1% no major fire before 7 Hovl.” “Kli!' Slatt' Ibu'k,” read an- other. “Prob. (14%, no major fire be foi e 1 Egl. Prob. 89t;. fire by 19 Egl, destroying fifty-four acres NE corner.” The rest of the entries follow- ed the sanui pattern. “I don’t understand this,” Edgarson said, closing the book. “I know you can determine a probability, even about fires. That’.s how iii.su ranee works. But how can you know there won’t be a fire before the date the book gives? I mean, even if the prob- ability is seventy percent — and I don’t see how that’s arrived at — there’s .still a thirty percent chance that there’ll be a fire sooner.” “Not here,” Fals said, with a touch of local pride. “Not on Porif. Any probability of fifty- one percent or better is as good as one hundred percent during the cycle. We don’t believe in exceptions here. What’s probable is certain.” “Does that work with everv- thing?” Edgarson asked. “Of course,” Fals told him. “That’s why I knew I wouldn’t kill you with the car. The statis- tics for this c.vcle show that no

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WHAT GOES UP 43 one under fifty-four is going to be killed, except under certain specified circumstances which you didn’t come under.” “How long is the cycle?” Edgarson asked. “Ten years. Then a new one starts. Come in the library. I’ll show you some of the other books.” Lining one whole wall was a set of books called Business Statistics, Cycle B. Leafing through them, Edgarson found that they contained predictions for every business on the planet through the present cycle. They showed the probable profit and loss figures weekly. The busi- nesses that would bankrupt were down, as well as the ones that would boom. Skimming, Edgarson read: “Jeenings Carbon, common stock. Selling, 145, 1 Marstt. In two weeks, prob. 56% to 189. Con- stant to Egl, 89% prob., then rise to 720. A period of leveling at 700, then a short steep incline to 842 — ” That was a summary, of course. A week by week break- down followed. “Is this true?” Edgarson asked. Hetta glanced over his shoul- der. “Oh, of course. The stock is at 189 right now. And the rest will follow.” “My Lord,” Edgarson said, and closed the book. If the entry were true, a man could make a fortune by investing now. Invest and sell when it reached 842. Make a profit of — “Wait a minute,” he said. "This can’t be true. Everyone on the planet would buy this stuff. That would change the predic- tion.” “No,” Fals said, grinning. "The probable purchases of stocks are estimated pretty closely. No one’s going to over- load on one stock. We scatter our money around, buy good and bad. We Porifans don’t care so much for quick profits.” Edgarson thought it over. He’d have to find out if this prediction business worked every time. If it did, he had stumbled on a gold mine. A predictable stock market, he told himself. Predictable busi- nesses, fire losses. They probably predicted earthquakes and flood.s, too. A smart man could make a fortune in a year. Or less. Of course, he’d need some capi- tal to invest at the start. He’d have to find some way of getting that. Edgarson discovered, sudden- ly that Hetta was glancing at him. That was significant. But she was also pretending that she wasn’t looking at him. That was even more significant. Edgarson decided that it might

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44 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES not be too difficult to raise the initial capital. The next morning, Edgarson went to Fals’ librar.v. The Pori- fan didn’t own all the statistics books, but he did have every- thing that pertained to the city of Mif, and its immediate area. Ignoring breakfast, Edgarson began to read, skipping back and forth between the 190 volumes of Biisiness Statistics, Cycle B. It was quite a book. It told the future history of every business on the planet, and Edgarson was unable to doubt its validity. The conservative, quiet air of the books was almost proof in itself. “Jacnx Mauf. Co. Common 23. 13 Luggut, rise’ to 26, prob. 76% 19 Luggat, rise to 28, prob. 93% 1 Mener, drop to 18, prob. 98%. " How could he doubt it? Edgarson made the attempt, in the spirit of caution. He ate breakfast at lunchtime and went to the Mif central library. Ac- cording to the evidence in old newspapers and outdated statis- tics book.s, all previous predic- tions had been one hundred per- cent correct. One hundred j)er- cent ! Edgarson checkc.d further. He found t'uu a cycle la.sted for ten re. ■hiiiions of the planet aroun,d its ;);;:nary — ten years. That there wa.s a gap betw-een cycles, evidently for the purpose of col- lecting and publishing the sta- tistics for the next cycle. The cycles were always labeled A and B, one following another. Checking one cycle against an- other, Edgarson found that there wasn’t much diffeience. Some new businesses, the closing of some old ones; a few' points change in probability-ratings. But no real turnover. Edgarson wasn’t interested in theories; he wanted profits. Still, he felt obliged to find out some of the reasons why. Accordingly, he dug into a stack of reference books. Late that night, he walked back to Fals’ house. He had skimmed the history and psychol- ogy of Porif, and he was able to extrapolate a few answers from it. According to their own psy- chology books, the people of Porif were simpler, less unpre- dictable than the complex peoples of Earth and the Belt Stars. It was possible to get a coherent, predictable picture of a Porifan’s personality; a feat impossible w'ith an Earthman. The hard thing, Edgaison knew', was individual psychology. Once you have that mastered, the psychology of aggregates is far simpler. Edgarson found that the Pori- fans were conformists. Con-

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WHAT GOES UP 45 sciously and unconsciously they believed their own statistics, and wanted to preserve them. Indi- viduals went out of their way to fit into their predicted niche. On pervei'se Moira II that would never work. The favorite hobby of most planets is war. A very few are more interested in art, or reli- Kion. On Porif the passion was, and had always been, statistics and probabilities. And nature seemed to help them. The perverse old lady had repealed the usual law of averages on Porif. Instead of a constant leveling process, high predictions stayed constant. So, if a fire started ahead of time, there was never a draft to fan it into a conflagration. If a man was in an auto accident before his predicted moment, he some- how was thrown clear. Nature conspired to make Porif an understandable, predic- table place to live. A perfect place for an Earth- man to make a quick fortune. Edgarson slept on it. The next morning he walked down to Fals’ library to consider his problem again. Seating himself in Fals’ overstuffed chair, he popped a native variety of plum in his mouth and thought. The first stqp in making a for- tune was to raise capital, and the first step in raising capital was to marry Hetta. Securing some of her funds through mar- riage, he could speculate — if a sure thing can be called specu- lation. He had about six months until the end of cycle B. He could be rich by that time. And marrying Hetta wouldn’t be too unpleasant a task, either. Edgarson liked ectomorphic red- heads, properly filled. No time like the present, he told himself. Hetta had gone to town, shopping, and Fals was off waiting for a fire to start on an outlying fann. Edgarson pulled down the in- dex to the Hunoan Statistics book. Cycle B. (170 volumes, ci'oss indexed). Hetta, he found, was on page 1189 of volume 28. Her classification was unstable ectomorph, female, auburn, 32- saa3b. According to the book, a per- son of Hetta’s makeup had a primary five day elation-depres- sion cycle; normal for auburn ectomorphs. The trough usually occurred at sunset of the third day. During that time, auburn ectomorphs desired comfort, poetry and understanding, soft music and beautiful sunsets. Edgarson grinned, jotted the information on a pad and read on. The elation-high occurred on the fifth day, and lasted for al-

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46 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES most two hours. There was a strong tendency toward amorous- ness at such times (89']^ prob- ability), and a desire for adven- ture, mystery, the unknown. Edgarson grinned even wider, and read on. Superimposed on all this was a longer, gentler cycle, character- ized as a secondary tenderness swing, over a period of thirty- five days. And a great deal more perti- nent data. Edgarson drew up a graph of Hetta’s cycles for the next month, with appropriate com- ments and advice to himself, and read the last paragraph. Hetta’s instability was one common to ectomorphic red- heads. A pathological tendency, very repressed, probability 1%. Which, he knew, was Porif double-talk for never. Armed with this data, Edgar- son began his wooing. “Let me tell you about the great planets,” he said to her at the height of her elation period. “Let me tell you about space.” “Oh, please do,” Hetta said. “I so wish I could travel!” "And why not?” Edgarson said, sliding his arm gently across the top of the couch. “Wh.v not speed between the stars in a two-bunk scouter? Know the ad- venture of strange ports! The thrill of distant places!” “How wonderful,” Hetta said, and didn’t flinch when the aim gently touched her shoulder. When he wasn’t wooing Hetta, Edgarson was busy with Busi- ness Statistics, fie made up a list of ten businesses that were going to boom, figured out how long he would hold stock, what he would invest the profits in, how much he could buy on margin. His profits at the end of a month, he estimated, would be in the hundred thousands. “You are so delicate,” he said to her, at the extreme tip of her tenderness swing. “So fair, so gentle.” “Am I?” Hetta asked. “Yes,” Edgarson said, with a sigh. “I wish — ” “What?” “Oh, nothing.” He sighed again, and proceeded to give her a fictitious account of his child- hood. It served its purpose. All Hetta’s latent tenderness came to the fore. “You poor bo.v,” she said. The omnipresent arm was around her. “I care for you, you know%” Edgarson said huskily, feeling ridiculous. He was used to the breezy give-and-take approach of Earth and Moira II. On civilized planets a definite understanding was reached within five minutes or so. But that wouldn’t W'ork on

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WHAT GOES UP 47. Poi’if, or on a girl with Hetta’s character-coefficients. Edgarson proceeded as a ten- der-hearted lover, wondering when Porif would emerge from its purple period. While he' wooed her, Edgarson extrapolated an easy ten billion dollar profit from the Business Statistics. He had it all figured out now ; how he would make his initial profits, how much he would plough back, how much he would extend him.self on margin, how much save. And the other things. Land he was going to buy, farms and waterw'ays. Insurance companies, banks, federal investments. The ten year cycle had only a few months to go. He wanted a meas- ure of security during the gap between cycles. The climax of his love-making came at the trough of Hetta’s depression. He bought her candy ; he showered her with tenderness, love and understand- ing. A phonograph was playing Hetta’s favorite song at the mo- ment Edgarson proposed. And to top it all, before their eyes was a magnificent, multicolored sun- set; a sunset lovers dream of. It wasn’t chance, of course. Edgarson had planned it care- fully. The sunset had been listed in Weather Statistics, Cycle B, combined with Holinim’s Greater Book of Sunsets. The proposal was a predictable success, odds 89.7% for. They were mai-ried three days later. Armed with more of his wife’s money than even he had expected, Edgarson started to invest. He had five months to go, and he was going to make the most of it. The statistics books were one hundred percent accurate. Ed- gaison’s profits came through exactly as he had planned. Down to the last decimal point, the books were right. He tried to put his brother-in- law on to a few good things, but Fals was in a sullen period. He held on to a small block of medi- ocre stocks, resolutely, and re- fused to speculate. “What’s the matter with you?” Edgarson asked him, one day when his profit had hit eight hundred thousand. “Don’t you believe in your own statistics?” “Of course I do,” Fals said, glow'ering at him. “But this isn’t the way we do business here.” Edgarson stared at him, baf- fled. He was unable to under- stand a man who didn’t take money w'hen it was practically handed to him. It was the Pori- fans’ most inhuman character- istic. “Aren’t you going to invest in anything?” Edgarson asked. “Of course I am,” Fals said.

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48 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “I’m buying a block of Heemstl limited.” Edgarson went over to Biisi- Kc.s-.s Statistics — now his bible — and looked up the concern. The book gave it a 75 percent prob- ability of a sizeable loss during the cycle. "What the hell are you buying that for?” Edgarson asked. “Well,” Fals said, "They need some more operating capital. Young concern, you know. I figui-e — ” "Plesise stop, you weary me,” Edgarson said. Fals looked even more sullen and left. What could you do, Edgarson a.sked himself. Of course you had to liave people investing in poor stock.s. Not everyone can get rich. And it was very noble of the Pori fans, t o support their failing businesses. But what could you do with people like that? Take their money, he told him- self. The next months were feverish ones for Edgarson. It was neces- sary to buy at exactly the right time, sell at the right time. The Pori fan stock market was like an orchestra. Delicacy in timing had to be observed, to get every- thing possible out of it. Edgarson's businesses spread. lie didn't have much time for Hetta during these months. Building a great fortune was absorbing, night-and-day work. But he figured he would make it all up to her later. Besides, she thought he was wonderful. With the cycle nearing its end, Edgarson planned out his pro- cedure for the hiatus. During the year gap, new predictions would be assembled and published. But Edgarson wasn’t !?oing to be caught napping. Most of his businesses he felt, were bound to bridge the gap be- tween cycle B and A. They were sound concerns with high prob- ability ratings. But he wanted to be sure, so he sold his fluctuating wildcat stocks and put money in farms, city real estate, hotels, parks, government bonds, any- thing that looked sound. He put excess profits in the banks. It was possible, he sup- posed, for a ninety-five-percent- good bank to go busted. But not five of them! Not ten of them! ‘‘I’ve got a good tip for you,” his brother-in-law said, two days before the end of the cycle. “Buy some Verstt. Buy it big.” Upon looking it up, Edgarson discovered that Verslt was on the verge of recei vershiji. He looked at Fals coldly. The Poi-i- fan probably resented his pres- ence hei'e. Didn’t. appi-o\'c of the way he was cleaning up the cash, and wanted to slow him down

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WHAT GOES UP “I’ll think it over,” Edgarson said, ushering Fals to the door. How could you argue with an idiot? The day came, ending Cycle B. Edgarson spent the morning at his telephones, w'aiting for news. The ))hone I'ang. “Yes?” Edgarson asked. “Sir, Markinson company stock dropping.” Edgarson smiled, and put down the telephone. Markinson had been a good investment. He’d ride any loss down. After he got through this depression — if that was what it was — he’d have ten more years to recoup in. And then he’d get out! Take a lot, leave a little, that was his motto. The telephones started ringing constantly. i\lore of his busi- nesses wei'e failing, dropping, going banki’upt. The bottom had dropped out of manufacturing. Iron 0)’e was slag on the market. Mines were worthless. Still, hidgarson wasn’t alarm- ed. There was still real estate, farms, insurance, waterways, federal projects — A telephone call informed him that his largest farm had burned to the ground, crops and all. “Good,” Edgarson said. “Col- lect the insurance.” Another call informed him that his chief insurance company 49 had gone bankrupt, as had its underwriters. Edgarson started to sweat. He was having a few bad breaks, but — It did go on. Telephones rang night and day. The banks stai'ted to fail ! One after another, Edgarson’s gilt-edged concerns dwindled and dropped, .^nd the damndest things happened to Edgarson’s other concei'ns. Farms were burnt to the ground, roads were flooded, can- als were exploded. People were hurt on his line, and sued. Tor- 'nadoes hit, earthquakes followed. Dams built to last a century burst. Buildings collapsed. Coincidence, Edgar.son told him, holding on to his morale with a death-like grip. Then the federal government announced that it would go into temporary receivership, if any- one wmuld take it. That killed a few more of Edgarson’s billion.s. It made depressions in the belt group seem like mild pros- perity. It took just under a month to strip Edgarson of most of his holdings. Too numb to think, he stumbled into Fals’ library. Hia wife was there, curled up in a corner. Evidently she was depres- sive again. Fals was standing, arms folded across his chest, staring at him self-righteously.

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50 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “What happened?” Edgarson croaked. “During the hiatus,” Fals told him, “All odds are reversed.” “Huh?” “Didn’t you know that?” Fals said. “I thought you were a big finance man.” “Give,” Edgarson said. “How do you think the statis- ticians get their figures?” Fals told him. “If the major predic- tions came true all the time, they’d be one hundred percent. During the gap, everything that was below fifty percent probabil- ity— and therefore never came about — obtains.” “Gah,” said Edgarson. “Look, suppose you wanted certain odds to average out, as they must. Something is ninety percent certain. It works out one hundred percent of the time for ten years. In order for the pre- diction of ninety percent to be right, it would have to be ten percent wrong for ten years, or 100 percent wrong for one year. “Understand? If a business is ninety percent sure of success for the ten year cycle, it has to be 100 percent sure of failure for that year. It nmtst fail.” “Say it again,” Edgarson mumbled. “I think you understand it now,” Fals said. “That’s why all of us buy low-probability stocks during the cycle'. They work out fine during the gap.” “Oh, Lord,” Edgarson said, and sat down. “You didn’t think your stocks would go up forever, did you?” Fals asked. Edgarson had thought just that. Or rather, he had taken it for granted. Logically, he knew Fals was right. On other planets, odds are constantly averaging. Not on Porif. Here, everything went one way or the other. Ten years, during which time all the highs obtained. Then a year, during which the former lows obtained. Of course, it averaged quite nicely. But what a way to do it! He was dimly aware that Fals had left the room. Somewhere a telephone was ringing. “Yeh?” Edgarson said, taking it on the library extension. He listened for a while, then hung up. He had just been informed that he was several billion dol- lars in debt, largely due to margi- nal buying. On Porif they had prisons for irresponsible bankruptcies. “Well,” Edgarson said, “I guess I’ll just have to — ” “Stand still, damn you,” Hetta said, getting to her feet. She was holding a pistol in both hands.

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WHAT GOES UP 51 It was an old, chemically opera- ted revolver, of a sort that civil- ized nations hadn’t used in centuries. But it was as capable of killing as a more modern arm. “Oh, how I hate you,” Hetta said, in her flamboyant style. “I hate everyone, but you the worst. Stand still!” Edgarson was calculating the odds against his jumping out the library window safely. Un- fortunately he didn’t have a book handy to give him the figures. “I’m going to shoot you in the stomach,” Hetta said, with a smile that made his flesh crawl. “I want to see you die slowly.” That did it. Hetta’s seven per- cent instability was coming out, exactly as the minor odds against tornadoes, floods and earth- quakes had come out. She was a murderess ! No wonder, Edgarson thought, she had been so easy to marry. “Stop swaying,” Hetta said, taking careful aim. Edgarson crashed through the window, the explosion of the gun deafening him. He didn’t stop to see whether he was dead or not, but ran full tilt for the spaceport. He hoped the odds were in his favor. “O.K., space rat,” the grin- ning young officer said. "Out you go.” He pushed Edgarson down the gangplank. “Where am I?” Edgarson asked. He had climbed aboard the ship before an irate mob seized him. ’The captain had taken him one stop, but no further. “What’s it matter?” the officer asked, prodding him. “If you would consider taking me to a civilized port — ” Edgar- son began. The port slammed behind him. Well, this is the end, he told himself. This was the end of the road, the absolute blank wall. Here he was, on another back- woods planet. He’d never get off this one. Might as well commit suicide. “Hello,” someone said. Edgar- son looked up. In front of him was a green skinned native. On each of his three arms the native wore a bracelet of what looked like platinum. In each bracelet was what looked like a gigantic diamond. The native was wheeling a wheelbarrow filled with dirt. The wheelbarrow seemed to be made of solid gold. “How do you do, friend?” Ed- garson said, walking up to the native and smiling.

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AMONG THE FEN THIS IS THE PSFS BY ROBERT A. MADLE Herewith, SCENCE FICTION ADVENTURES begins its series of articles on the long-neglected fan clubs. Since 1953 is the year when the World Science Fic- tion Convention meets in Philadelphia, we naturally begin with the group which will sponsor it there. By this time the news that the Philadelphia Science Fiction Society will be the host organiza- tion for the 19u;5 World Science Fiction Convention has been well disseminated. This organiza- tion, more familiarly known as the PSFS, won the nomination for the 1953 gala affair over a very strong delegation of San Francisco fans who were expect- ed to be aw'arded the affair wdth little or no opposition. Many of the more than one thousand at- tendees were amazed when the PSFS was victorious on the third ballot. How could any or- ganization defy and defeat such a super-acti\e group as The Lit- tle Men of San Franci.-^co? flow could this group solicit the sup- port of the majority when it had indulged in absolutel.v no pi'e-con- vention electioneejing or cam- paigning? This answer is quite simple: the PSFS, although not active in fan affairs in recent years, is one of the oldest, lai’g- est, and most mature science fic- tion groups extant, ft has been in existence almo-st as long ;is science fiction fandom itself and, from all indications, will live forever. And therein lie.s a tale. It was in the April. 193-1 issue of Wonder Stories tbat Hugo 52

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THIS IS THE PSFS 53 Gernabaek first announced the formation of the Science Fiction League. This organization prob- ably did more toward the forma- tion of a unified science fiction fandom than any other single factor in fan history. Immedi- ately following the announce- ment, science fiction fans joined by the hundreds. Local chapters of the SFL were formed all over the world. One of these was Chapter Number Eleven, the Philadelphia Science Fiction League. Milton A. Rothman, Philadelphia’s only active fan and demon letter writer at the time, gathered together four SFL members, submitted their names to Charles D. Horriig, then Managing Editor of Wonder Stories and Secretary of the SFL, and received his charter in December, 19;?4. The initial meeting of the PSFL was held in January, 1935, with Rothman, Raymond Peel l\Iariella, Paul Hunter, and Charles Bert attend- ing. Several meetings were held, but the club soon faded into in- activity because of non-attend- ance and lack of interest. Roth- man, convinced that there just weren’t any science fiction fans in Philadelphia, ceased his in- tensive campaign to organize a local group. However, operating independ- ently of Rothman, was another small group of young fan.s — ex- tremely young, as a matter of fact. They were John V. Balta- donis. Jack Agnew, Harvey Greenblatt, and Robert A. Madle. In early 19;!5 they formed a small stf discussion group and termed themselves The Boys’ Science Fiction Club. The aver- age age of this group was 13-14 .years, and it is interesting to note that three of the aforemen- tioned fans still retain their keen interest in science fiction — the fourth, Harvey Greenblatt, was killed in action during World War II. Madle, noticing Rothman’s formation of the Philadelphia Science Fiction League, wrote requesting information and in- dicating the fact that he was aware of several others who were intei'ested in joining. For some obscure reason Rothman never received this letter and, believing they had created too juvenile an 'impression, did not repeat their request for membership in the PSFL. What they didn’t realize at the time was the fact that Director Rothman was just slightly more mellow in years than the,y. However, several months later Baltadonis and lUadle appeared in Amazing Stories’ readers’ column and Rothman quickly communicated W'ith them, and his dream of a Philadelphia Chapter of the SFL

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SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES 54 finally came into existence. The first “reorganization” meeting of the PSFL was held in October, 1935, with Rothman, iMariella, Baltadonis, Madle, and Oswald Train in attendance. Train, a collector for many years, had just relocated in Philadel- phia, and was a welcome addition to the club. He had written an entire science fiction test for the League department of Wonder Stories and had appeared in print in The Time Traveler, the first fan magazine, and the younger members considered him a real “old timer.” Jack Agnew and Harvey Greenblatt became members at the following meet- ing. Meetings were held weekly and these early gatherings were informal affairs with the entire several hours being consumed with science fiction discussions. Within a few months it be- came obvious that the PSFL was rapidly assuming the proportions of a major stf club. The organ- ization received its first impor- tant recognition when Rothman was rnfoi’med by Charles D. Hor- nig, the amazing teen-age editor of Wonder Stories, that he in- tended to pay a visit to Phila- delphia and the PSFL. The members, thrilled and elated, gathered at Rothman's home one Saturday afternoon in December, 1935, and personally shook the hand of the Executive Secretary of the SFL. Accompanying Hor- nig was Julius Schwartz, then editor of fandom’s greatest pub- lication, Fantasy Magazine. In early 1936 the name of the club was changed from the PSFL to the PSFS. It was decided that the term “League” was inade- quate and, perhaps, misrepre- sented the organization’s aims and ideals. However, the PSFS still retained its status as Chap- ter Eleven of the Science Fiction League. The most important occurrence in the then brief history of the PSFS took place in October of 1936. The members were agree- ably surprised to receive letlers from the officers of the Interna- tional Scientific Association, the leading fan group of the time, advising that they were to visit the PSFS. The great day arrived and quite a few PSFS members were at the train station to wel- come the New York delegation which included such prominent names as Donald A. Wollheim, William S. Sykora, Frederik Pohl, David A. Kyle, John B. Michel, and Herbert Goudket. After the visitors were shown about town, a gathering was held at Rothman’s home where it was officially decided that this meet- ing would be recorded in history as the first “fan convention.” It was also decided that this would

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THIS IS THE PSFS 55 be only the beginning, and initial plans were formulated for the First World Science Fiction Con- vention, to he held in conjunction with the World’s Fair in New York City in 1939. In October, 1936, also appeared the first issue of the Fantasy Fiction Telegram, which was the initial entry of the PSFS into the fan magazine field. FFT was a small hektographed affair, the price of which was five cents. It lasted but four issues, but it achieved success in that it pro- jected the PSFS members into the whirlpool of active fandom. The discontinuation of FFT w'as merely a lull before the storm as far as activity in Philadelphia was concerned. Baltadonis as- sumed the editorship of the Science Fiction Collector and Madle published his Fantascience Digest. The fan magazine craze had hit Philadelphia in all its fury and many were the varied titles issued under the banner of Comet Publications, the PSFS fan publishing house. Train brought out his short-lived but ambitious Science Adventure Stories, which featured stories by many professional authors as well as by fans. Other titles were Imaginative Fiction, The Meteor, Fantasy Fiction Pictorial, et- cetera. The era of 1936-41 was one of incredible activity the world over. During these years occur- red the fabulous fan feuds, hun- dreds of hektographed and mim- eographed fan publications were issued, conventions and confer- ences were held annually — -how- ever, it would certainly not be within the scope of this article to even begin to describe the feverish activity which occurred. It can be mentioned that the First World Science Fiction Con- vention was held in NYC in 1939, and was followed by affairs in Chicago and Denver in 1940 and 1941 respectively. Also, every Fall the PSFS sponsored fan gatherings, termed “conferen- ces,” so as to differentiate from the term “Convention,” as the meetings would not be competi- tive with any national or inter- national conventions. It is sug- gested that the interested reader refer to The Immortal Storm by Sam Moskowitz, published by Henry Burwell, Jr., 459 Sterling Street, N.E., Atlanta, Georgia, which is a monumental history of science fiction fandom. During the era of 1936-41 the membership rolls of the PSFS expanded considerably. The members were quite proud when Alexander M. Phillips, who had authored several stories in the professional magazines, deemed the club worthy of his member- ship. Phillips proved to be a very

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56 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES popular member, and was elected President for 1940. The PSFS was universally recognized as one of the largest in the nation. But then came December 7th, 1941. Within a period of several months practically all of the members entered the armed forces and, from all indications, this marked the demise of the PSFS for the dui'ation. Howfever, early in 1943 PSFS service fans were surprised to receive a copy of the PSFS Nev)s, which had been the bi-weekly publication of the organization. Oswald Train, the only inner-circle member re- maining in Philadelphia, deter- mined that he would not permit the PSFS to fade into oblivion, and he would, to the best of his ability, keep all of the PSFS members together and interested. These copies of the PSFS News. were eagerly anticipated by the members who w'ere scattered all over the planet. Train kept ever.yone informed as to just where the members were, and what they were doing. There is little doubt that the powerful organization of today would not be in existence had it not been for the activities of Oswald Train during the period 1943-45. Finally came the cataclysmic conclusion to World War II. A.M. Phillips was the first to return, follow'ed by Madle and Balta- donis. Then within' a period of several months, other inner-circle members of the club rapidl.y re- turned to fandom : A. E. Waldo, Jack Agnew, John Newton, and others. L. Sprague de Camp, one of the top fantasy writers, be- came a member, and .soon thei'e- after James A. Williams, prom- inent publisher and bookseller, joined the group, bringing with him several other fantasy enthu- siasts, including his daughter, Allison. The meetings were so well-attended that it was decided that a club-room was not only advisable, but necessary. Live- wire member A1 Pepper dis- covered a suitable location, and the PSFS clubroom finally ma- terialized after many years of fruitless discussion. Then, in the Fall of 1946, a delegation headed by Milton A. Rothman went to the Fourth World Science Fic- tion Convention in Los Angeles with the express intention of bidding for and obtaining the 1947 World Convention for Phil- adelphia. By an overwhelming majority the PSFS was voted the fifth aanual affair. Phila- delphia was being termed, “The New Mecca of Fandom,” and there is little doubt that 1946 turned out to be on,e of the greatest years in the club’s history. 1947 was a year of feverish

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THIS IS THE PSFS 57 activity in Philadelphia. An ex- ecutive convention committee, consisting of Rothman, Agnew, Madle, Train, and Phillips, de- voted many hours to promoting thePhilcon and their efforts were rewarded by the well-attended, interesting alTair which ensued at the Penii-Sheraton Hotel dur- ing the Labor Day Weekend of 1947. It would be impossible to describe the varied and interest- ing speeches and meetings which were held, and the famous per- sonages who attended. Just to mention a few of the greats of science fiction: John W. Camp- bell, E. E. Smith, George O. Smith, Theodore Sturgeon, Sam Merwin, L. A. Eshbach, Hubert Rogers, David H. Keller, Forrest J. Ackerman, Bob Tucker, and Sam Moskowitz. During the years 1948-51 the club continued to expand. Many new members were added to its ever-expanding membership rolls: George O. Smith, H. Near- ing, Jr., Alan E, Nourse, Dave Hammond, Tom Clareson, et cetera. Annual Fall Conferences were held; Williams and Train, with their Prime Press, put Philadelphia in the publishing limelight: a more centrally loca- ted section was obtained for the clubroom. The PSFS continued to maintain its position of re- spectable maturity in the wmrld of science fiction, and was in- variably well-represented at the World Conventions which follow- ed that held in Philadelphia: Toronto (1948), Cincinnati (1949), Portland (1950), and New Orleans (1951). Finally, in 1952, the PSFS sent almost twenty members to Chicago and, in a hectic cam- paign, was voted the convention for 1953. There is little doubt that the forthcoming convention. The Eleventh World Science Fic- tion Convention, will be the ulti- mate in science fiction affairs. Already an active and enthusi- astic convention committee is working towards this goal. Just who comprises this committee is undoubtedly of interest and per- haps a few words anent these individuals will not be amiss: Chairman: James A. Williams, science fiction fan, and partner in Prime Press. Vice-Chairman : Thomas Clare- son, Professor of English at University of Pennsylvania, long-time science fiction enthu- siast. Secretary: Oswald Train, Prominent bibliophile, and other partner in Prime Press. Treasurer: Robert A. Madle, science fiction fan and collector for many years. One of the orig- inal members of the PSFS The Executive Committee is supplemented by the following

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58 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES members of the Convention Com- mittee: L. Sprague de Camp, Jack Agnew, Milton A. Rothman, Dave Hammond, David A. Kyle, Lester del Rey, Irvin Heyne, Sol Levin, Joseph Mitchell, Joe Gib- son, and Sam Moskowitz. It is interesting to note that the PSFS does not desire to take full credit for the forthcoming af- fair: the members are firmly convinced that the Eleventh World Science Fiction Conven- tion will be an affair for the en- tire science fiction world, and the PSFS, although assuming the major portion of the labor in- volved, desires to share the pro- duction of this great convention with the rest of the fantasy world. It will be noted that David A. Kyle, who is editing the pro- gram booklet, Lester del Rey, who is Chairman of the Program Committee, and Joe Gibson and Sam Moskowitz, who are assist- ing in the publicity department, are not members of the PSFS. Remember: everyone interested in science fiction is invited to assist in this massive endeavor. Great things are planned for the Labor Day Weekend of 1953 : ali’eady arrangements have been made for the convention to be held at the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel, Philadelphia’s finest. The convention hall is capable of seat- ing 1500, and such an attendance is not unlikely. A wonderful pro- gram is being arranged, and there is no doubt that practicall.y all of the famous personages of science fiction will attend this lavish affair. All the readers of science fiction will certainly want to assist the Convention Com- mittee and, at the same time, keep fully informed of all Con- vention activities. This may be done by sending $1 to: Eleventh World Science Fic- tion Convention Membership Committee Box 2019 Philadelphia, Penn. This $1 will automatically make you a member of The Eleventh Woiid Science Fiction Convention Committee, and you will receive a membership card attesting to that fact. Also, you will be mailed periodically copies of the Convention Progress Re- port which will keep you fully in- formed of all activities connected with the affair. Write to the Con- vention Committee at your earli- est opportunity and plan to be in Philadelphia in 1953.

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ON STREETS OF GOLD BY IRVING E. COX, JR. ILLUSTRATED BY FREAS If man finds native, intelligent life on the plan- ets, he's going to find it hard not to exploit them. And it will be harder to give up thinking in terms of past experience. Too hard. . . . The buzzer clattered. Curt snapped down the intercom lever. “Take-off in ten minutes. Com- mander Hallen. Is Commander Clark going down with us, sir?” “Yes; there’s nothing more we can do allbut it, Lieutenant Hughes.” “The men are saying, if Clark won’t stay in the satellite — ” “Tell them their superstitions are showing.” Curt snapped off the connection angrily. What did they think he could do? He had no other authority over Mike Clark, if persuasion wouldn’t keep ihe man in line. Curt pulled himself to the wall locker and tooTc out his flight uni- form, stripping off his loose-fit- ting fatigues. For a moment he hung in the air, weightless and naked. He was a young man, more than six feet tall, broad- shouldered and lean in the hips. Lithe muscle rippled beneath his copper skin. His blood raced with excite- ment. Take-off in ten minutes! This was it — the last frontier, the last chance to colonize the planets. Three years ago the Martian expedition had failed. Curt would neYer forget the bitter 59

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60 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES story Commander Clark had told to the Board of Inquiry. “Yes, I contracted the fever,” he had answered, “but I had a light case.” “Still, you survived,” the pre- siding Senator had repeated. “It seems curious, Commander, that none of the other men — ” “My expedition panicked. They all tried to crowd aboard the shuttle. I had no way of knowing which of them was infected ; and it was an epidemic virus, remem- ber. If I’d brought that back to Earth, millions would have died.” “So you abandoned your men.” “I had to make certain that no other Earth-expedition was ever sent to Mars.” After Clark’s testimony even the most sympathetic Congress- men were unwilling to vote new appropriations for Solar explora- tion. Yet it was not in the nature of Americans to be content to stagnate. Having crossed the barrier into outer space, they were goaded by their psychologi- cal heritage to explore it. Con- gress relu’ctantly supplied a dribble of funds for an expedi- tion to Venus. As commander of the expedi- ;;on, Curt Hallen supervised the 1,'uilding of the artificial satellite v.hich had been established in a Venusian orbit. He drove the v.’ork crew with demoniac fury, for he believed fanatically in the feasibility of planetary coloniza- tion. In his mind Curt could hear the whispering voices of history, the ghosts of Columbus and Pizarro, of Lewis and Clark — all the great names that symbolized the conquest of the American West. The expedition to Venus was a part of the same tradition. So Curt believed. But, at the same time, he w'as aware of a quiet irony: he was a full- blooded Comanche. To his people, the conquest of the West had meant disaster and degredation. Now he — a child of the dis- possessed— blazed the conquer- or’s trail to Venus. The intercom buzzed again. Ignoring it, Curt drew on his bulky, pressurized suit and left the satellite. He entered the shuttle-rocket. Air his.sed into the lock. Curt racked his suit and pulled himself up the companion- tube into the lead-walled control chiimber, where ttw: thirty mem- bers of the expedition were alr.eady strapped into foam- cushioned shuttle chairs. Curt signaled. The motor roared briefly. The rocket moved down into the Venusian mists. Strapped beside Curt were Lieutenant Hughes, Curt’s sec- ond-in-command, and Mike Clark. Clark was a member of the Venusian expedition by vir- tue of a Congressional appoint-

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62 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES ment as special observer. He was an aloof and silent man, who had never become an integrated part of Curt’s crew. Whenever Clark talked to the others, he seemed to convey a feeling of impending failure, without putting it into words. “Of course we’ll find no epi- demic virus on Venus,” he had said again and again. “Such a coincidence is impossible!” Anyone listening to him some- how gained the impression that he expected precisely that — per- haps, even looked forward to it. Yet it was not Clark’s pessi- mism that made him an outcast. The truth was far simpler : Mike Clark was a commander who had abandoned his men to save him- self. No matter what excuse he made, the service could not for- give him. They labeled Clark a coward. Twenty minutes after the rocket slid into the Venusian wreath of clouds, Curt felt the first tug of planetary gravity. At the same time, Lieutenant Hughes brought into focus on the radar screen the first compre- hensible ground pattern. The lieutenant jacked up the angle of her chair so she could read the screen more clearly. Under any conditions, she would have been a striking woman. The skin-tight, silv^er- colored nylon flight uniform made her charms emphatic. Tall and statuesque, she was trans- formed into a goddess by the sheen of the uniform. Her yel- low hair was cut very short. It curled in a golden crown above her face, which was unashamedly flecked with freckles. Alice Hughes she was; a Kan- sas ranch girl — with a graduate degree in physics. She was one of seven women Curt had chosen for the expedition. Cu]'t studied the radar screen thoughtfully. 'The Venusian land mass was a scattered body of islands. For a landing site he chose a small, green island nestled close to the equator. At twelve thousand feet the rocket plunged through the cloud sphere that shrouded the planet. Through the periscope Curt saw the curve of Venus clearly. The land was covered with green foliage, and very flat; Curt saw no ranges of mountains, although here and there the ground ruffled up into low hills. The first view of Venus was necessarily brief. Curt could not use rocket fuel to explore the land; that would be done later by means of the helicopter crowded in the hold. The rocket glided into a land- ing on the equatorial island Curt had selected. While the chemists went into the airlock to analyze

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ON STREETS OF GOLD 63 the composition of the air, Curt rolled out the periscope and turned it in a full circle. He saw a black soil and tree-like growths with enormous leaves, towering a hundred feet above the rocket. It was near the close of the Venusian day and the gray twi- light was descending; bleak shadows crept over the forest floor. Suddenly Mike Clark caught Curt’s arm, steadying the peri; scope. “Did you see that, Hal- len?” “Yes. A kind of gleam among the trees.” “Like a wall of water,” Lieu- tenant Hughes suggested. “Ice, you think?” “No; Venus is too hot.” “A wall,” Commander Clark whispered. “But walls have to be built. Built by people!” The chemists came trooping out of the airlock. “It’s good air. Commander Hallen!” “A much higher oxygen con- tent than ours ; no other differ- ence.” The whole expedition burst into excited talk and moved to- ward the port. Curt silenced them quickly. “Is there any evidence of a planetary virus?” he de- manded. “Anything resembling Martian conditions?” “We can’t test for that, sir.” Curt turned to Mike Clark. “All right, Clark. You’re the spe- cial observer; what do you think?” “A wall; civilization! Hallen, we can’t land!” “Snap out of it. If there are people here, we can handle them. You said the Martian virus was fed by the flora. Does it look as if the same cycle exists here?” With an effort, Clark shook off his daze. “I don’t know. The plants aren’t the same.” “Would you risk a landing?” Commander Clark licked his thin lips and stared silently at the semicircle of faces. “Hallen, there may be people here, men with customs and Gods of their own and — ” He broke off with a shrug. “Why ask my opinion? Go ahead ; give the orders. Make your landing. There’s no virus, Hallen.” He spoke with an agonized bitterness, but for the first time he seemed to be sin- cere. Curt opened the port. Clean, fresh air filled the cabin. It was damp and warm, fragrant with the odor of wet earth. One by one the members of the expedi- tion followed Curt down the metal landing ladder. A warm mist was falling stealthily. The plants folded above the rocket caught the water on their huge leaves, occasionally spilling large, gleaming drops upon the

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64 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES soil. The trunks of the plants arose like cathedral columns encircling the meadow where the rocket had landed. Curt heard no sound except the drip of the mist and the muffled clatter of metal upon metal, as two m£n began to build a fire in the shel- ter of the ship. Alice Hughes moved quietly to his side. “It’s strange,” she whispered in awe. “The way the trees are growing. Curt.” It was the first time she had dropped military formality since they had left the Earth-satellite. The probing fingers of Curt’s old, boyhood anguish twisted his soul ; he wanted to turn away from her, and he could not. “Strange? How, Lieutenant?” “The trees make a pattern, a perfect circle around the mead- ow. They wouldn’t — simply grow that way.” “Not on the Earth, no; this is Venus. We’ve no idea how these plants evolved.” “It reminds me of a park. And Commander Clark said there were people — ” The fire blazed up with sudden brilliance, spreading a yellow glow over the clearing. Lieuten- ant Hughes gasped and drew back against Curt. Just beyond the limit of the light Curt saw a circle of eyes gleaming in the darkness. He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her back toward the rocket. The fire leaped higher. Vague shapes took form beneath the glittering eyes. Cold terror stabbed at Curt’s soul, for the rocket was surrounded by a circle of silent, watching ani- mals. They bore a faint resem- blance to kangaroos, but their bodies were thickly scaled and their heads were flat-faced and round. They stood erect on two rabbit-like feet, and they had the additional support of short, thick, scaled tails. Their forefeet were long, thin and jointed, tapering into six-digited paws. Apparently aware that they had been seen, the Venusian rep- tiles moved closer, while a sing- song sound came from their throats. Their mouths hung open. Curt saw gleaming rows of sharp, white teeth. The others moved backward to the landing ladder and began to pull themselves up into the safe- ty of the cabin. But CuiT knew they could not all escape. In the first hour, his expedition faced disaster! On Mara it had been a planetary virus; here, primitive reptiles. Commander Clark vyould have a second failure to ref)oil to Congress, and man’s exi)loration of space would be over. From the open poi't, a junior officer shouted down at the ad- vancing animals. He swung a

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ON STREETS OF GOLD 65 Tommy-;run in hi.s arm, spatter- ing the damp ground with lead. The animals stopped and their sing-song howling ceased. But three of the monsters — leaders of the pack; or, perhaps, simply hungrier than the rest — con- tinued to slither toward Curt. Another burst of gunfire. The three reptiles lay dead. Curt ex- pected the pack to leap upon him in fury; but nothing happened. The Venusian animals dragged away their dead and fled, silent- ly, into the dripping forest. Once inside the rocket, the members of the expedition seem- ed I'cmarkably unperturbed. “We .should have anticipated animal life,” one of the men said. “In any case,” another added, “we won’t have any trouble after this.” “No; they’re afraid of our guns.” The following morning sys- tematic e.xploration of Venus be- gan. The members of the expe- dition w'ent everywdiere in pairs and each of them was armed. The gentle mist was no longer falling, but the gray clouds never lifted and, throughout the day, rain fell at intervals. The temperature varied vei'y little from a Fahrenheit of seventy-five degrees. On Ifte first day the periphery of the exploration did not move far beyond the meadow where the rocket had landed. De- tailed analyses wai-e made of the soil and water, with favorable results. “We could grow’ anything in this ground,” a biochemist told Curt. “Is there enough sunlight?" “Apparently.” The scientist gestured toward the towering plants. “Those things — they seem to be a species of ivy, by the wa\- — they thrive here. The clouds never lift, Hallen, but Venus is closer to the sun than the Earth is.” The water was amazingly pure, and tasteless. It had only a microscopic mineral conteTit. with no trace of iron. On the second day the heli- copter was wheeled out of the ship and fueled. An aerial pho- tographer flew north from the landing meadow. In less than half an hour he returned, chat- tering with excitement. “It looked like a town. I’ll swear it!” he reported to Curt. “I couldn’t get any closer because of the trees.” "Your eyes played you tricks,” Curt answered. “Let’s print youj- picture and see what you’ve got.” But when Curt and Alice Hughes studied the wet glossy films they felt a puzzled misgiv- ing. Unmistakably square-cut structures of some sort W'eie

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66 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES visible beneath the giant ivy- leaves. “How far was it?” Curt asked the photographer. “Half a mile. Want me to try for a clearer picture, sir?” “No. Cruise south and see if you can pick up anything else.” When the pilot had left, Curt looked at the photograph again. “This’ll have to be Investigated on foot, Alice.” “I’ll go with you. Curt.” “There may be danger — ” “From the overgrown liz- ards?” Lieutenant Hughes laughed and touched the gun strapped to her hips. “They’ve learned their lesson. They’ll keep clear of us.” Curt strapped a portable radio transmitter to his shoulders, so that he could make emergency contact with the rocket. He car- ried a Tommy-gun as well as ex- tra rounds of ammunition. They still wore their silver-col- ored, nylon flight uniforms, be- cause it was a durable material, as tough as leather. In the deep shadows of the ivy forest the air was hot and sticky. Curt pulled his zipper and stripped back his blouse, letting it hang loose from his waist. “A man can make himself comfortable,” Lieutenant Hughes said. “But a woman, of course — ” She laughed for a moment; then her face turned serious. “Do you smell the earth, Curt? It’s like a farm at home, after the spring plowing.” “Venus could make a good world, Alice.” “Will you be a colonist?” “Maybe.” “We could be free. Curt; live our own lives; make the sort of—” “We, Alice?” “Now we aren’t going through that again, Curt Hallen! I intend to marry you ; the matter’s settled.” “I’m an Indian.” “Oh, when will you grow up? We talked that out ten years ago, when you were a sophomore in college !” “Age doesn’t change the facts; I’m still an Indian.” “Grown men forget their childhood frustrations.” She looked up into his eyes. “If ,vou don’t want me. Curt, why did .you ask me to join your expedition?” “Because — because you’re a physicist, Alice.” “But not the best; not even a very good one. You’re still try- ing to show off. Curt, like a little boy. All right. I’m impressed. Now let’s get down to something important: when are you going to ask me to marry you?” She reached for his arm as he swung ahead of her; but she stumbled over a root. She fell

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ON STREETS OF GOLD 67 into the trees but, instead of fall- ing, she struck a transparent wall. “Curt!” He turned back and examined the surface of the wall. It did not have the slick, cold feeling nor the betraying surface reflec- tion of glass. Suddenly Alice screamed. A forest animal lurched at them through the undergrowth behind the w'all. It was like an enor- mously enlarged beetle, with a tortoise armor. The beetle struck the wall and its teeth chattered against it. It eyed them with stalk eyes, and then darted to the left, only to meet 'another invisi- ble barrier. “The thing’s caged in!” Lieu- tenant Hughes sighed her relief. But she added, in an awed whis- per. “Curt, a wall has to be builtr “We can’t call it a cage. We can’t apply our own experiences here. Who built it? Why? Where is he now?” Curt ran his hand over the wall again. “For all we know, this could be sap that’s dripped from the ivy leaves. Maybe it formed by chance; maybe the plants are carniver- ous. We can’t name any process, assume any hypothesis, until we’ve assembled data and classi- fied it.” “Maybe, Curt, it’s the scale of things that confuses us. Look around you ! Ivy-plants a hundred feet high, armored beetles as large as elephants, lizards like kangaroos. On a scale of that sort, a man would be — ” “I read my last fairy tale twenty years ago.” He laughed cheerfully and locked his arm in hers. Two hun- dred feet beyond the trapped beetle, the path turned sharply and they came upon the struc- tures which had been photo- graphed from the helicopter. A double row of yellow-walled buildings stood on both sides of a smooth, yellow road. But the place was empty and deserted. The gentle Venusian rain began to fall again as they entered the village. The street turned slick. Curt slipped and fell. He sat in a puddle of warm water finger- ing the surface of the road. Then he got up and walked to one of the buildings to examine the yellow bricks. “Give me your guess,” he asked. “What do you think these places are made of?" She brushed her hand over the soft metal and her eyes widened. “Gold?” With his knife Curt picked one of the corner bricks free. He beat the metal with the butt of his revolver. He was able to re- shape the brick easily, without effort. He drew his fingernail

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68 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES across the surface, and the mark left a clear gully in the face of the brick. “If it’s gold,” he said, “it’s nearly pure.” “Curt, the chemists say the oxygen content of the Venusian air is much higher than ours. As a matter of fact, our rocket is al- ready beginning to rust. But there’s no rust in this village.” “True; oxygen won’t corrode gold." “It’s fantastic. Curt! Why would anyone build a village of a precious metal? It must have taken all the gold they’ve ever mined on Venus!” “We’re still thinking from our own point of view, Alice. There’s no physical law saying that gold has to be rare.” “Even so, it’s a ridiculous metal to build with. It’s so soft. Curt!” “Perhaps they have nothing else. There’s no iron in the water.” He clenched his fists. “But all that is pointless specu- lation. The impoi'tant question is this: who built the village? If there are rational men on Venus, why haven’t they taken some notice of our landing?” He heard a faint shuffling at the end of the golden street and looked up quickly. A band of the scaled lizards was moving to- ward them. He darted a glance in the opposite direction; the other exit to the village was cut off as well. Curt unslung his gun and sent a bui’st of lead blazing over the heads of the animals. Both grou])s stopped. Curt heard the soft mutter of their sing-song chatter. Furiously he turned the dials on his portable transmitter and called to the rocket for help. He thought he raised a response, but he could not be sure, for both groups of reptiles closed in at once. Curt fired point-blank into the pack, but he killed only one or two. His armament was no match for their overwhelming numbers. He heard Alice Hughes scream in terror as they tore her away from him. A heavy blow struck the side of Curt’s head. He had a vague recollection, later, of lying on the golden street while their clammy paws clawed over his naked chest, toying with the un- zippered flaps of his nylon uni- form. He tried to fight back, but they threw him roughly against the metal street. When he regained conscious- ness, he was lying in a shuttle chair in the rocket, a padded bandage taped to his head. He sat up slowly, his head pounding with pain. Mike Clark smiled at him. “It w'as just like a kid’s movie,” Clark commented. “We

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ON STREETS OF GOLD 69 arrived in the nick of time — with guns blazing — just as the liz- ards were carrying you off. We must’ve slaughtered a dozen of them before they dropped you and scurried for cover.” “Where’s Alice?” “My, Venus has made us in- formal !” “Is she all right, Clark?” Commander Clark spread his hands hopelessly. “Unfortunate-, ly, the lizards got away with her.” Cui’t tried to stand, but his head swam with pain. “Search for her! They can’t — ” “Oh, we did, Hallen; we did. Those lizards can run when they’ve a mind to.” Clark’s cyni- cal tone turned cold. “Had enough, boy? Why don’t you call it off and go home? We’ve lost Lieutenant Hughes today; to- morrow it’ll be one of the others. We don’t belong on Venus, Hal- len ; we’re Earth people. Mars was a mistake. Venus is — ” The pilot of the helicopter swung up through the open port, saluting briskly. “Commander Hallen, I’ve been out scouring the forest for signs of Lieuten- ant Hughes and — ” “Any luck?” “No, sir, but I’ve located a colony of men about ten miles south of here. They’ve a funny kind of glass wall around their villages, but they’re men. Com- mander! People like ourselves!” “Another expedition?” Com- mander Clark demanded. “It’s possible, I suppose,” Curt said. “We’ll have to find out.” “But it’s too late to do any- thing today, sir.” “Tomorrow’s time enough ; the villagers will still be here.” Beginning at dawn the next morning, the helicopter made seven flights shuttling men and arms to the broad, gravel plain outside the transparent walls of the Venusian villages. Ten men were left in the rocket, to con- tinue the search for Alice Hughes. Curt and Mike Clark went in the first flight. From the con- cealment of an ivy-tree at the crest of a low hill, they studied the colony. The villagers seemed to be primitives. They were tall, white-skinned, fair-haired, naked except for bright-colored paint streaking their bodies. They lived in huts built of leaves and branches; and they used rudi- mentary utensils made of gold. The transparent wall enclosed an area of several square miles. In front of the wall was a water- filled moat, fifty feet wide, and teeming with a variety of rep- tilian life. Not one village but many lay behind the wall. While Curt and Clark watched, two

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70 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES groups from different villages fought a bloody skirmish over a feeding ground. Their weapons were arrows and stone-tipped spears. When the expedition was assembled, they moved up cau- tiously to the edge of the moat. “So these are the Venusians,” Commander Clark said dully. “The planet is ours, Hallen. We’ll have no trouble eliminat- ing this handful of savages.” “It isn’t a matter of elimina- tion. Our colonists will live on Venus with the natives; we’ll teach them our technologj'.” “You speak, of course, from experience.” Clark’s words had the savage lash of a whip. “I’m sure some of the early American Colonials had a similarly noble view of our relations with the Indians — until the Colonials were strong enough to steal the Indian lands and destroy the In- dian people.” Curt looked up at the trans- parent wall. “You’re wrong, Clark,” he said. “This isn’t a primitive tribe, but a decadent remnant of a superior culture. These are the people who built the golden village; they invented the plastic walls, so they must have known something of sci- ence. Then a disaster occurred. My guess is they were over- whelmed by the lizards. The people built this refuge and fled to it. They filled the moat with sea monsters which could turn back any lizard attack, and they threw up the walls for addi- tional protection. But, once they were safe, they were too worn out by the struggle to maintain their culture." “It adds up to the same thing, Hallen. If we come to Venus with . Earth colonies, we’ll destroy the Venusians.” “These people need help. They can’t survive without it.” Curt ordered a bridge thrown across the moat. Four men cut one of the ivy-trees on the edge of the clearing, splitting it down its ten foot diameter and binding the two pieces together. The work was not hard, for beneath a thin, outer crust, the wood was as soft as sponge. Sap gushed from the tree like water and slowly hardened into a plastic material like the wall. The tree made a sturdy, substantial bridge, light enough for two men to lift. Curt was annoyed when he ex- 'amined the saws after the tree had been cut. The surfaces of the blades, which had been washed by the tree sap, were thickly covered with rust; the teeth shattered into a red pow- der when he brushed them with his hand. Completely useless.

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ON STREETS OF GOLD 71 As soon iis the bridge was lowe)'ed over the moat, Venusian lizards swarmed out of the ivy foi'est and attacked the expedi- tion. They obviously understood the use of a bridge and intended to take advantage of it to reach their prey behind the wall. Curt discovered that the lizards were armed — after a fashion — with long, black snakes twisted around their forepaws. He as- sumed that the snakes were a reptilian parasite, comparable to the fleas and tics which inhabit- ed Earth animals. The fighting was finished quickly. The lizards suffered a score of casualties before they retreated. Only one of Curt’s men died, when a lizard flung a writhing snake at the man’s feet. The man sprang erect with a scream, and his dying fingers closed, paralyzed, upon the trig- ger of his gun. The bullets spat- tered an aimless arc in the air. When the lead struck the transparent wall, the material shattered and a twenty foot sec- tion beyond the bridge col- lapsed. After the dust of battle had settled, timid groups of Venus- ians ventured out of their fort- ress and crossed the bridge. They moved cautiously toward the lizard bodies. When they were certain that the animals were dead, the Venusians fell upon them savagely, hacking them into bloody chunks and flinging the pieces to the reptiles in the moat. Curt’s expedition set up head- quarters in a nylon tent just in- side the broken wall. Through- out the day they attempted to establish linguistic communica- tion w'ith the natives, but with- out success. Three times during the day Curt communicated by radio with the men he had left in the rocket. By means of the helicopter they were slowly ex- tending their search for Alice Hughes, but they had no favor- able information to report. At nightfall Curt’s men built a campfire in the rain, and doled out rations. Venusians gathered around, watching them eat. Each time a can was emptied, the Venusians snatched it up eager- ly, sometimes quarreling among themselves for its possession. Be- fore the meal was over, one of the Venusians brought Curt a handful of his own utensils, pots and bowls crudely made from beaten gold. By gesture he indi- cated that he wanted to make a trade. “Gold for tin,” Commander Clark whispered acidly. “Snap it up, Hallen.” “They’ve gold in abundance,” Curt replied. “They’re curious about our non-yellow metals.”

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72 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “Of course, Hallen; start the exploitation early!” The trading continued for hours. The Venusians happily emptied their huts of all their possessions and carried away tin cans in exchange. When the tins were exhausted, the Venusians expressed a desire for guns, but Curt turned thumbs down. “Don’t make the old mistakes again,” Commander Clark whis- pered. “Here, the conquest will be different. We made one error when we traded with the In- dians: we sometimes gave them arms. That made it dangerous later on when our settlers set out to steal the Indian land.” “Clark, the single track of your mind is getting just a little monotonous.” “I’d forgotten, Hallen; you’re an Indian and you know all about exploitation.” “You’re missing the point. The past history of the Earth has no meaning to Venus.” “Granted — until the two cul- tures meet, as they have now. We think and act in terms of our own experience. We carry it with us, like a plague.” Curt reached into his nylon and took out a cigarette, lighting it thoughtfully. “You didn’t take a plague to Mars, Clark,” he said. “But you found one there.” “Yes, an epidemic virus.” Clark eyed him steadily. "Nothing else?” he asked. “Nothing.” “You know, Clark, a new expe- dition to Mars might be possible, even now. A man in a pressur- ized suit — ” Curt was interrupted by a tall, growling Venusian, who crowded close to observe his ciga- rette. He indicated that he want- ed to try it. With a smile, Curt handed it over. The Venusian puffed and coughed. His face flushed scarlet and he flung the cigarette away. He staggered against the trunk of an ivy-tree and clung to it. When his spasm of nausea had passed, he crept to the spot where the cigarette lay, glowing red in the darkness. He picked up the butt and fled back to his native village. Shortly after dawn the follow- ing morning, Curt was awak- ened by the sound of conflict. A bloody battle between two bands of Venusians swirled aiound the headquartei's tent. Curt discov- ered why the native.s had wanted tin cans. Over night they had beaten the metal into viciously effective spear and arrow heads; the Venusians were using their new weapons now' before the metal rusted aw'ay. After victory, the tribe came to trade again, bringing the spoils taken from the vanquish- ed. But, instead of tin, they de-

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ON STREETS OF GOLD 73 manded cigai'ettes. Curt felt inexplicable misgiving, but he saw no sound reason to prohibit the trade. Eagerly the natives lugged their enormous piles of gold artifacts to the tent and carried away the fragile paper cylinders. Thirty minutes later the tribe was gutted with insensibility. Men, women and children lay un- conscious outside their huts, in the rain, spattered with their own filth. Others writhed in an orgiastic dance, grotesquely burlesquing their own ritual. They fought drunkenly among themselves, with cigarettes dan- gling from their lips. Some tot- tered from the bridge and were caught by the slimy monsters in the moat. Throughout the day bands of natives staggered arm in arm acioss the wooden bridge to the cleai'ing. They pranced, with mincing steps, toward the ivy- trees whei’e the lizards lurked. The lizards sprang at them with their black, parasite snakes. Curt’s men could not protect every Venusian party that ven- tui’ed out beyond the walls. For hour.s the fringe of the clearing vibraled with their terrified screams as they died. But by nightfall the orgy was over. The surviving Venusians were all inside the walls; more than a hundred were dead. The native villages were quiet, para- lyzed with the exhaustion of a community hangover. Wearily Curt’s expedition built a fire and broke out their rations. While they were eating, the helicopter soared out of the darkness and settled on the cleai- area between the tent and the wall. The pilot shouted good- natured greetings to his compan- ions, and then drew Curt aside. Silently he flashed a pocket light over the helicopter. Every piece of metal was red with rust. “The truth is. Commander Hallen, the helicopter’s falling apart. And the rocket isn’t much better, sir. If we stay on Venus another week, we’ll never get off the ground.” Curt fingered his lower lip thoughtfully. “We can’t pull out until we find Lieutenant Hughe,-, or at least make sure — ” Hc- brought himself up short. His mind refused to frame the altei'native. He glanced toward the others lounging around the campfire. Curt had no right to endanger them on the slim chance that he might save Lieu- tenant Hughes. Then his eyes strayed to the pile of Venusian artifacts ac- cumulated in a corner of the tent. -And the grimness eased out of his face ; he had his solution. “All right,” he said to the pilot.

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74 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “Stay the night here; in the morning you can shuttle us back to the rocket.” ■‘We’re leaving Venus, sir?” “Temporarily. We’ll load the gold aboard the rocket and re- turn to the satellite. Then we’ll clean off the rust and gold-plate ever.y square inch of exposed metal in the ship.” “Of course, sir! Gold won’t rust. Any ship that comes to Venus after this — ” The pilot threw back his- head and laughed. “Can’t you hear Congress howl when we tell them the colonists will have to have gold-plated shuttle rockets?” The pilot went to make his billet in the tent. Curt stood alone by the helicopter, fingering the rust that had corroded the metal. “You’ll forgive my eavesdrop- ping, Hallen?” Curt whirled. Mike Clark stood in the darkness beyond the ship. In the falling mist his face glowed glossily pink from the light of his cigarette. He joined Curt, looking up at the helicopter speculatively. “So our metals won’t hold up in the Venusian atmosphere! That about finishes the prospect of a colony, doesn’t it?” “No.” “But our weapons would be useless. After a fe'.v weeks, the colonists would be at the mercy of the natives.” “You assume that conflict is inevitable, Clark; I don’t.” “Perhaps not conflict; just ex- ploitation. I’ve been down to the village, Ilallen. It’s quite a sight ; you shouldn’t miss it. They’}’e recovering — most of them. But the tribe enjoyed its debauchery. They’ll be back for more.” “I had no way of knowing what their nicotine i-eaction — ” “I don’t suppose the white traders knew what would follow after they gave the first liquor to the Indians.” “I’ve issued orders, Clark; there’ll be no more cigarettes for the Venusians, on any terms.” “Face the future honestly, Hallen! Think of the good-heart- ed souls — the upright people — who’ll send out teachers to de- stroy Venusian customs, because by our standards they seem evil and barbaric. Think of the prim ladies who’ll come to dress the Venusians in sacks, and teach them the disease of shame. It won’t be pretty. It’s the murder of a people, Hallen, and the re- sponsibility is yours.” Clark gripped Curt’s arm with trem- bling fingers, “Hallen, the whites destroyed your people — your cul- ture, your gods, your legends — on the misguided assumption that we were bringing you civil- ization. Take vengeance for that

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ON STREETS OF GOLD now'i or balance the account. Call it what you like! But don’t let U.S repeat the same tragedy here.” ‘T have only one responsibilit.v, Clark.” Curt jerked his arm free. “I was commissioned to explore Venus for colonization.” “We’ve no right to grab the planets !” “We had the brains to invent the machines, Clark; the ma- chines give us the right.” “Solar exploration is a fluke of scientific research, Hallen. A b.y- product of war — that’s the true measure of our civilization. Leave the Veilusians to evolve their own culture in their own good time !” “Mike, it’s a.lways easy to point out the shortcomings of our society.” For the first time Curt used the Commander’s given name, and he spoke ver.v gently. “Disaster always makes more noise than success. Grant- ed, we’ve made mistakes; but we’ve built a workable society, too. History is not necessarily a repetition of the crimes of the past. We’ve leaimed how to learn from the past. It'll be different when we build our colonies on Venus.” “That means you’ll do nothing — ” “Nothing, Mike. We’ll colonize Venus — our kind of men — and we’ll make it our kind of world. 75 for both ourselves and the Venu- sians.” A woman cried Curt’s name from the tent, the knife-edge of fear in her voice. He and Clark ran back to the dying fire, to con- front a circle of sullen Venu- sians, their arms loaded with gold trade goods. The natives wanted nothing but cigarettes. When these were not at once forthcoming, the Venusians turned belligerent. Curt tried to interest them in a miscellany of things — parts of nylon uniforms, spare zippers, toothbrushes, even canned sar- dines. But the Venusians would not be put off. Suddenly one of the men hurled a stone axe which grazed Curt’s shoulder; the mob sprang at them. Curt’s men were forced to use their guns to turn them back. Four of the Venu- sians were shot, and the pilot of the helicopter was beaten to death. Throughout the night the Venusians circled in the shadows beyond the tent, barking among themselves. Judging from the sounds they made. Curt guessed that the size of the mob grew steadily. Occasionally a spear lashed out of the darkness and struck the ground near the fire. Sleepless, Curt kept watch, a Tommy-gun cradled in his arm.

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76 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES In the light of dawn he saw hundreds of Venusians milling in front of the expedition tent. As the light brightened, their bark- ing grew louder. Here and there small groups burst into frenzied dancing. Outside the walls Curt saw a large phalanx of lizards moving stealthily across the clearing to- ward the bridge. He hoped the new threat might deflect the Venusian attack, but the interest of the natives did not waver. A purposeful band of Venu- sians moved toward the tent, symbolically offering trade goods. Hoping that surrender would give him the time he needed to evacuate the expedition. Curt flung them four cigarettes. But the gesture precipitated the at- tack. The Venusian delegation fell quarreling over the spoils; and the screaming mob surged foi’ward. Curt backed into the tent. Behind an improvised bar- rier the guns began to chatter. The first wave of Venusians fell; the others stopped thirty feet from the tent, screaming and dancing and brandishing their spears. “We have to push them back, or we won’t be able to get out,” Commander Clark shouted to Curt above the din. “A small bomb ought to scare them off.” “The bombs are all in the rocket, and the pilot — ” “I can fly the helicopter. Curt.” “Thanks. Thanks, Mike.” Curt held out his hand. After a long hesitation, Clark shook it limply. He turned and scurried through a rain of arrows to the heli- copter. As the ship rose from the ground, the second wave of Venu- sians closed upon the tent. Across the clearing the lizards moved closer to the bridge. Curt stood up to fire at the mob. A spear struck his shoulder, spinning him back into the tent. He pulled himself groggily to his feet. The othei's were firing frantically at the swirling naked bodies. Curt’s arm hung limp and numb. Blood spurted through a rent that had been torn in his nylon blouse. “Hallen! Can you hear me?” It w'as Clark’s voice, filtered by the two-way radio at the back of the tent. “Unfortunatel.v, you can’t answer, Hallen; I put your transmitter out of commission this moi’iiing. Under the circum- stances, it seemed desirable for you not to be able to contact the rocket again. “I w'ant yoii to know the truth, Hallen. You’ll say I’m mad, of course. You’re welcome to your opinion. Perhaps I am. Who knows? Madness is a condition differently defined by every so- ciety. And when a whole culture has gone mad, who can point out

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ON STREETS OF GOLD the sane man? For we are mad, you know. “You asked me once what had hjippened on Mars. You know the truth, now. There was no virus. Nothing but civilization. A friendly, naive people. I could visualize us hauling, them back to oui- zoos, or cooing over them in -the parlor, and — “I’ll do the same thing here — with variations, naturally. Even a Congressional committee wouldn’t swallow that virus story a second time. I’ll tell the men in the rocket you’ve ordered me to take it back to the satellite — to prevent further rusting. But we won’t stop there, Hallen. Somewhere in space I’ll open the airlock, and we’ll have our monu- ment, you and I — an empty cubicle forever darting across the face of eternity. After two dis- asters, it’ll be a long time before Congress appropriates more funds for Solar exploration. Per- haps, in the interval. Mars and Venus will grow up enough to meet us on our own terms.” Curt pulled himself slowly to his feet, swaying dizzily. He saw the lizards were crossing the bridge, driving the Venusian na- tives back with their parasite snakes. Curt raised a rifle and aimed it at the helicopter w'hich still floated overhead; but, before he could pull the trigger, the 77 ship swept away and was hidden by the ivy-trees. Curt collapsed. The battle was over. Lizards swarm.ed into the tent. One of Curt’s men weakly ■raised his pistol. The lizard’s forepaws fluttered, and in a sing- song squeal he cried human words. “You safe, all! Come to us!” Unconsciousness shut down upon Curt’s mtnd. When he opened his eyes, he lay on a foamy, green pallet in a low-ceilinged, gold-walled room. A goft, transparent, stick- ily gelatinous material was heaped over his wounded shoulder. “At last. Curt!” He turned his head. Alice Hughes sat on a couch beside him, her leg bound to a board by a mound of the gelatine. “I broke it when they captured me,” she explained. “That’s why I couldn’t come myself and tell you the awful mistake we’ve made. They wouldn’t hear of it; they said my leg wouldn’t heal properly. And, Curt, there was so little they could do themselve.s, because they hadn’t learned any of our -words yet.” “They?” “The lizards. The,y were at such a disadvantage against us. They’re not at all warlike, and they have no weapons except

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78 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES their trained snakes. They’ve brought you to their capital. I’ve seen some of the city, Curt, and—" “You mean that gold village we found in the forest?” “Gracious, no! Those buildings were simply concession booths.” She laughed. “I know it isn’t funny. We’ve lost the rocket; we’ve no way of going home — ever — because Venus has no native metal except gold ; and there are only twelve of us still alive — four women and eight men. Yet it’s our own fault, Curt; we were such awful fools! You even told me the truth. At least you know it in words, al- though emotionally — ” “I knew the truth?” “You said we couldn’t inter- pret Venus in terms of our own past experiences, but we did pre- cisely that, from the time we first saw the lizards. On Venus it’s the reptile that evolved ration- ality; that hypothesis never oc- curred to us.” “But there were men behind the transparent wall, Alice!” “The most dangerous animal species on Venus; men only in the superficials of physical ap- pearance. Curt, we have to make new definitions. Man is a syn- onym for the cerebral cortex, for the ability to solve problems. Man doesn’t mean a biological shape, automatically superior to every other animal because the shape happens to resemble ours. Think about that transparent wall. Curt, and the enormous beetle we saw trapped in the forest. I was right, remember? I said the beetle was in a cage. If we’d looked farther, we’d have found others — all in neat, nat- ural settings for easy viewing. I called it a park, too. Curt. ” “You mean to tell me, Alice, that we landed our rocket in — ” “On the one Venusian island where we could make the mistake we did. We’d have found their cities on any of the others. We acted on a totally false hypoth- esis, Curt, because we had in- sufficient data, and we classified it according to our own past ex- periences.” He smiled and relaxed on the green lounge. “I wonder what would have happened, Alice, if Venusians had landed on the Earth at — say — the San Diego Zoo?” “Turn your question around. Curt. Would we have recognized them as rational people as quick- ly as they did us?” “I’ll answer that with another question: how long does it take a man to change his basic defini- tions? Perhaps we’re fortunate we’ll never know the answer. I’d hate to believe that Mike Clai-k was right.”

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BY RICHARD K. SNODGRASS ILLUSTRATED BY EBERLE Nuc had been the first sign of peace after Bikini. But now ChafRn was carrying Nuc back — dead — to a too peaceful great wings and in Cradling the dog gently in his arms, Dan Chalfin walked along Ihe dusty, country road. Green ragweeds bordered the road. Each weed was .sprinkled with an even film of powdery dust, not made splotchy by raindrops. It had not rained for three weeks. “Same every June, isn’t it, Nuc?” he asked the dog. The animal made no response. Not thinking, he glanced down at the brown and white form in hi.s arms, then brought his eyes up quickly, wanting to force the image from his mind. The sight- kss, staring eyes. The limpness. He kept forgetting. It didti’t seem possible, but his mind world. Death came on tiny, creeping carriers. would not accept the dog’s death, would not keep his eyes from ghincing down at the animal. lie walked along, wanting not to think of it, his blue shirt dark with sweat, his arms numb from the weight. lie looked at the side of the road and noticed a cockle- bur in the road dust. How many had he cut from the brown and white coat? Five dozen? Six. Impossible to say, after so many years togetlier. It was always the same, though. Nuc would come up, his pointed ears laid back, his brown, eyes apologetic. “Sorry, Dan,” the brown eyes seemed to say. “but I caught another bur in my

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80 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES coat. Can you cut it out, Dan? It’s worse than a flea.” Dan smiled, remembering when Vernadsky, the Russian physicist, and he had found Nuc alive after Phase-Seventeen at Bikini. They had been checking the Russian armor section of the island when they found him, trembling and whining, his ears laid back, huddled under the wreckage of a heavy tank — and his coat had been covered with sand burs. Nuc, sole survivor of the tests that ended war (the newspapers and politicians had said), who could not win the battle of the bur or flea. But now he was dead. Sight- less. Staring. And carrying him into Mon- mouth like this, he hated the thought of facing them. They would blame him. Whether he lied or told the truth, the people of Monmouth would say it was his fault the dog was dead. The truth, though simple, would be unacceptable for the townspeople. They would say it had been his fault even if he explained how Nuc just would not go down the dark mine shaft. They all knew how the dog shied away from dark places, and God knows the place was dark enough, aban- doned these past thirty years. He wondered if anyone else had thought to check the mine during those years. Doubtful. They were too bus.v basking in their blissful, peaceful occupa- tions. With no more anxiety about the war, they had given up the search for uranium. They had given him up, ton, and a lot of other technicians. All over the world, technicians — war techni- cian— found themselves receiv- ing unemployment check.s as soon as the Peace Of Bikini was signed. He thought about Vernadsky, wondering if he was wandering around some Russian country- side, checking abandoned mines and carrying a dead dog in his-- He picked up his step. Get to town and get it over with. Wouldn’t be too many people up- town on a Tuesday morning. He would see Doc Cudd, first. Every- one knew and trusted old Doc. They had every reason to. He was the best veterinarian and mayor Monmouth had ever had. Undei’standing, too. He would be able to exiilain the dog’s death tc- them. Yes, the sooner he got there and got it over with, the bettei'. The powdery road dust puffed up in front of his boots, and in the gray dirt the soles made a muffled sound . . . Sound! He stopped, and for the first time since leaving the mine was conscious of the throbbing si-

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82 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES lence around him. No robins or honeybees or frogs. No roaring jets overhead. No tractors in the cornfields around him. Nothing but his own heavy breathing disturbed the intense quiet, and he thought of those silent minutes before dawn — the time when the earth seems dead. He moved on, almost I'unning, anxious for the people and noise and movement of the town, a mile and a half away . . . The public square was quiet. There were no shopping wo- men having trouble with their kids, and only three cars were parked around the grassy, tree- shaded Square. Odd, he thought. Almost identical to the way it was at six this morning when Nuc and I left for the mine. Even the usual six or seven old-timers weren’t sitting on the green benches over there, but he guessed they’d quit arguing long enough to go to dinner. And Frank, the cop, was slumped across the steering-wheel of the patrol car. Can’t blame him for that. Town’s dead. Not a law- breaker within miles. Taking the sidewalk across the Square, he tried to keep his eyes from the large monument, re- lieved that the oldtimers weren’t there to eye him — ^and see the dog. They would have looked at the dog, then at the monument, then back at the dog. They wouldn’t say anything, but their eyes would yell, “Old Nuc’s dead, an’ Dan Chaffin’s t’ blame, sure.’’ The damned monument! The damned marble Nuc with the little brass plate hanging around his neck: TO DAN CHAFFIN’S DOG “NUC” Only living survivor of the seventeen phase Bikini tests of April and May, 1962, which brought peace and security to the world. The People Of Monmovth Really the people of the world, he thought, remembering the day AP, Tune, UP and Life reporters came for stories and pictuies, followed by the President’s cita- tion letter. He’d been a good dog, a friend, before the publicity, but after- wards the town held dinners for him, wrote poetry about him, and put up the damned monu- ment. Overnight, he became Mon- mouth’s property : overfed, spoil- ed, famous. They would blame him when it was their fault. Too much publicity. Too many steaks. Only it hadn’t lasted long enough for them to kill him outright. Nuc and he had gone down to the Mississippi to fish, hunt and loaf Nuc back into some kind of con- dition. Five years ago, he thought.

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SURVIVORS 83 crossing the intersection. A long time. A wasted, long time to be a peace casualty. He glanced down Main Street and saw four cars and two semi’s parked in front of Hawcalk’s Cafe. Funny there were only two other ears parked along the street. Then he noticed Bert- diimb’s Milk truck and Bowmen’s Gai'bage pick-up further down the street. Slowest morning he’d ever seen. Main was like this at six, seven in the morning, but never at eleven or twelve. Just one of those things. Everyone eating at the same time. He felt the heat of the pave- ment inside his boots, wanting to wipe the sweat. No wonder the farmers are complaining for rain. Most anything from the sky would be welcome, even a cloud. He stopped, his hand on the dooi'knob of Doc’s office door. Funny, the old bo.y drawing the blinds in the middle of the day? He tried it — locked. Well, he’d be back in a minute. Probably out for dinner. He leaned back against the blue tile wall, and the coolness of it was relaxing against his shirt. Now, if only the towm wasn’t too bitter about the — he glanced quickly back at the drawn Vette- tian blinds, feeling a light finger of fear move across his stomach muscles. Then the finger began jabbing, almost making him sick. The sweat was drying on his face, and suddenly, in the shadow’ of the doorway, he was cold. The impossible was again around him. Everywhere, the intense, beat- ing silence. It had come in from the road and now stood on Main Street. As he heard it, vermin craw'led through his scalp — and the second realization exploded in his mind. Twelve o’clock noon on a sunny street running through Monmouth, Illinois — tw’elve o’clock and he had not yet seen one walking, breathing, talking human being. Only Frank, the cop, who had been slumped across the — He swallowed, stepping back into the blinding sunlight. “Hello?” he asked weakly, then yelled, “Hello! Hello, there! Any- one? Hello?” The silence yelled back. The muscles in his arms were tight with cramps from the dog’s w’eight as he turned and half-ran toward Quinn’s Place. Quinn’d be open. Always was. He’d oi'- der a beej’ and tell Quinn all this, Quinn’d talk back in his loud voice, laughing and explaining today w’as a holiday. “Everyone in Monmouth’s gone to a parade over in Galesburg,” Quinn would say. Then he’d pay up, drink the

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84 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES beer from the cool, sweating glass and walk outside in time to see them coming back from the next town, their cars clog- ging Route 34. The dog was heavy, and he wondered if he should put him down. Come back for him later. No. He couldn’t. Anyone saw him do it they wouldn’t like it. He hurried past Ebersole’s Magazine Shop, Parolee’s Dress Shop, the white dust-covers thrown across the dress-racks — past the R. Atlass Rendering Sei'vice office, Cort Cigar Store and Dart’s Used Cars showi'oom. In front of Quinn’s, he stopped. The door stood open. It always did. Entering, blinking in the almost dark room, smelling the dead beer, he felt a wild relief sweep over him. He wanted to sing and shout. The crazy ordeal was over because even though Quinn wasn’t around, Di.x Joseph, drunk as usual, was slumped over the polished ma- hogany bar. Never in his life did he think he would be glad to see the old fool, but now he felt a warm- ness, even kinship toward the drunk. He’d buy him a drink, good whiskey, tell him about the dog and find out why they had all gone to Galesburg. “Dix,” he said, laying the dog on a red leatherette stool. “Dix, you t)ld liar, wake up. Drinks on me.” That’s funny? “Dix? Dix!” He grabbed the old man’s collar, jerking up — then let go when he saw the face, the eyes. Cold, sightless, staring eyes. The body slid slowly to the spit- covered floor. He heard the sobbing, scream- ing voice, and recognizing it, forced his lips shut. He stared down at Dix for an unbelieving minute, feeling the spasmodic ti'emble wrenching his body, then scooped up the dog, turned and ran out the door and down the street, his bootsteps echoing among the still buildings, his heart pounding . . . pounding . . . pounding . . . “Lord, God,” he murmured, gasping for air, “have mercy on — ” He stopped, numb with fear, in the open door of Hawcalk’s Cafe, the trucks and tars parked at the curb behind him. The spasmodic jerks possessed his body, and he began sobbing, bit- ing his lower lip. They were posing. A joke. Not possible. Im- possible ! “Get up!” he screamed, the sobs growing. “Get up from the floor!” But the nine people did not move — remaining by the counter and tables, sprawled grotesquely,

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SURVIVORS each staring in a different direc- tion. "I..o)’d, Christ in Heaven . . . P'ather and — ” He broke off, walking to the main counter, the dog suddenly' unbearably heavy. He dumi)ed him on the chip-paint counter like a .sack of grain, then straightened up slowly, staring at a plate of cold ham and eggs a foot fj’om the dog’s tail. They don’t look very good, he thought quietly, bringing his eyes back to the animal. "Yoii’rc' to blame,” he whis- pered hoarsely, lookin.g down at Nuc as if he were a newspaper si)read on the counter. “You wouldn’t go down the shaft and you were dead when I came out- - you’re to blame and — ” His hands lunged down, gi-abbing the dog ai’ound the neck, feeling the cold collar and fur — squeezing tightei’ . . . tighter . . . watching 85 the eyes bulging . . . straining . . . bulging . . . Then he let go quickly, hear- ing the body thump back against the counter. He let go because of the tickling sensation on his right forefinger. He planted his elbows on the counter, and look- ed closely, his mind charged with hope — with fear. When he saw what it was, his scream filled the cafe, vibrating a loose plate glass in the pie case. The scream died and he stood thei'e, frozen, an insane chuckle rising in his throat. The chuckle became a laugh ; the laugh a scream as he watched what, was causing the tickling sensation ci'awl slowly up his finger toward his knuckle. li was a flaa. .^nd from outside, overhead, like the mild hum of a mosquito somewhere in a dark bedroom, he heal’d the ship.s — returning. Next month, Erik van thin brings us the picture of a planet in the midst of outside revolution, if you can imagine such a thing. When Earth's police land in the mess that the administration has made, Bruce Gordon could ■well wish that he were in the wastes of Mercury. What can a man who is firmly entrenched on both sides, and precariously balanced be- tween— all at the same time — do in a situation which neither police force can handle? And, of course, there’s Sheila Corey to help the works move with their growing untrustworthiness. There’ll also be another story by Irving E. Cox, Jr., which is built on the background he has established in his story in this issue. The prob- lems of adjusting to an alien race are nothing, compared to those of adjusting to one’s fellow men — and women.

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BOOK REVIEWS THE DISSECTING TABLE by DAMON KNIGHT Readers who expect bloodshed will be disappointed this time: either an absolutely appalling number of first-rate science fiction books has been published in the last couple of months, or else something rather peculiar has happened to my spleen. THE LONG LOUD SILENCE, by Wilson Tucker. Rinehart, 217 pp., $2.50. I hereby set myself up as an oracle pro tern; this department’s first prediction — and its only one to date, unless I’ve mislaid one^has come in on the nose, a lot sooner and more gratifyingly than I ever expected. Reviewing The City in the Sea (SFA, November ’52), I wrote: "Regrets and apologies to Bob Tucker, who will almost certainly deserve and get better treatment next time his name appears in these pages.” The City, as I said in a loud and irritated voice, was a bad book; The Long Loud Silence is not merely a better one, which after all wouldn’t be tremendously surprising, but a phenomenally good book; in its own terms, it comes as near perfection as makes no difference. The plotting is close-knit without being' contrived; the style is compact and eloquent; the characters, in Faulkner's words, "stand up on their hind legs and cast a shadow." This is the story of what happens when the eastern third of the United States is quarantined, turned into an enclave of horror, as the result of an atomic and bacteriological bombing that wipes out every major city east of the Mississippi and leaves its survivors permanently infected — plague carriers, each one a potential center of death and destruction. To prevent the plague from spreading to the rest of the nation, what’s left of the government and the army sets up a cordon sanitaire along the Mississippi. From one point of view, those east of this line who are now dead are the lucky ones; the others have nothing to look forward to but a long slow tight for survival whose end is foreknown. For them there is no real hope left. 86

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Tucker does not spend much time speculating on how and why this state of affairs came about; this is reasonable; his protagonist has no way of finding out and doesn’t much care ... or, to put it another way, the book is exclusively concerned with the human consequences of the ottock, not with its causes. The bombing, the plague and the quarantine together make up the one primary assumption which con- vention allows to science-fantasy writers; readers have before this swallowed much unlikelier ones for the sake of the story. The protagonist, ex-GI Russell Gary, is billed on the dust jacket as a “professional heel," which he isn’t. Even disregarding the totally irrelevant and inaccurate adjective, Gary is no heel: he is simply a very ordinary American male, thirty years old, with a little more than the average intelligence but no extraordinary aptitudes, interests or attainments, who wonts to go on living even in the hell that virus and quarantine have made of the eastern U. S. A man would either be quick, or dead. That’s the only choice Gary has; not a single thing he does is conditioned by anything else. This, in fact, is precisely the thing that makes the book as good as it is: Gary is no hero and no heel, neither superman nor subman; he is not a symbol of anything and he falls into no moralistic category — he's a human being, and he’s completely believable. He has a normal, human hunger for companionship, and a normal, human callousness for the misery of others. Gory wants to get back across the river, to the warm, familiar world that no longer exists on this side. Eventually, with resourcefulness, patience and single-minded determination, he does it . . . only to find that he spreads death wherever he goes; he leaves a widening track of corruption behind him; he can never stay anywhere longer than a day; he is' as irrevocably cut off from humanity as before. But the main thing is still to survive. He recrosses the river and, as food stocks dwindle and the hunter and the hunted inevitably become one, follows his narrowing path with an undiminished will to live. At the book’s end, he again encounters the girl with whom he had a brief affair at the beginning . . . each of them stalking the other. From this point, there are only two likely conclusions, of which, possibly on the insist- ence of his publishers. Tucker has chosen the less gruesome and perhaps slightly the less logical; but this minor weakness, if it is a weakness at all, is easily forgiveable. The book is honest, courageous, deeply felt. 87

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painstakingly realized. From where I sit, it makes the future of science fiction as literature look measurably brighter. WITCHES THREE, by Fritz Leibor, James Blish and Fletcher Pratt. Twayne, 423 pp., $3.95. This handsome volume contains two old favor- ites and a surprise — Leiber’s Conjure Wife from Unknown, Blish’s There Shall Be No Darkness from Thrilling Wonder, and a long (199 pp.) never-before-published novel by Fletcher Pratt, The Blue Star. Taking them in order. Conjure Wife is easily the most frightening and (necessarily) the most thoroughly convincing of all modern horror stories. Its premise is that witchcraft still flourishes, or at any rate survives,, an open secret among women, a closed book to men. Linder the rational overlay of 20th-century civilization this sickly growth, uncultivated, unsuspected, still manages to propagate itself. Tansy Saylor, the wife of a promising young sociology professor at an ultra-conservative small American college, is, like most women, a witch. She is also an intelligent, modern young woman, and when her husband happens to discover the evidence of her witchcraft (not his own easy advancement, which he ascribes to luck, but certain small packets of dried leaves, earth, metal filings, etc.) he’s able to convince her that her faith in magic is compounded of superstition and neurosis. She burns her charms; Norman Saylor's "luck” immediately turns sour. Leiber develops this theme with the utmost dexterity, piling up alter- note layers of the mundane and outre, until at the story’s real climax, the shocker at the end of chapter 14, I am not ashamed to say that I jumped an inch out of my seat. From that point onward the story is anticlimax, but anticlimax so skillfully managed that I am not really certain I touched the slip-cover again until after the last page. Leiber has never written anything better . . . which, perhaps, is all that needed to be said. Conjure Wife applies some of the principles of scientific meth- odology to the occult, and spices it with such modernisms as tape recorders and Rupert mirrors. There Shall Be No Dorkness attempts something intrinsically much more difficult — rationalizing the traditional werewolf story all the way down to the bottom, leaving no residum of the occult at all. Blish does a spectacular job of it, taking no more liberties with biology than we are accustomed to expect from an ordi- nary science-fiction story about totipotency, longevity or bifocal brains. He dodges no issues; the traditional effectiveness of wolfsbane and 88

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rosemary is explained: “ ‘The herbs, for example, are antispasmodic — they act rather as ephedrine does in hay-fever, to reduce the violence of the seizure.’ ” So is that of silver: “ ‘It poisons the pinearin-catalysis.’ ' He hurdles the crucifix problem rather heavily — “ ‘perhaps solely psy- chological' ” — and comes a determined cropper on the issue of the evening-clothes-into-pelt transformation, than which nobody could do more. The story isn’t, to me, in the least believable, but it is as con- sistent as it could possibly have been made within the terms Blish set himself; and it's continuously exciting, as well as being informed with that keen sense of the tragic and the incongruous which is this writer’s strongest asset. I see that I have forgotten to mention the witch, who is not important anyhow except as a straight man and an excuse to get this story into the book. The story belongs to Jarmoskowski, prob- ably the most likeable werewolf in the literature; it's his valedictory plea — rejected by the witch — that provides the title. The Blue Star, which, on several counts, ought to have turned out to be the weakest story in the book, is nothing of the sort. A certain brace of science-fantasy editors whose editing and writing I esteem (although I'm sometimes at loss to account for their opinions) recently brushed this novel aside with a reference to George U. Fletcher’s Well of the Unicorn — which I haven't read, unfortunately, so I can't say; perhaps The Blue Star is derivative. If so, I don’t see that it mat- ters; it's a magnificent job of writing, a gem-perfect example of a branch of pure fantasy so rare nowadays that I was beginning to think it was extinct — the dream-world story. The distinction between this and all other types — Utopias and Dystopias, interplanetary stories, projec- tions of the Earth into the distant past and future — is that the dream- world must be completely insular, without the srhallest contact with the mundane universe either in space or in time; one touch of reality withers it. There has never been much of this — never, at any rate, enough to suit me. I have the impression that there used to be a fair amount in Weird Tales fifteen or twenty years ago; more recently, the only magazine fantasy writer I can think of who has tried it is Jack Vance, in his brilliant The Dying Earth. The Blue Star is presented frankly as a dream. In an urbane and witty prologue, three men begin by discussing the possibility of other inhabited worlds, and end by postulating a single one: a world in which “somebody might have found the key to something as basic in [the field of witchcraft] as gunpowder was to the physical sciences.” 89

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The reader is caught up in the dream of a world strangely like ours and strangely different — a world where witchcraft is real, but not, as he might expect, one where witchcraft rules. This is no fuzzy fairyland, but a clear and detailed projection of a society obeying its own laws, with its own manners, customs, religions, history. It's a quasi-medieval world in which magic, instead of being the Church Militant’s fictive scapegoat, is a real force, suppressed, legislated against — and used. The tale is that of two unwilling lovers: Lalette, the reluctant witch, and Rodvard the bewildered revolutionary, whose masters set him cold- bloodedly to seduce her and so obtain the Blue Star . . . for this is one of the ironies of the true witchcraft, that its most potent weapon, the Blue Star, gives no power to the witch herself; but once she is united in the Great Marriage (i. e., first intercourse), it passes to her husband, who can use it to read the minds of others for as long as he is faithful to her. Rodvard is in love with another woman, and Lalette, in the beginning, loves no one; but as the tides of fortune take them on separate, Candide-like journeys half across the world, the Great Marriage endures — and like many another ingloriously begun, proves stronger in the end than what they may take to be their own desires. Three footnotes, one about The Blue Star, the others about the volume as a whole. For the main section of the novel, not counting prologue and epilogue, Pratt has devised a special style and manner to complement and embellish his subject. Although he uses several con- trived stylistic devices — parenthetical asides, oddities of punctuation, and the like — the effect is not strained but astonishingly fluent and graceful. John Ciardi's introduction, A Plea For Witches, is penetrating and good-humored, erudite without being pedantic — a notable achieve- ment. And to cap it all, Sidney Solomon's book design is impressively fresh and good. Watch Twayne. If they can keep their future projects up to this standard, they’re sure to reach the top in short order. 90

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THE ROCKET PISTOL BY ROBERT D. SAMPSON ILLUSTRATED BY BERWIN Hawk-Nose gave Bill a bright red Hyper Atomic Rocket Pistol, but warned him that telling where he got it meant death. Bill didn’t tell, even when the whole police force wanted to know. “Here’s a nice new Hyper Atomic Rocket Pistol for you,’’ the hawk-nosed man said. He held it out. Bill shuffled indecisively, his eyes greedy for the toy. “Don’t you want it?” Hawk- nose asked. The smile never left his nan-ow lips, but suddenly his eyes changed — twitched around at a far-off shrill wail. “It’s a gift for you. You can have it.” “For nothing?” Bill asked. He placed one finger on the long barrel, colored as bright red as the rockets that hurtled down from space stations in the upper air. It was beautiful. “Take it,” Hawk-nose snapped. He thrust the pistol into Bill’s hand, and his eyes .lumped and became very small. The thin siren wail grew more distinct. “Now remember. If anybody asks you where you got this, you say you found it.” Bill turned the pistol in his hands. It was beautiful and very light, but it was not plastic. He clicked the trigger, a small golden semi-circle that slipped in and out of the butt. “Bpt-zfpt!” the pistol grated. A sickly stream of blue-green sparks showered from the opening of the muzzle. 91

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92 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Hawk-nose twisted back on one leg. His face contorted and his eyes went large and full of white flecks. “Watch out,” he snarled, seizing Bill by one small shoul- der. “You crazy kid. What you trying to do?” He stared over Bill’s head at the corner of the garage. Twist- ing in the big man’s grip. Bill stared too. He could see nothing that should have terrified Hawk- nose. Nothing to make his knife- blade mouth tighten quivering in one corner. “You get along now,” Hawk- nose ordered. “Yes, sir,” said Bill. “Don’t you tell anybody where you got this.” He pointed to the pistol and his face went horrible with gleaming teeth. “If you do. I’ll come back and take it away. And then I’ll kill you. I can hear everything you’re saying. And if you say anything. I’ll kill you.” Fear glided over Bill with piercing little feet. Not fear of death, but a sudden sick wave of fear that Hawk-nose might take the pistol back. Dropping his eyes, he clutched the scarlet handle and nodded. The sirens were close now, be- hind the houses and wailing shrilly. “Go on,” snapped Hawk-nose. “Get away from me.” Bill ran, the pistol hotly wet in his clenched hand. When he looked back. Hawk-nose was gene. Cold coiled in his small stomach. The emptiness of the alley was a standing threat, be- cause somewhere, the tall man with the narrow space-tanned face was listening, ready to re- turn, ready to take back the pis- tol with the unpredictable cruel- ty of adults. He bolted out of the alley, ran down the main street holding the Hyper Atomic Rocket Pistol tight against his chest, listening for the sound of Hawk-nose run- ning after him. A white police jet twisted to a stop across the mouth of the alley. At the same moment, at the other end of the block, an- other jet performed the same maneuver. Gun-holdihg patrol- men filled the street. They met halfway up the alley by the garage where Bill and Hawk-nose had stood. “Any sign?” asked a tall, iron- faced man with a shock of stiff white hair. “Not a trace,” a patrolman said. “Washington’s going to blow their stacks. See any kids?” “They’re checking the streets now,” the patrolman said. He stuffed away his gun. “If either of them’s within two miles of here, Mr. Jennifer, we’ll pick them up. We can’t miss.”

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94 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES “He was here,” the white- haired man said testily. “A neighbor phoned him in,” He pointed toward a white hou.se standing back of the alley. “She saw him pass another pistol to a kid.” The patrolman’s face whitened a little. “Fifty thousand of the toy red pistols in the city,” Jennifer said softly. “And we’re going to have to run down every one of them. This is the fifth pistol he’s passed. He’ll make a break for it now. We’ll have to close the airways.” He grimaced. The long lines of his face tightened. “Let’s get moving. See if you can locate the kid while I call headquarters.” They trotted back toward the jet, their faces tense and excited. When they passed the white garage, neither of them stopped to look at the neat oval hole, eight inches wide, punched through the bottom of the garage door. “What do you have there, Bill?” Henderson asked. He was red-faced, stocky, with heavy creases paralleling his nose, and he stood grinning before the Henderson Naborhood Drug Store. “Nothing,” said Bill. “Why that’s a handsome pis- tol, Bill. You buy it from me?” “No,” said Bill uneasily. He turned the pistol over and over in his hands, twisting the move- able cone at the muzzle. “That’s a fine gun there,” Henderson said cheerfully. “Like the Space Rangers use. We sell lots of them. Does it work fine?” Bill listened. When he heard no footsteps, he thawed slightly. “It works OK.” “Bpt-zfpt!” the pistol rasped, spraying blue-green flashes. “Pretty,” said Henderson, slapping a spark from his wrist. “Like fireworks.” “I gotta go,” said Bill, edging around Henderson's bulk. “Say hello to your Momma for me, Bill.” He stood chuckling, watching Bill bolt down the street. Then he saw Bill’s face twist .back over his shoulder, and Henderson’s chuckles stopped. “What’s wrong with that kid ?” Turning sharply, he moved into the silent drug store. “May,” ho called to his wife. “May, has Bill Caine been in here playing with . . .” There was a long pause. Then May stalked from the back room, her arms loaded with boxes of tooth-brightener spray. “What is it?” she called. “Did you want me?” The drug store was still, empty under the hot beams of sunlight slanting in through the window's. She stood listening in

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THE ROCKET PISTOL 95 the center of the floor. Her mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Did you want me?” Silence. She went to the open door, closed it to keep out flies. Standing in the thick, dusty sun- light, she called out her hus- band’s name again, more loudly. He did not answer. When she closed the store at seven o’clock, he still had not answered, and by that time a thin wave of terror was washing under the angular lines of her dress. “They found one of our cruiser-jets,” the Commissioner said thoughtfully, bending over a map of the city. “It was empty — abandoned, they thought.” Jennifer scowled. "When did the car call in last?” “Not since three o’clock. They found it at four-thirty.” The Commissioner sighed, thrust out his lip. "No trace of the men, of course.” “There never is,” the white- haired man said flatly. “Was there dust on the seat?” “Lab is analyzing it now. You already know what they’ll find. But we want to be sure. We have to be sure.” “Iron, iodine, mineral ash. Two men gone, but we got min- eral ash to look at.” His fingers worried in the blanched hair. “That’s fine. That gives us a lot of information to go on.” “It’s all a question of time, Jennifer. All a question of time.” Jennifer said viciously: “Time, hell. Fifty-three disap- pearances last week. We found two of the guns. Two out of may- be five, maybe fifty.” “We’ll find him,” the Commis- sioner said easily, his hands slid- ing one over the other. “It’ll take time. But we’ll get him.” “We’ll get him. after every kid in the States gets a disintegra- tor to play with,” Jennifer snort- ed. “What’s Washington have to say. Whei’e’s he from?” “No one seems to know. Venus, maybe.” “Venus! There’s nothing on Venus but blowpipes. And those damned Tzal-tubes.” He stood up, jerking at his coat. “We’re checking door to door in all the neighborhoods a disappearance has been I’eported. I’ll see you later.” The Commissioner’s eyes nar- ]'Owed. “You aren’t telling any- one why we want those pistols collected ?” Jennifer grinned. “On tri-vi- sion they’re saying that the sparks are poisonous. That’s good enough. We’ve been getting bales of pistols. Which is pretty nice, seeing that you can’t tell the toy from the real thing, and it takes three minutes for the disintegration to start after the beam’s connected.”

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96 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES After he had gone out, slam- ming the door, the Commissioner stood quite still, picking *at his lip. He stared down at the map and his mouth twisted. “An in- vasion,” he said. “What a rotten dirty way to start an invasion.” Even on a tri-vision screen, the Governor looked hearty. iUouth slanted in that strangely warm smile, thick eyebrows laised confidently, he leaned back ill his swivel chair facing the cameras. One hand lifted slight- ly in the old familiar gesture they expected. ■‘Dear friends,” he began. “I have chosen to appear before you tonight to bring a grave warn- ing . . .” Then he vanished. Under the blazing lights mounted about the room, he fell apart. His con.stituent elements, in a shining haze of dust, filtered down over the swivel chair, down across the desk in a swirling stream that twinkled in 100, 000 tri-visual screens across the state. The Governor’s little boy screamed when they took the red pistol from him. He would only say that he had found it under the bushes, after which he had hysterics. By that time, the newstapes had got the story, and the secret was a secret no longer. When the police jet pulled up outside. Bill felt himself go loose with fright. All day they had been collecting the red pis- tols up and down the street, tak- ing them impersonally, gingerly, and with no thanks. No one knew what would happen to the kids who owned them. F]'om the safety of his bed- room, he heard the patrolman knock at the door, speak briefly to his mother. She was calling him. He cow- ered down in the chair by the front window, shaking, trying to think. “Bill.” • “Yes?” he answered weakly. “Will you come down a min- ute?” His heart shuddered. He had concealed the pistol under the cushions of the chaii’. Now he to.ok it out, stood holding it at his side, heaidng the vicious beat of Hawk-nose’s voice inside him. “I’ll take it away if you tell. I’ll come back and kill you.” His stomach felt like cold jelly. In a blind panic, he thrust the gun under the bed, pulled it back out, hid it under the pillow. When he had smoothed over the covers, his throat was throbbing hotl.v. “Bill!” “I’m coming.” He dragged down the stairs into the living room. The patrolman stared at

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THE ROCKET PISTOL him, his face heavy with suspi- cion. She asked; “Bill, do you have any red pistols? Rocket pistols in the house?” “No m’am.” "I thought you had one yes- tei'day.” “It was Teddy’s. I borrowed it from Teddy.” “I haven’t bought one for him,” she explained. "There’s enough about rocket ships and space flights on the tri-viewer now. You know how . . .” The patrolman was hot and out of temper. In sixty houses, sixty mothers had told him roughly the same thing. . He snapped: “You have one of those guns, sonny?” “No, sir.” “Did you give back the one you borrowed?” “Yes, sir. It’s right next door.” They had picked Teddy’s gun up half an hour ago; he had seen them do that. “I gave it right back.” “Come on, sonny,” the patrol- man growled. “Did a tall man give you a red toy pistol?” “No, sir. It was Teddy’s. You can ask him.” Tears began to burn the rims of his eyes. Un- moving, he stood staring at the blue pattern of the rug, hoping they would go away, hoping that they would begin to talk, forget- ting all about him. 97 His mother was asking: "Bill, what’s wrong?” “N-nothing.” The patrolman was by him, large and completely terrible in blue. “Where did you put it, sonny ?” "Now, officer. I’m sure . . .” "I don’t have it,” Bill cried. And the tears burst free, blind- ing him. “Nobody gave me any- thing. I don’t have it.” His mother gathered him to her. She said; “Please, if you’ll come back later.” “I’m sorry. I have kids my- self. I know what you’re think- ing. But if he has one of those pistols, it’s dangerous; and the kids just won’t talk to you about them.” Bill’s shoulders shook steadily and against his will. Clutching his mother’s arm, he heard the fragments of their speech about him. But louder, more ringing than their words was the ghost- voice of Hawk-nose. It paralyzed him. The policeman’s voice was sober. “Sorry, Mrs. Caine. They’re dangerous. Thousands of them been given to kids. We have collected everyone we can find. You know about the Gov- ernor . . .” “Bill,” she said nervously. “You’d better go upstairs for a little while. Go on!”

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98 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES He broke away. Their voice.s went on behind him as he sprint- ed up the stairs. Dry sobs broke in his throat as he stumbled into the tear-blurred room, groped under the pillow for the gun. It w'as still there. Hard and light, the color of super-heated iron, a slim graceful weapon with gleaming sides. He began darting about the room seeking shelter for it. The front door slammed. From the window he saw t'he patrolman walking slowly down the steps, a large notebook in his hands, turning the pages and wetting a broad thumb on his tongue. The world seemed intensely bright and the fear in Bill’s body lifted quivering and raw. “I won’t tell,” he cried silently. “You can’t have it. It’s mine.” Bpt-zfpt! “You can’t have it. It’s mine. It was given to me. If he comes back he’ll . . Bpt-zfpt! The patrolman climbed into the jet, slammed the door, and the white cruiser glided away from the curb. Bill watched it turn the far corner. Then it jerked to a sudden stop. He saw the driver leap from the ma- chine, staring back at the seat, his arms moving about, his body bending strangely, leaning back inside past the steering wheel.

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THE ROCKET PISTOL From the stairs came the soft fall of his mother’s steps. In one quick moment, he left the win- dow, dropping the pistol behind a stack of tapes for his comic projector, and plunged face for- ward upon the bed. The door clicked open, and the fresh sweet odor of his mother entered the room. When she knelt by his bed, he began to cry help- le.ssly and without the ability to .stop. The autojet had come apart all over the street. It had fallen into two pieces, and the pieces had rolled, one into an Automatic Tailor’s shop, the other into the signal barrier at the crosswalk. As the Commissioner picked his way over shai-ds of plastic glittering in the street, he felt a little sick. The disintegiator had sliced diagonally through the top of the machine, down through the shoulders of the di'iver and the legs of the couple in the rear seat. The beam had fanned out across the sti'eet, ex- hausting its strength by goug- ing out a wide rectangle in the side of the Milstrom Bank. The hole in the gray wall was large enough to drive a cruiser through. Eyes a perfectly flat blue, he shoved through the crowd. The patrolmen saw him coming, broke a hole through the mob. 99 and he squirmed out, came over to the mess. “Did you get the gun?” he asked. The patrolman nodded. “An- othe]’ kid. He was waiting for the .-iignal barrier to go up and just — well — started to wave this gun around.” “Didn’t anybody stoii him?” “He’s just a little kid,” the pat)'oln'.an said, wiping ‘he back of his neck. “Just a littie thing. I doubt if anybody saw him.” He ijaused, stumbling over his words, “They won’t do anything to him, will they. Commis- sioner ?” The Commissioner shook his head ^'ery slowly, as if it were a great weight, “Nol)ody’il do any- thing to him,” he ,said, “He’ll do it all to himself. Later. When he grows up and remembers. How many dead?” "There was a pretty big crowd in front of the bank,” the patrol- man said hesitantly. “How many do you estimate?” “About twenty. Thirty.” The Commissioner’s mouth grew small. “All right,” he said at last. They were pulling some- thing free from under the wreck- age across the street, and he allowed himself to look too long. His mouth filled with a sticky heat. “All right,” he repeated harshly. “Let’s try and get this mess cleaned up.”

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100 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES A clear staccato humming spilled from the open door of the cruiser jet on the corner. “I’ll get it,” the Commissioner said, and went over to flip down the button on the intercom. “Commissioner speaking,” he said. The intercom answered in pre- cise rapid tones, all the human- it.v clipped out. The passengei’ liner from Chicago had been cut down over Haines Field. In sev- eral pieces. The Commissioner’s attention seemed to slip off; he could hardly understand what was being said. They had not located the gun. They had not discovered how many dead. The crash area' was loused up with radiation, and they were having a full scale riot at the field. If the Commis- sioner was f}'ee, could he . . . “I’ll be right out,” he an- swered. “Haines Field. In twen- t.v minutes.” Clicking off the intercom, he climbed stiffly into the street. The side of his mouth worked. He walked toward the patrolmen, wiping ' his hands carefully, carefully wdth a gray handkerchief. “They shouldn’t have done this,” he said. “Not with kids. It isn’t right to use kids.” In the fading light, he stumbled on a plastic fragment from somebody’s windshield. But he did not notice that. The lab technician scowled and laid the pistol on the edge of his work bench. “It’s a fine weapon,” he said. “A wonderful fine piece of machinery, Mr. Jennifer.” Jennifer asked: “Can you strip it down without setting something off?” The lab man shrugged. He tapped the pistol carelessly, his long face without expression. “Who knows? I’ll ti'y it and see.” “You may not have time to see,” Jennifer said, taking out a pipe. Grains of tobacco fell on the table by the scarlet butt. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” “The Commissioner wants to find out what’s in it,” the la'b man said. “We already know what it can do,” “I haven’t seen the report.’’ The blank face lighted a bit. “That cone there on the muzzle expands or contracts the—the beam, I guess you’d call it. Full open, the weapon has an effec- tive range of about fifty feet — and fifteen feet up, down, and si'deways. Closed down, it’ll go about a hundred yards. Makes a hole two feet across. It spreads like the beam of a flashlight.” “Close combat weapon,” Jenni- fer grunted. “Well, you want to make a crack at it?” “Sure,” the lab man said, pick- ing up the pistol. “Maybe they’ll pay me double time.”

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THE ROCKET PISTOL 101 “I’d like to watch,” Jennifer said. “You better watch through the scannei’.” “I’ll stay,” Jennifer said, hold- ing his i^oice flat. “Go on, sir. Move out.” The lab man’s lip pulled back gently again.st his teeth. “You’re a good man. I’d hate to see a good man all bruised up if something slips.” Therr eyes touched, held for a long time. Then Jennifer made •a thin noise back in his throat, something like a sigh, shook the lab man’s hand, and walked out down the hall to the scanner. Three minutes later, the lab- oratory no longer existed. The creamy voice belonged to a tri-vision commentator whose face had known no deeper emo- tion than thirst. He said stern- ly: “At seven o’clock tonight, pa.nic grips the entire city. As yet the police dragnet has not uncovered the source of the pis- tols which have thrown the en- tire state into terror. Object of the most intensive man-hunt of modern times, the individual dis- tributing the weapons to small children has successfully evaded all attempts at capture, and has evaded even the tight cordon thrown about the city by the city and state police and members of the National Guard. The Air Force and Inter-Strato Units are reported at the alert. Still offi- cials reported repeated failures to cope with this — the most tragic attack to date on the cita- del of 'freedom. While roads are blocked, air traffic halted, fami- lies are still terrorized to the point . . .” He spoke until ten-thirty. By that time . . . Six men had vanished at the Hindman Airbase, and Hawk- nose threw the jet screaming out across the runway. At 3,000 feet he leveled off with the airspeed indicator trembling at 950 mph. The cockpit was small and very hot, and greas.v beads of per- spiration hung under his eyes. In the darkness below him, lights flashed by in dots and patches. It had -been vei-y close, he thought; too close, with police yowling after him throughout (the city, and every road closed. Guards at half the airports. He grunted impatientl.y, and slipped the throttle forward. Time to rest now. Let someone else carry out the distribution for awhile. Basically the idea was good — to saturate the coun- try with pistols and, when morale was stretched taut, to break it with a single decisive smash from space. Not that the decisive smash was ripe yet. He brushed his face

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102 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES with an unsteady hand. A big green planet ready for the tak- ing. Although they had reacted fast, played fast against him. No, the pistol idea was about through. There were other plans — he’d recommend those in his report — but this one was . . . The six jets settled about him. Out of the darkness they drop- ped, lean military craft, graceful and neatly murderous. Front and back, top and bottom, on each side. The shock of their presence slammed crushing between his eyes, and the jet wavered. Instantly the formation tight- ened. His radio sputtered softly. And then the death sentence came, in the unyielding formula of the military. "You are instructed to land immediately. Land immediately. Make no evasive action . . . Upon landing surrender your- self . . .” There was more of the same, much more. It gave him the op- portunity to open the black satchel that he had tossed on the double seat, and take out a pistol. The sleek red rocket pistol eager- ly possessed by so many little boys. While levering back the win- dow, he felt the single gray hope that one or more of them would break formation. If he could knock out two . . . “Close that window!” The words ripped from the radio. In the same instant, he threw back the glass, firing as the jet on his right flipped straight up, curving above him and to the left. The wind impact was terrific through the open window. Cut- ting the throttle, he hurled the jet left and down. He saw that the formation had split apart and vanished in the darkness. A single slim bhick shape was flitting across his top. He saw the dim white flare of the rear jet. Then the entire cockpit rammed into his face. A searing tear took his body apart. The cockpit filled with a heavy roar- ing that faded and went indis- tinct and, as the canopy collapsed screaming upon his back, driving his smashed face into the wreck- age of the panel, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the west, the dim gray strip stretched from horizon to horizon marking where the sun had fallen. He hurled forward out of him- self in a singing thickening mist. The last thing he heard, before the mist closed out all light, was the crackling of the right wing as it folded tightly about the body of the jet. He fell a long way alone down through the darkness. They had searched his room and gone and now the white- haired man with the carefully

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THE ROCKET PISTOL 103 smiling face sat on the bed and talked to him. “You don’t have to w'orry about him any more, Bill. He was killed last night.” Bill sat quite still on the edge of the bed, a ball of cold trapped in his chest. He held the ball of cold closely, taking elaborate pains- that White-Hair should never know it was there. He said: “I don’t have any- thing.” "We didn’t find anything,” Jennifer said slowly. “You don’t have to he afraid now, Bill. It’s all over. But if you happen to know any of your — ” he hesitat- ed, feeling out the words care- fully “ — any of your little friends who have one, ask them to send it to the police. The pis- tols are very dangerous, you see.” “Sure,” said Bill, sitting alone in the encompassing cold. “Well, take care of yourself, fellow.” “Yes, sir.” Jennifer rose heavily, glanced otice again about the room, and at the ten-year-old sitting hunch- ed together on the cool white bed. He sighed. “So long,” he said. Mrs. Caine met him at the door. “Is it all right?” He nodded gently, took her out into the hall to whisper. But all they could whisper and all they could do, did not touch the cold. He had heard what hap- pened when people died. How they watched you by night; then, with theii' hands reaching wet up from under the bed, reaching out of the darkness to seize your foot or to touch your face. Still, that was only talk. What mat- tered now was that they might still find the pistol and take it from him. He wanted it desperately. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and, while they could take away everything else, the pistol was his, given to him by a man who would not come back any more. He looked at the heaped toy- box in the corner. Who would not come back any more, except at night. But night passed, and the pistol would al- ways be there, in the toybox, cov- ered with black varnish, a toy among toys. It was his personal beauty, more lovely now than when colored red. More like a proton pistol of the space guards — beautiful and long and slender and his. The whispering continued be- hind the door. He closed his ears to it, stretched impatiently back across the bed, waiting till they would go downstaii's. And his fingers could close around the smooth and shining grip. Until

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104 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES the blue-green sparks could flare sizzling from the muzzle. Breathing quietly, he lay listening to their voices. Jennifer smoked a cigar. ‘‘One of the pistols is still missing,” he said. ‘‘But we think we know the kid who’s got it. We’ll watch him till he gets it from wherever it’s hid and then confiscate it. That cleans up this city. Lord knows how many more of those red devils are loose in the state.” The Commissioner nodded and rai.'^ed his heavy eyebrows. ‘‘We will worry about the city first. So you had to shoot him down'?” “He took a shot at one of the army boys. Got about six inches of wing tip.” He relighted the cigar and tapped it against the Commissioner’s bronze ashtray. “Washington giving any leads on where this fellow was from?” “None. Apparently he’s been all over the country handing them out.” “I’d like to know from where,” Jennifer said. And crushed out the cigar. He sat staring at the dying coil of blue smoke. “The lab’s still checking the ones we’ve found. But if they were made here, or on Venus, you can have my resignation. Have you seen how those things are made?” The Commissioner^ rustling among his papers, grunted. “Don’t worry about it. Every- thing’s over here for awhile. Lay off a couple of days. I’m sending in a commendation for your work.” Jennifer shrugged and stood up. “Thanks, I suppose. If you ever get a line on who he was, wish you’d let me know." “Glad to,” the Commissioner said, and waited patiently for twenty minutes after Jennifer had gone. Locking his oltice then, he took a steel filing case from his wall safe. He placed the case on the glass top of his desk. He threw back the lid, and depi'essed the single red button on the black rectangle of metal in the box. “Go ahead,” a voice said from the box. “Liox was killed last night. Over Springfield. All j)istols in his possession were desti’oyed. There are four pistols at Head- quarters Lab. Jennifer seems to believe that Liox was from out of Sol’s system.” The box clicked sardonica iiy. “Does he really? We’ll see to the ccnfiscated pistols. Notify us if Jennifer is likely to make t)'ou- ble.” “Is there anything else?” the Commissioner asked, pa.ssing one wet hand across his face. “Until Young can contact you, proceed with the distribution of Kit 324. Keep eight circulating through the city.”

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THE ROCKET PISTOL 105 “All right,” the Commissioner said thickly. He sat down hard, .staring at the black box. “All right.” “For the invasion,” the voice said. “For the invasion,” the Com- missioner said. The red button popped up in its socket. IMoving slowly, as if he were an aged man, the Commissioner locked the box away and stood loo.se-faced, staring at the map of the city. “For the invasion,” he .said dutifully in clean remote tones. He spat into the wastebasket. He wa.shc*d his hands at the sink. When he looked into the mirror over the wash-stand, the expres- sion on his face sickened him. It was like stai-ing at a cancer eat- ing out his body. His stomach quivered and he turned awa.v. From the rear of his desk, he removed a cardboard box, wrapped in newstapes. The toys lay inside this. Gleaming toys. Sparkling toys. Kit 324. Look through the long tube, just so. Pull the shin- ing little slide, just so. All the vivid colors of the lens slip to- gether, blue and scarlet and sil- ver. Look at a tree, and slij) the colors together. The tree becomes a magical thing. Covered with colors, blending and gliding to- gether. A thing of beauty, lo\'ely beyond words. Take the tube awa.v from the e.\ es and the tree isn’t there, of course, i^ut for awhile, it was beautiful. Children would never tire of playing with such a toy. He .slammed the tube dowm on the desk. “Children,” he snarled. “We didn’t have to begin with children.” But there wms no help for it. Wrapping the package, he stuck it in his pocket and left the office. He walked across town, twenty blocks or so, and childien v?ere all around him. Yet he could not force himself to stop and speak to them. Toys are one of the major industries today. There was a time when children hod few toys, and appreciated those they had for years. Now they have many, and tire of them in hours. But whether that is progress or not, it's obvious that a growing technology produces a growing market for toys. Science is. wonderful. Junior used to have to build his own — now Father has a hard time supplying enough for him to tear apart!

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POLICE YOUR PLANET BY ERIK VAN LHIN ILLUSTRATED BY ORBAN When they deported Gordon to the corrupt frontier of Mors, he didn't hove sense enough to starve quietly. He hod to join the local police force just when elections were due. (Second of Three Ports)

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108 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Synopsis: Bruce Gordon, ex- bo.cer, ex-gwinbler, ex-cop-, and now ex'-reporter has been deport- ed to Mars on a one-way ticket by the offi.ce of Solar Security for reporting secret information on the hell-world of Mercury. His only chance to return to Earth, is to act as a spy for Solar Security. He intends to return on his own, by making enough to get illegal passage buck. He stops outside the dome that protects the main part of Marsport, at the notorious old crooks’ retreat of Mother Corey, an ugly, fat old man. " With Corey’s help, he starts his wmnings using mark- ed cards, then moves on to one of the gambling joints where he knows how the wheel is -fixed. But Fats Eller and his bouncer nearly get buck his winnings. He escapes, and heads out <rf the dome toward Mother Corey's. In the wild slums out there, he is attacked by Sheila Corey and her gang. Honest Izzy has fin- gered him. for them, but then sells his services to Gordon, and fights at his side. They are beaten. But Sheila stops to re- pair his damaged air-suit, and he overcomes her, gets back her share of his money. He learns she is the granddaughter of Mother Corey, who came as a, romantic kid looking for her grandfather, and was sold by him to a local gang leader. She finally killed the gangster, and is now running wild. Izzy and Gordon use their money to johi the police force, where the graft is best, since there isn’t enough to go back to Earth. Mother Corey also moves into the dome to be respectable. But Gordon finds the adminis- tration is up for re-election , and greedy for money to hire hood- lums to support it. The graft as cop is good, but the “Voluntary Donations’’ take most of it. When he refuses to kick in, he is kept on duty 2Jt hours at a time, until he contributes. Gordon is transferred to the outskirts, ivhere CAPTAIN Whaler has been imported from Earth to clean up the Stonewall gang. The administration of ]\lAYt)R Wayne opposes him, but has to make a token show of co- operation with him. Whaler uses wooden clubs and a totally ruth- less drive to break up the gang. In two -weeks, they are practically driven out. Gordon finds he en- joys this, even though there is no graft involved. He is doing fine until he hears of a new gang opening up there. He goes searching, and, is caught empty-handed, by Sheila, who has one of the guns ivhich is illegal on Mars, due to danger to the dome. She is determined to get even with him for humiliating her before. She orders him to

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POLICE YOUR PLANET strip off his helmet — which will mean death in the thin air. Gordon tries taunting her into uncontrolled rage, but she simply becomes more determined. Final- ly, he removes his helmet and throws it at her, just before he blanks out from lack of air. V His nose had been bleeding from the change in pressure, and there was a taste of blood in his mouth. Gordon licked his lips, and opened his eyes slowly, while the fuzziness gradually moved out of his mind. He was lying or! his back, staring at a grimy ceiling, and the air had a musty quality. By turning his eyes, he could see that he was in a small, dimly-lighted room, and that the hasty work of making it air-tight had changed none of the ravages of time ; the rottenness had simply been covered up with patches of permaseal plastic, glued down to hold in the air. The girl was squatting on her heels beside him, and the gun was in one of her hands, a knife it: the other. Her face was sullen now. But it firmed up as she saw that hi.s eyes were open, and the knife twisted, pointing toward him. She opened her mouth, but he beat her to it. “So you’re still soft under- neath it all ?’’ he challenged her. 109 The words were thick on his tongue, and his head had a thou- sand devils beating tom-toms in- side it, but he ignored them ruth- lessly. “Just because I don’t cry and whimper, you can’t let me die. You had to lug me inside here to find out why, eh?” Her face had frozen at the sound of his voice, but she seemed to pay no attention to his words. “Why’d you laugh? Damn you, Gordon, why did you laugh w'hen you threw that helmet?” “Because I knew you’d have to find out why,” he told her. The surprising thing about it was that he suddenly realized it had been true. He’d operated on a last-second hunch, and it had paid off. “I knew you couldn’t let me die without finding out why I didn’t do what you expected. You’re still soft. Cuddles!” “Damn you! I’ll show you . . The knife whipped back in an overhand that no skilled fighter would use, and then dropped as he managed to grin at her. “The name’s Sheila — Sheila Corey, and no cracks about that!” She stood up and began pac- ing, keeping her eyes on him. She swung back to face him as he shoved himself into sitting posi- tion. “You look like a human be- ing. You bleed like one. But inside, you’re a rotten, stinking machine !” He grimaced at that. He’d

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110 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES been told it before. Compensa- tion, he’d been told by the psy- chiatrist in the Security office; a fear of being hurt that had begun in the slums as a kid and frozen him, until he thought he couldn’t be hurt. He’d walled in the softness he should have had, until it couldn’t be reached. He’d hidden his own feelings, and learned to disi'egard those of others. And the pj-ofessions he’d chosen — fighter, gambler, cop, reporter — had proved it. “You’re just the sort that grandfather of mine wovld ad- mire!’’ she finished hotly. He laughed again, then, and her actions slipped into a slot he could understand. Before, she had been a random factor. There’d been no reason why she should pick him out as her tar- get. But he could remember her passing them that first day, with Mother Corey so enraptured at the sight of the new deck of reader cards that had reminded him of his own beginnings. To an outsider, it probably would have looked as if Mother Corey had been taking the newcomer to his enormous bosom. “And he doesn’t admire you, eh?” Gordon guessed. “He laughed at your romantic non- sense, didn’t he? He sent you out to toughen up — and that must have been an experience! Too bad your — ah — husband couldn’t control . . .” A shrill whisper of a scream came from her lips, barely giving him warning as she charged. The gun dropped fi’om her fingers, and the knife lifted. She leaped for him, her knees striking the floor where his stomach had been, and her clawed hand gro{)- ing for his throat. The knife went all the way back and began to come forward. He got one hand up to her W'rist, barely in time. The inertia of the blow carried the point of the knife to the fabric of bis suit. He forced it back, while his other hand jerked her fingers away from his neck. Then she was a screaming, clawing mad- woman, her lips snarled back to expose her teeth, w'hile her sharp canines snapped at his throat, slashed his wrist, and drove for- ward again and again. Her fin- gers were raking at his face, tearing at his hair. And her w'hole body was a writhing knot of fury, as she tried to swarm over him,' beating at him with her knees and feet. She seemed to have at least a score of wild limbs, and the governor on her internal motor had long since cut out. His knowledge of the ring was useless — as useless as the dirty fighting he’d learned elsewhere. His mind snapped all the way

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POLICE YOUR PLANET ni back to his slum childhood, and his body reacted as it had done when the neighborhood tomboys had ganged up on him. He drove a sharp elbow against her breasts, slapped the edge of his hand against the small of her back, and then grabbed for her legs and twisted. Her furious snarling changed to a gasp, but before she could catch herself, he’d rolled out from under her. He bi'ought a knee up agsiinst the place whei'e sensitive glands lay betv/een abdomen and leg. His hands caught her a}'ms, and he forced them back by sheer superiority of muscle, while his other knee found the second ten- der spot. He let his weight rest there, changing his hold on her wrists from two hands to one, and jerked her head back with the other. He thumped the back of her head against the hard floor, arid her agonized groans cut off. For a scant second, she was out. He found the zipper on her Mars suit, jerked it down, and caught the shoulders of the suit in his hands, bringing it down over her arms and pinioning them at the elbows. Briefly, then, he hesitated. Her thin blouse had snapped partly open, exposing the upper part of her chest. On it were lines and small scars, telling their own story of a captivity where the thug had clawed and mauled her into temporary submission. No wonder she’d killed the devil! And the soiled edges of her un- derclothing told their own story of a girl who must have been neat once, but who was now forced to live where even a change of clothing was too .great a luxury, and where water was available onl.y for drinking. He reached forward to straighten her blouse. She jerked to an abrupt steely stiffness, and gray horror hit her face, while her eyes threatened jto leap out of their sockets. “No!” It tore out of her lips like a board being ripped from a sawmill. There was a sickness in him — the same sickness he'd felt when his first and only girl-friend had been found killed at the hands of a maniac the patrol board had decided was cured. He stood up, shaking his head, and located the knife and the gun. “Button your blouse, Sheila,” he told her. “And the next time, don’t let a man goad you into going crazy. All I w-anted was your weapons — and I’ve got them.” There w'as a total lack of com- prehension in her eyes as she sat up and reached for the but- tons. He studied her, unsm’e of what to do next. Then, as she

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112 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES reached for the zipper on her suit, he shook his head. “Take it off,” he told her sharply. Without a suit, she’d have to stay inside the hovel here until he could make up hie mind, at least. Her face blanched, but she reached for the zipper, and be- gan unfastening it. Her hands shook, but she drew it down, and started to shrug her way out of the suit. He stopped her, and again there was the sickness inside him. The few pitiful rags inside the suit were totally incapable of covering her decently. It was a hell of a life for a woman — any kind of woman. He wondered abruptly how many others he saw going about in their suits were in the same desperate fix — and how many had sat futilely trying to patch what they had while., the police and the gangs came regularly for their graft. He reached for the zipper him- self, and drew it up. “Forget it. I guess your helmet’s all I need.” Then she broke. Her legs seemed to buckle slowl.v under her, until she was sitting on the floor. Her hands dropped to her sides, and her head slumped for- ward. She made no sound, but her shoulders shook, and tears began to drop slowly to the dirty floor, leaving muddy splotches where they fell. Gordon found his helmet and put it back on, cutting out the musty smell of the place. He picked up her smaller plastic bowl and strapped it to his belt. Then he swung to look at her. The tears were gone now, and she was on her feet, staring at him. “You damned human ma- chine!” she said, and her voice was flat and harsh. “I should have known. You wouldn’t even know what to do with a woman if she didn’t care. You’re not even human enough for that! You — you robot!’’ It hurt, inside him. But he sealed off the hurt of it almost at once. His lips twisted bitterly. “Your gratitude’s appreciated, Cuddles. But I like my women feminine — and clean!” Her hand hit the side of his helmet with a sharp splat. The red spots on her cheeks spread outwards to cover her face as she realized the stupidity of the gesture. Then she shrugged. “Go on, then, kill me and get it over with. You might as well.” “I’ll leave the killing to you,” he answered her. “You’ll be all right here, until I can send some- one to take you off in the paddy wagon.” He threw back the hel- met, sniffing the air again, but there was enough oxygen in it for several hours for her. Yet there was genuine fear in her eyes. He puzzled over it for a

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 113 second, before her glance at the knife he held triggered his mind. In a way, she was probably light. He could imagine the type of gutter-sweepings she must have recruited in her desperate attemiit to set up a gang out here. If one of them came back and found her without a weapon ... He broke the gun and removed the bullet.s from it, dropping them into a pocket of his suit. For a second, he hesitat- ed. Maybe he should take hei’ with him. But that would mean turning her over to Cap- tain Whaler, who’d see no differ- ence between the men of the Stonewall gang and a woman trying to set up another gang. Maybe there was no difference, but he still owed her a vague kind of obligation because of her silly attempt to save his life the othei’ time — and he preferred to fight his own battles. This came under the heading of a personal feud. Anyhow, even if her men came back, they’d have no helmet to fit her. She’d keep, until he could come back — and a little waiting and worry would be good for her. He tossed her the gun, and started to go out through the dilapidated entrance poid. Then he gi'inned, and turned back. “They’ll be as scared of it without bullets as with, if they don’t know,” he told her. “But this time, if I let you keep it, I want to see some gratitude. Come here! And if you bite. I’ll knock your head off!” Surprisingly, after a single instant of fury, she came quietly enough, even lifting her head toward him. He dragged her shoulders around, and pulled hei' to him, bending down to lips that neither resisted nor responded. Then he felt the beginnings of a response, and his hand dropped sharply to his knife, pressing it down into its sheath before she could reach it. He drew his head up, and the grin came back to his lips. “Naughty, naughty,” he told her. She stamped her foot against the floor and jerked her head away. “Damn you! You stink- ing . . .” But her head came up again, and her eyes met his. She fought back for a second as he pulled her to him. This time, there was life and fire in her lips, and eve!i through the suit he.could feel her sway towards him. He straightened, sjiapiied down the helmet, and was head- ing out through the entrance without a backwards look. It was night outside, and the phosphoi- bulbs ait the corners were glow- ing dimly, giving him barely enough light by which to locate

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114 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES the way back to the extemporized precinct house. He shook the fuzz out of his head, gr-imacing at his own reactions. Well, the vixen had needed taming. He reached the outskirts of the miserable business section, no- ticing that a couple of the shops were still open. It had probably been years since one had dared risk it after the sun went down. And the slow, doubtful respect on the faces of the citizens as they nodded to him was even more proof that Whaler’s system was working, however drastic it might be. Gordon nodded to a couple, and they grinned faintly at him. Damn it. Mars could be cleaned up . . . He grinned at himself. Maybe Mother Corey was right; put a cop’s uniform on him, and he started thinking like a cop. All this was fine, but it didn’t help him get back to Earth. Even at double pay, he still wasn’t get- ting anywhere. The best place for him was still back under the central dome, where the pickings were good. Then something needled at his mind, until he swung back. The man was carrying a lunch basket, and wearing the coveralls of one of the crop prospector crews, but the expression on his face had been wrong. Gordon had noticed it from the corner of his eye, and now he saw the sullen scowl slip from the man’s face abruptly and turn into a mixture of hate and fear. Red hair, too heavily built, a lighter section where a mustache had been shaved and the skin not quite perfectly powdered . . . Gor- don moved forward quickly, until he could make out the thin scar showing through the make-up over the man’s eyes. He’d been right — it was O’Neill, head of the Stonewall gang, and the man they’d been trying hardest to find. Gordon hit the signal switch, and the Marspeaker let out a shrill whistle. O’Neill had turned to run, and then seemed to think better of it. His hand darted down to his belt, just as Gordon reached him. The heavy locust stick met the man’s wrist before the weapon was half drawn — another gun! Guns, suddenly, seemed to be flcurishing everywhere. It di;op- ped from the hand as the wrist snapped, and O’Neill let out a high-pitched cry of pain. Then another cop came around a cor- ner at a run. “You can’t do it to me! I’m reformed. I’m going straight! You damned cops can’t . . .” O’Neill was blubbering. The small crowd that was collecting was all to the good, Gordon knew, and he let the man go on. Nothing could help break up the

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 115 gangs more than having a leader bi’eak down in public. The other cop had yanked out O’Neill’s wallet, and now tossed it to Gordon. One look was enough — the work papers had the tell-tale overthickening of the signature that had showed up on other papers, and they were obviously forgeries. The cops had been accepting the others on the hope of finding one of the leaders, and luck had been wnth them. Some of the citizens turned away as Gordon and the other cop went to work, but most of them had old hatreds that left them no room for squeamishness. When it was over, the two picked up their whimpering captive. Gordon pocketed the revolver with his free hand. “Walk, O’Neill!’’ he ordered. “Your legs are still whole. Use them!” The man staggered between them, whimpering as each step jolted his wrecked body. If any of the gang were around, they made no attempt to rescue him as he moved down the four blocks to the precinct house. This was probably the most respectable section of Marsport, at the mo- ment. Jenkins, the other cop, had been holding the wallet. Now he held it out towards Gordon. “The gee was heeled. Corporal. .Must of been making a big contact in something. Fifty-fifty?” “Turn it in to Whaler,” Gordon said, and then cursed himself for being a fool. There must have been over two thousand credits in the wallet, a nice start toward his pile. He was hoping that Jenkins would argue him out of his unreasoned honesty, but the other merely shrugged and stuff- ed it back into O’Neill’s belt- pocket. It didn’t make sense, but the money was still there when they dumped the crook onto a bench before Whaler. The Captain’s face had been buried in a pile of papers, but liow he came around to stare at the gang leader. He inspected the forged work papers, and jerked his thumb toward one of the hastily built cells, where a doctor would look O’Neill over — eventually. When Gordon and Jenkins came back. Whaler toss- ed the money to them. “Split it. Y'ou guys earned it by keeping your hands off it. Anyhow, you’re as entitled to it as he was — or the grafters back at Police Head- quarters. I never saw it . . . Gor- don, you’ve got a visitor!” His voice was bitter, but he made no opening for them to question him as he picked up the papers and began going through them again. Gordon wei;t down the passage to the end of, the hall, in the direction

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116 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Whaler had indicated. Waitingr for him was the lean, cynical little figure of Hone.st Izzy, com- plete with uniform and ser- geant’s stripes. “Hi, gov’nor,” the little man greeted him. “Long time no see. With \’ou out here and me busy nights doing a bit of convoy work on the side, we might as well not both live at INlother’s.’' Gordon nodded, grinning in spite of himself. “Convoy duty, Izzy? Or dope running?” “Whatever comes to hand, gov’nor. The Force pays for my time during the day, and I tigure my time’s my own at night. Of course, if I ever catch myself doing anything shady during the day, I’ll have to turn myself in. But it ain’t likely.” He grinned in satisfaction. “Now that I’ve tlug up the scratch to buy these stripes and get made sergeant — and that takes the real crackle — I’m figuring on taking it easy.” “Like this social call?” Gordon asked him. The little man shook his head, his ancient eighteen-year-old face turning sober. “Nope. I’ve been meaning to see you, so I volun- teered to run out some red tape foi’ your Captain. You owe me seme bills, gov’nor. Eleven hun- dred fifty credits. You didn’t pay up your pledge to the campaign fund, so I hadda fill in. thou- sand, interest at ten percent a week, standard. Right?” Gordon had heard of the friendl.v interest charged on the side here, but he shook his head. “Wrong, Izzy. If they want to collect that dratted pledge of theii's, let them put me where I can make it. There’s no graft out here!” “Huh?” Izzy tu)iied it over, and shook his head. Finally he. shrugged. “Don’t matter, gov’- nor. Nothing about that in the pledge, and when you sign some- thing, you gotta pay it. You r/otta." “All right,” Gordon admitted. He was suddenly in no mood to quibble with Izzy’s personal code. “So you paid it. Now show me where I signed any agi-eement saying I’d pay ,vou back!” For a second, Izzy’s face went blank. Then he chuckled, and the gi'ih flashed back impishly. “Jot me! You’re right, gov’nor. I sure asked for that one. Okay, I’m bloody well suckered. So foi'- get it.” Gordon shrugged and gave up. He pulled out the bills and hand- ed them over, noticing that he was left with less than a hundred credits. It seemed that nothing he did would increase his bank- roll over that here. “Thanks, Izzy.” “Thanks, yourself." The kid pocketed the money cheerfully,

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 117 nodding. "Buy you a beer. Any- how, you won’t miss it. I came out to tell you I got the sweetest beat in Marsport — over a dozen gambling joints on it — and I need a right gee to work it with me. So you’re it!” For a moment, Gordon won- dered what Izzy had done to earn that beat, but he could gue.ss. The little guy knew Mars as few others did, appai’ently, from all sides. And if any of the other cops had private rackets of theii’ own, Izzy was undoubtedly the man to find it out, and use the information. With a beat such as that, even going halves, and with all the graft to the iipper brackets, he’d still be able to make his pile in a matter of months. But he shook his head. “I’m assigned here, Izzy, at least for another week, until after elec- tions . . .” “Better take him up, Gordon,” Whale)'’s voice told him bitterly. The Captain looked completely beaten as he came into the room and dropped onto the bench. “Go on, accept, damn it. You’re not assigned hei-e any more. None of us ai'e. Mayor Wayne found an old clause in the charter and got a rigged decision, pulling me back under his full authority. I thought I had full responsibility to Earth, but he’s got me. Wear- ing their uniform makes me a temporary citizen! So we’re being smothered back into the Force, and they’ll have their patsies out here, setting things up for the Stonewall boys to come back by election time. Grab while the grabbing’.s good, be- cause by tomorrow morning I’ll have this all closed down!” He shook off Gordon's hand, and stood up roughly, to head back up the hallwa.v. Then he stopped and looked back. “One thing, Gordon. I’\e still enough authority to make .vou a ser- geant. It’s been a pleasure work- ing with you, Sergeant Gordon!” He swung out of view abrupt- ly, leaving Goi’don with a heavy weight in his stomach. Izzy whistled, and began picking up his helmet, prepai'ing to go out- side. “So that’s the dope I brought out, eh? Takes it kind of hard, doesn’t he?” “Yeah,” Gordon answered. There was no use trying to ex- plain it to Izzy. “Yeah, we do. Come on.” Outside, Gordon saw other cops moving from house to house, and he realized that Whaler must be sending out warnings to the citizens that things would be rough again. For a second, he started to go back to help, until he realized that he’d completely forgotten about free- ing Sheila. That w^ould have to be done first. “Come on,” he said.

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118 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES and headed toward the aban- doned section, Izzy shrugged, but followed. But there was no need to free her. A bullet within inches of his head told him that, when they vvei'e still three hundred feet fiom the old ruin. He dropped to his face, curs- ing himself for not cheeking her clothing for more bullets. In the dim light, he could just see lier, with some odd thing around her head. Apparently, she’d yanked the permaseal sheets off the wall and glued them into a substitute helmet. He should have thought of that, too. “The Mother’s babe?” Izzy asked. He nodded, and reached for the gun he had taken from O’Neill, just as another shot sounded faintly in the thin air. Izzy’s hand darted back and appeared with a knife in it. “Easy, gov’nor! Don’t try any- thing! She gave me a letainer for protection against you, and it’s good till after elections!” “She’ll kill both of us!” “Can’t be helped,” Izzy said flatly. “She’s a bad shot. Never had much chance to practice — I hope !” She apparently had only one reload for the gun, but two of the bullets were painfully close be- fore she stopped firing. Then she abruptly turned and ran back into darkness. Izzy put the knife back, and got to his feet, holding out a hand to help Gordon. “Wheew! Let’s get a beer, gov’- nor— on me!” It was ae good an idea as any h( had, Gordon decided. He might as well enjoy what life he still had while he could, on this stiiiking planet. The prospect for the future didn’t look too rosy. Sheila was loose and planning vengeance. The Stonewall gang — what was left of it — and all its friends would be gunning for him now. The Force -wouldn’t have been fooled when Izzy paid his pledge, and they’d mark him down as disloyal — if they didn’t automatically mark down all who’d served under Whaler. He’d be a sergeant on a good beat until after elections. Then they’d get him. And if the reform ticket should win, he’d be out cold. It was a lovefy future. And meantime, he didn’t have the ghost of an idea as to what Security wanted of him, or where they were hiding themselves. “f.Iake it two beers, Izzy,” he said. “Needled!” VI In the few days at the short- lived Nineteenth Precinct, Gor- don had begun to feel like a cop again, but the feeling disap- peared as he reported in at Cap-

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 119 tain Isiah Trench's Seventh Precinct. Trench had once been a colonel in the Marines, before a court-martial and sundry un- pleasantness had driven him off Earth. His dark, scowling face and lean body still bore a mili- tary air, and there was none of the usual false subtlety cur- rently in fashion among his fel- low captains. He looked Gordon over sourly, and shook his head. “I’ve been reading your record, Gordon, and it stinks. Making trouble, for Jurgens — could have been chai'g- ed as false arrest. No cooperation with your captain until he foi'ced it. Out in the sticks beating up helpless men. Now you come ci'awling back to your only friend Isaacs. Well, if he wants you. I’ll give it a try. But step out of line, and I’ll have you cleaning streets with your bare hands. All right. Corporal Gordon. Dis- missed. Get to your beat.” Gordon grinned wryly at the emphasis on his title. No need to ask what had happened to Whaler’s recommendation that he be made a sergeant. He joined Izzy in the locker room, summing up the situation. "Yeah.” Izzy looked worried, his thin face pinched in. “Maybe I didn’t do you a favor, gov’nor, pulling you here. I dunno. I got some pics of Trench from a gee I know. That’s how I got my beat so fast in the Seventh. But Trench ain’t married, and I guess I’ve used up the touch. Maybe I could try it, though.” “Forget it,” Gordon told him. He had his private doubts. Trench would probably take out on him the resentment at Izzy’s blackmailing. They moved out to the little car that would take them to their beat for the day in silence. The beat was a gold-mine. It lay through the gambling section where Gordon had first tried his luck on Mars. There were a dozen or so gambling joints, half a dozen cheap saloons, and a fail- number of places listed as room- ing-houses, though they made no bones about the fact that all their permanent inhabitants were female. Since men outnum- bered women here by six to one, it was a thriving business. Then the beat swung off the main stem, past a row of small busi- nesses and cheap genuine room- ing-houses, before turning back to the main section. They began in the poorer sec- tion. It wasn’t the day to collect the “tips” for good service that had once been an honest attempt to promote good police service, before it became a racket. But they were met everywhere by sullen faces, and Gordon noticed that two of the little shops had

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120 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES apparently gone out of business in the last few days. Izzy ex- plained it. The city had passed a new poll tax to pay for election booths, supposedly, and made the police collect it. Whaler must have disregarded the order, but the rest of the force had been busy helping the administration kill the egg-laying goose in its drive for election funds. But once they hit the main .stem, things were mere routine. The gambling joints took it for granted that beat-cops had to be paid, and considered it part of their operating expense. The only problem was that Fats’ Place was the first one on the list. Gordon remembered the bouncer with the gun and ugly temper. He didn’t expect to be too welcome there. But Izzy was heading across the .street, and it might as well be faced now as later. There was no sign of the thug, but Fats came out of his back office, just as Gordon i-eached the little bar. He came over, nodded, and picked up a cup and dice, to begin shaking them. “High man for sixty,” he said automatically, and expertly rolled bullseyes for a two. “Izzy said you’d be around. Sorry my man drew that knife on you the last time. Corporal.” Gordon rolled an eight and I>ocketed the bills. He suspected that more of the normal fatalism of a gambler lay behind Fats’ acceptance than any fear he might report the illegal gun in- side the dome. He shrugged. “Accidents will happen, Fats.” “Yeah.” The other picked up the dice and began rolling sevens absently. “How come you’re w'alking beat, anyhow? With what you pulled here, you should have bought a captaincy.” Gordon told him briefly. The man chuckled grimly. “Well, that’s Mars,” he said, and turned back to his private quarters. Mostly, it was routine work. They came on a drunk later, col- lapsed in an alley, and pretty badly mauled. But the muggers had apparently given up before Izzy and Gordon arrived, since the man had his wallet clutched in his hand. Gordoji reached for It, twisting his lips. Make hay w'hile the sun shines, he thought bitterly. Izzy stopped him, surprisingly. “It ain’t honest, gov’nor. If the gees in the wagon clean him, or the desk man gets it, that’s their business. But I’m bloody well going to run a straight beat, or else !” That w'as followed by a call to remove a berserk spaceman from one of the so-called rooming houses. Gordon noticed that workmen were busy setting up a heavy wooden gate in front of the entrance to the place. There

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 121 were a lot of such preparations going on for the forthcoming elections. Then the shift was over. But Gordon wasn’t too surprised when his relief showed up two hours late. He’d half-expected some such nastiness from Trench. He sent a muttering Izzy back when the little man’s relief came, and walked his beat grim- ly. But he was surprised at the look on his tardy relief’s face. The man seemed to avoid facing him, as if he had the plague. “Captain says report in person at once,” the cop mut-- tered, and swung out of the scooter and onto his beat with- out further words. Gordon shouted after him, then shrug- ged, and began steering the scooter back to the precinct house. He was met there by blank faces and averted looks, but someone jerked a thumb towai'd Ti-ench’s ofllce, and he went in- side. Trench sat chewing on a cigar, and nodded curtly. His voice was hoarse. “Gordon, what does Security want with you?” “Security?” It hit him like a sap, after the weeks of waiting without a sign. Some of it must have shown in his voice, because Trench looked up sharply from something on the desk. Gordon tried to cover, knowing it was probably too late. “Not a damned thing, if I can help it. They kicked me off Earth on a yellow ticket, if that’s what you mean.” “Yeah.” Trench wasn’t con- vinced. He tossed a letter toward Gordon, bearing the “official business” seal of Solar Security. It was addressed to Corporal Bruce Gordon, Nineteenth Police Precinct, Marsport. Tj'ench kept his eyes on it, his face filled with suspicion and the vague fear most men had for Security. “Yeah,” he said again. “Okay, probably routine. Only next time, Gordon, put the facts on your record with the Force. If you’re a deportee, it should show up. That’s all!” Gordon went out, holding the envelope. The warning in Trench’s voice wasn’t for any omission on his record, he knew. He studied the seal on the en- velope, and nodded. They’d been careful, but a close inspection showed it had been opened. He shoved it into his belt pocket and waited until he was in his own room before opening it. It was terse, and unsigned. “Keport expected, overdue. Fail- ure to observe duty will result in permanent resettlement to Mer- cury.” He swore, coldly and methodi- cally, while his stomach dug knots in itself. The damned, stu- pid, blundering fools! That was

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122 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES all Trench and the police gang had to see. Sure, report at once. Drop a letter in the mailbox, and the next day it would be turned over to Commissioner Arliss' of- fice. Any gang as well-settled as Wayne and Arliss would have ways and means of taking care of a spy for Security. Report or be kicked off to a planet that Security felt enough worse than Mars to use as punishment! Re- port and find Mars a worse place than Mercury could ever be. They’d fixed him up — it was al- most as if they wanted him given the works. And for all he knew, that might be the case. He felt sick as he stood up to find paper and pen and write a terse, factual account of his own personal doings — minus any hint of anything wrong with the sys- tem here. Security might think it was enough for the moment, and the local men might possibly decide it was all that was meant by Security — a mere required formality. At least it would stall things off for a while, he hoped. But he knew now that he could never hope to get back to Earth legally. That vague promise by Security was so much hogwash, as he should have known all along. Yet it was surprising how much he had counted on it. Somewhere in the back of his head, he’d felt that even if he failed to get his stake to pay for smuggling him back, even- tually Security might reprieve him. Now, while his chances looked slimmer with every pass- ing day and every extra mark against him, the responsibility for leaving Mars was squarely on his own shoulders — with speed a lot more important than scruples. He tore the envelope from Se- curity into tiny shreds, too small for Mother Corey to make sense of, and went out to send the space cable, feeling the few bills in his pocket. Less than a hun- dred credits, after paying for the message — and it took thousands to pay for even a legal passage ! He passed a sound truck, blat- ting out a campaign speech by candidate Murphy, filled with too-obvious facts about the pres- ent administration, together \yith hints that Wayne had paid to have Murphy assassinated. Gordon saw a crowd around it and was surprised, until he rec- ognized them as Rafters — men from the biggest of the gangs supporting Wayne. The few citi- zens on the street who drifted toward the truck took a good look at them and moved on hastil.y. It seemed incredible that Wayne could be reelected, though, even with the power of the gangs. Murphy was probably a grafter, too, but he’d at least be a change, and certainly the

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 123 citizens were aching for that. If he won, of eours’e, Gordon would be out on his ear. If he lost, how- ever, it wouldn’t hell) niuch ; once the Wayne gang was back in solidl.y, they’d be prepared to take care of anyone whom they suspected. Yet there seemed nothing to do but play it straight for the few days left. The next day his relief was later. Gordon waited, trying to swallow theii' petty punishments, but it went against the grain. Finally, he began making the rounds acting as his own night man. The owners of the joints didn’t care whether they paid the second daily dole to the same man or another. But they wouldn’t pay it again that same night. He’d managed to tap most of the places before his relief showed. He made no comment, but dutifully filled out the proper portion of both takes for the Voluntary Donation box. It wouldn’t do his record any good with Trench, but it should put an end to the overtime. Trench, however, had other ideas.' He sent the relief out piomptly, but left a message under the special emei'gency heading. Somehow, they’d over- looked sending one of the desti- tutes over to the Employment Bureau, and it was up to Gordon to take the trip. Gordon knew a little about the system used to save the city any cost from keeping the hopelessly poor who gave up or the drug addicts who reached the end of their rope. In former days, it had been known as indentured slav- ery, but slavery was illegal here, so they called it employment pro- curement. And, as usual, when the honest word was avoided, the deed itself was worse. He watched them bring out a pitifully slim girl with an old, sullen face and the body of a sixteen-year old. He signed the papers, snapped the cuffs about her wrist and his own, and got into the back of the wagon with her. The papers he carried told the story, roughly. Hilda’'s father had been killed “accidentally” when he refused to meet his rack- et protection payments. Her brother had joined one of the petty gangs and been killed in a feud. Her mother had kept food iij the girl’s mouth for two years in the only way an un- skilled woman could earn money on Mars, until she was picked up and fined for having no permit. Then, in default of money to pay the fine, the city had sold her services for five years to the opei'ator of a sweat-shop, where she’d probably have died' of tuberculosis by now. The girl had run away to the slums be- yond the dome, joined a gang,

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124 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES and made out for a while. But things must have gone wrong, because the police had found her dying with run-down batteries for her aspirator. Her sullen eyes were on him as he filled in from the glib ex- pressions on the records. “I hope you’re satisfied!” she said, finally. ‘‘Why me?” ‘‘Because it’s all your fault. I was doin’ all right. Sheila and me was like that — see? Just like that. Gave me her second slip, she did, when I didn’t have none. And she was building her a good gang. Boy, did she keep them respectful, too I And to me, even ! Then she come back one night an’ they told her either she got them bigger jobs or she Was out. So she got them one. You! You, see? Said she’d find a sucker, and we waited, and she highsigns us it was gonna be outside the dome, and safe. And we took you, too. ’N she sent us ahead . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Gor- don waited. Sheila Corey, it seemed, had to be mixed up in everything. The. girl caught her breath, and her eyes w'ere hot now. ‘‘When they went back, they found her all beaten up. Nat- urally, they didn’t w'ant a gang leader that’d let things like that happen. ’N they had a big fight, and they all quit her, except me. You just try not having a gang, Mr. Cop! I run away when I seen she din’t have enough for even herself to eat. Now she’s prob- ably ...” “She’s doing all right,” Goi’don told her. “At least she was a couple days ago. Well enough to buy a gun, pay a retainer again.=t me, and start operating, at least.” The girl’s eyes dropped then. She sighed, almost contentedly. “Gee, I’m glad. Sheila’s a queen — a real queen . . . Mr. Cop, what they gonna do to me? I mean, it ain’t gonna be . . .” “Somebody’ll probably want you to keep house and maybe marry in a couple years,” Gor- don answered. He knew that it could happen — but he doubted it. The papers had carried a note that the city was putting in a bid of five hundred credits for her five years of service. It was doubtful that anyone would offer more for her, or even bother to bid against the city-owned houses. They had reached the barn-like Employment Bureau then, and he turned her over to one of the attendants. Bidding was almost done, for the day, and only a few biddei's remained, while the auc- tioneer was proceeding in an automatic sing-song. He finished oil a blowsy, elderly woman who kept protesting that she was a

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 125 seamstress, she was. Then he signalled the. clerk. There was only one other up for auction, other than Hilda. The man had obviously been beaten b.v the drug habit, and had hit the final skids. He’d been given shots preparatory to the bidding, but his eyes still showed the agony of the final bout with the habit. The clerk glanced at his papers, and gobbled into the microphone. “Williams, garage - mechanic. Petty theft, caught trying to tiade off the proceeds. Went ci'azy and attacked the arresting officers. Now agrees to work willingly in return for basic needs. The employer will get a legal prescription for his drugs, and it’s a five year contract wfith no penalty clause!” In spite of the fact that normal protections for Williams had been revoked, there was only one bid, from a man who wanted a new helper in a small atomic waste refinery. The last man, he admitted, had died of radioactive poisoning in less than two yeai’s, and he protested a^gainst raising his bid of a hundred credits when he couldn’t count on the full five years. The auctioneer finally agreed that the price was satisfactory. Gordon got out, before the bid- ding on the girl could begin. He'd had enough. But he won- dered whether Sheila would hold this against him, too, if she heard he’d been the one to de- liver the girl. Probably, he sup- posed. She was good at blaming her own failures on him, and then declaring war, to find some- thing else to hold against him. Izzy came in when he got back to Mother Corey’s, fuming at Trench’s campaign to keep Gor- don on long hours. But Gordon was too tired to care. He chased the other out, rolled over, and was almost instantlj' asleep. The overtime continued, but it was dull after that — which made it even more tiring. And the time he took the special release out to the space-port was the worst. Seeing the big ship readying for take-off back to Earth and the people getting on board did nothing to make Gordon happier about the situation. Then it was the day before election. The street was already bristling with barricades around the entrances, and everything ran with a last desperate rest- lessness, as if there would be no tomorrow. The operators all swore Wayne would be elected, but they seemed to fear a mir- acle. And on the poorer section of the beat, there was a spiritless hope that Murphy might come in with his reform program. Men who would normally have been punctilious about their payments

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126 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES were avoiding him, as if hoping that by putting it off a day or sc Uiey could run into a period where no such payment would ever be asked — or a smaller one, a‘ least. And he was too tired to ciia.se down the ones who could be reached. His collections had been falling off already, and he knew that he’d be on the carpet for that, if he didn’t do better. It wins a rich territorv', and re- quired careful mining; even as the week had gone, he still had moi'e money in his wallet than he had e.’cpected. But it had to be still more before night. In that, he was lucky. At the la.st hour, he came on a pusher working one of the better houses in the section — long after his collections should have been over. He knew by the man’s face that no protection had been paid higlier up. And the pusher was well-heeled, either from a good morning or a draw made to buy more supplies that were neces- sary to twenty percent of Mars’ population. Gordon confiscated the money, realizing it would make up for any shorts in the rest of his collection. This time, Izzy came up with- out protests. Lifting the roll of anyone outside the enforced part of Mars’ laws was apparently honest, in his eyes. He nodded, and pointed to the man’s belt. “Pick up the snow, too,” he suggested. The pusher’s face paled. He must have had his total capital with him, because stark ruin shone in his eyes. “Good God, Sergeant,” he pleaded. “Leave me something! I’ll make it right. I’ll cut you in. I gotta have some of that for myself!” Gordon grimaced. He couldn’t work up. any great sympathy for anyone who made a living out of drugs. The end product he had seen at the Employment Bureau wasn’t pleasant. And the addict wasn’t just bedevilled by even- tual spasms when his supply was gone — he was constantly haunted by a fear of it, long before. They cleaned the pusher, and left him sitting on the steps, a picture of slumped misery. Izzy nodded approval. “Let him feel it awhile. No. sense jailing him yet. Bloody fool had no business starting without lining the groove. Anyhow, we’ll get a bunch of credits for the stuff when we turn it in.” “Credits?” Gordon asked. “Sure.” Izzy patted the little package. “We get a quarter value. Captain probably' gets fifty percent from one of the pushers who’s lined with him. Everybody’s happy.” “Why not push it ourselves?” Gordon asked in disgust. Izzy .shook his head. “Wouldn’t

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 127 be honest, gov’nor. Cops are sup- posed to turn it in.” Trench was almost jovial when he weighed the package and ex- amined it to find how much it had been cut. He issued them slips, which they added a.s part of the contributions. “Good woi’k — ,vou, too, Gordon. Best week in the territory for a couple of months. I guess the citizens like you, the way they treat you.” He laughed at his own stale joke, and Gordon was willing to laugh with him. The credit on the dope had paid for most of the contri- butions. For once, he had money to show for the week. Then Trench motioned for- ward, and dismissed Izzy with a nod of his head. “Something to discuss, Gordon. Isaacs, we’re holding a little meeting, so wait ai'ound. You’re a sergeant al- ready. But Gordon, I’m offering you a chance. There aren’t enough openings for all the good men, but . . . Oh, bother the soft- soap. We’re still short on election funds. So there’s a raffle. Two men holding winning tickets get bucked up to sergeants. A hun- dred credits a ticket. How many?” He fi'owned suddenly as Gor- don counted out three bills. “You have a better chance with more tickets, Gordon. A 'much better chance !” The hint was hardly veiled. Gordon stuck the tickets into his wallet, along with the inevitable near-hund)-ed-credits that seem- eci to be his maximum. It was a fine planet for .picking up easy money, but holding it was an- other matter. Trench counted the money and put it away. “Thanks, Gordon. That fills my quota. Look, you’ve been on overtime all v.-eek. Why not skip the meeting? Isaacs can brief you, later. Go out and get drunk, or something.” The comparative fi'iendliness of the peace offering was prob- ably the ultimate in graciousness from Trench. Idly, Gordon won- dered what kind of pressure the captains were under; it must be pretty stiff, judging by the relief the man was showing at making quota. “Thanks,” Gordon acknowl- edged, but his voice was bitter in his ears. “I’ll go home and rest. Drinking costs too much for what I make. It’s a good thing you don’t have income tax here.” “We do,” Trench said flatly. “Forty per cent. Better make out a form next week, and start pay- ing it regularly. But you can deduct your contributions here.” Gordon got out before he learned more good news. .At least, though, at the present rate he wouldn’t have too much tax to pay.

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128 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES VII As Gordon came out from the pi'ecinct house, he noticed the sounds fii’st. Under the huge dome that enclosed the main part of the city, the heavier air-pres- sure permitted normal travel of sound, and he’d become sensitive to the voice of the city after the relative quiet of the Nineteenth Precinct But now the normal noise was different. There was an undertone of hushed waiting, with the sharp bursts of ham- mering and last-minute work standing out sharply through it. Voting booths were being fin- ished here and there, and at one a small tnjck was delivering bal- lots. Voting by machine had pever been established here. Wherever the booths were being thrown up, the near-by establish- ments were rushing gates and bari-icades in front of the build- ings. - Most of the shops were already closed — even some of the saloons. To make up for it, stands were being placed along the streets, carr.\dng banners that proclaimed free beer for all loyal adminis- tration friends. The few bars that were still open had been blessed with the sign of some mob, and obviously were well staffed with hoodlums ready to protect the proprietor. Private houses were boarded up. The scattering of last-minute shop- pers along the streets showed that most of the citizens were laying in supplies to last until after election, apparently plan- ning to regard it as a siege. Gordon passed the First Mai’s- port Bank and saw that it was surrounded by barbed wires, with other strands still being strung, and with a sign proclaim- ing that there was high voltage in the wires. Watching the opera- tion was the flashy figure of Jurgens. From the way the men doing the work looked at him, it was obvious that his hoodlums had been hired for the job. Toward the edge of the dome where Mother Corey’s place was, the narrower streets were filling with the gangs, already half- drunk and marching about with their' banners and printed signs. The parades would be starting just after sundown, and would gc on until fighting and rioting finally dispelled the last paraders. Curiously enough, all the gangs weren't working for Wayne’s re- election. The big Star Point gang had apparently grown tired of the increasing cost of protection from the government, and was actively campaigning for Mur- phy. Their home territory reached nearly to Mother Corey’s, before it ran into , the no-man’s-land separating it from

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130 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES the gang of Nick the Croop. The Croopsters were loyal to Wayne. Goi'don turned into his usual short-cut past a rambling plas- tics plant and through the yard where their trucks were parked. He had half expected to find it ■barricaded, but apparently the rumors that Nick the Croop owned it were true, and it would be protected in other ways, with the trucks used for street fight- ing, if needed. He threaded his way between two of the trucks. Then a yell reached his ears, and something swished at him. An egg-sized rock hit the truck behind him and bounced back, just as he spotted a hoodlum drawing back a sling for a second shot. Gordon was on his knees be- tween heart-beats, darting under one of the trucks. He rolled to his feet, letting out a yell of his own, and plunged forward. His fist hit the thug in the elbow, just as the man’s hand reached for his knife. His other hand chopped around, and the edge of his palm connected with the other’s nose. Cartilage crunched, and a shrill cry of agony lanced out. But the hoodlum wasn’t alone. Another came out from the rear of one of the trucks. Gordon ducked as a knife sailed for his head; they were stupid enough not to aim for his stomach, at least. He bent down fo locate some of the rubble on the ground, cursing his own folly in carrying his knife under his uniform. The easy work on the new beat had given him a false sense of se- curity. He found a couple of rocks and a bottle and let them fly, then bent for more. Something landed on his back, and fingernails were gouging into his face, searching for his eyes ! Instinct carried him forward, jerking down sharply and twist- ing. The figure on his back sailed over his head, to land with a harsh thump on the ground. Brass.v yellow hair spilled over Sheila Corey’s face, and her breath slammed out of her throat as she hit. But the fall hadn’t been enough to do serious dam- age. Gordon jumped forward, bringing his foot up in a savage swing, but she’d rolled, and the blow only glanced against her ribs. She jerked her hand down for a knife, and came to her knees, her lips drawn back against her teeth. “Get him!” she yelled. The two thugs had held back, but now they began edging in. Gordon slipped back behind an- other truck, listening for the sound of fheir feet. They tried to outmaneuver him, as he had ex- pected. He stepped back to his

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POLICE YOUR PLANET T31 former spot, catching his breath and digging frantically for his knife. It came out, just as they realized he’d tricked them. Sheila was still on her knees, fumbling with something, and apparently paying him no atten- tion. But now she jerked to her feet, her hand going back and forward. “Take that — for Hilda!” she shouted. It was a six-inch section of pipe, with a thin wisp of smoke, and the throw was toward Gor- don’s feet. The hoodlums yelled, and ducked, while Sheila broke into a run away from him. The little home-made bomb landed, bounced, and lay still, with its fuse almost burned down. Gordon’s heart froze in his throat, but he was already in ac- tion. He spat savagely into his hand, and jumped for the bomb. If the fuse was powder-soaked, he had no chances. He brought his palm down against it, press- ing the dampness of the spit onto it, and heard a faint hissing. Then he held his breath, waiting for the explosion. None came. It had been a crude job, with only a wick for a fuse. Sheila had stopped at a safe distance, and was looking back. Now she grabbed at her helpers, and swung them with her. The three came back, Sheila in the lead with her knife flashing, and the others more cautiously. Gordon side-stepped her rush, and met the other two head-on, his knife swinging back. His foot hit some of the rubble on the ground at the last second, and he skidded. The leading mobster saw the chance and jumped for him. Gordon bent his head sharj)- ly, and dropped, falling onto his shoulders and somersaulting over. He twisted at the last sec- ond, jerking his arms down to come up facing the other. Then a new voice cut into the fracas, and there was the sound of something landing against a skull with a hollow thud. Gordon got his head up just in time to see a man in police uniform kick aside the first hoodlum and lunge for the other. There was a confused flurry, and the second went up into the air and came down in the newcomer’s hands, to land with a sickening jar and lie still. Behind, Sheila lay crum- pled in a heap, clutching one wrist in the other hand and cry- ing silently. Gordon came to his feet and started for her. She saw him coming and cast a single glance at the knife that had been knock- ed from her hands. Then she sprang aside and darted back through the parked trucks, to- ward the street where she could lose herself in the swarm of Nick’s Croopsters. Gordon turned back toward his rescuer.

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132 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES The iron-gray hair caught his eyes first. Then, . as the solidly built-figure turned, he grunted. It was Captain Whaler — but now dressed in the uniform of a regu- lar beat cop, without even a corporal’s stripes. And the face wa.s filled with the lines of strain that hadn’t been there before. He threw the second gangster up into a truck after the first one and slammed the door shut, locking it with the metal bar which had apparently been his weapon. Then he grinned wryly, and came back toward Gordon. “You seem to have friends here,” he commented. “A good thing I was trying to catch up with you. Just missed you at the P)-ecinct House, came after you, and saw you turn in here. Then I heard the rumpus. A good thing for me, too, maybe,” Gordon blinked, accepting the other’s hand. “How so? And what happened?” He indicated the bare sleeve. “One’s the result of the other,” Whaler told him. “They’ve got me sewed up, and they’re throw- ing the book at me. The old laws make me a citizen while I wear the uniform — and a citizen can’t quit the Force. That puts me out of Earth’s jurisdiction. I can’t cable for funds, even — and I guess I’m too old to start squeez- ing money out of citizens who don’t have it to hand out. So I can’t afford the rooms here. I was coming to ask whether you had room in your diggings for a guest — and I’m hoping now that my part here cinches it.” He had tried to treat it lightly, but Gordon saw the red creeping up into the man’s face. “Forget that part,” he told Whaler. “There’s room enough for two in my place — and I guess Mother Corey won’t mind. I’m damned glad you were following me.” “So’m I, Gordon. What’ll we do with the pri.soriers ?” “We couldn’t get a Croopster locked up tonight for anything. Let them rot until their friends come along.” He started ahead, leading the way through the remaining trucks and back to the street that led to Mother Corey's. Whaler fell in step with him. The man’s voice was dead with fatigue, now that the excitement had worn off. “This is the first time I’ve had free to look you up,” he said. “I’ve been going out nights to help the citizens organize against the Stonewall gang. But that’s over now — they gave me hell for inciting vigilante action, and confined me inside the dome. The way they hate a decent cop here, you’d think honesty was con- tagious.” "Yeah.” Gordon preferred to let it drop. Whaler was being

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 133 g-iven the business for going too far on the Stonewall gang, not for refusing to take normal graft. Anyhow, he’d never seen any evidence that honesty was catching. He’d been an honest rooky on Earth himself; and the men who’d gotten farthest had been the very ones against whom most of the evidence had turned up when Gordon was ferreting out corruption as a reporter. Honesty was fine — in its place. They ciime to the gray three- story building that Mother Corey now owned. Gordon stopped, real- izing for the first time that there was no sign of efforts to protect it against the coming night and day. The entrance was unprotect- ed by even a sign of a gate. Then his eyes caught the bright chalk marks around it — signs to the gangs to keep hands off. If they were authentic. Mother Corey had pul) enough to get every mob ii; the neighborhood to affi.x its seal. As he drew near, though, he found that other steps had been tiiken. Two men edged across the street from a clump watching the beginning excitement. Then, as they identified Gordon, they moved back again. Some of the Mother’s old lodgers from the ruin outside the dome were in- side now — and obviously posted where it would do the most good. Corey stuck his head out of the door at the back of the hall as Gordon entered, and started to retire again, until he spotted Whaler. Gordon explained the situation hastily. “It’s your room, cobber,” the old man wheezed. He waddled back, to come out with a towel and key, and handed them to Whaler. “Number forty-two.” His heavy hand rested on Gor- don’s arm, holding the younger man back. Whaler stared at them a second, then took the hint. He gave Gordon a brief, tired .smile, and started for the staiis. “Thanks, Gordon. I’m turning in right now.” Mother Corey shook his luad, shaking the few hairs on his head and face, and the wrinUle.s in his doughy skin deepened. “Hasn’t changed, that one. I'.liist be thirty years, but I’d know Ira Whaler anjwvhere. Took me to the spaceport, handed me my yellow ticket, and sent me off for Mars. A nice, clean kid — just like my own boy was. But he wa.sn’t like the rest of the neighbor- hood. He still called me ‘sir/ when my boy was walking across the street so he wouldn’t kiiow they were sending me away. Oh well, that was a long time a.go, cobber. A long time.” He rubbed a pasty hand over his chin, shaking his head pon- derously, wheezing heavily. Gor- don waited, vaguely curious

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134 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES about the reasons behind Corey’s being sent off. But on Mars, that was a man’s private business. Corey grimaced, and chuckled. •‘Well, how—?” Something banged heavily against the entrance seal, and there was the sound of a hot argument, followed by a commo- tion of some sort. Corey seemed to prick up his ears, and began to waddle rapidly toward the enti'ance. But it broke open before he could reach it, the seal snapping back to show a giant of a man outside holding the two guards from across the street, while a scar-faced, dark man shoved through briskly. Corey snapped out a quick word, and the two guards ceased struggling, and started back across the street. The giant pushed in after the smaller thug. “I’m from the Ajax House- holders Protection Group,” the dark man announced officially. “We’re selling election protec- tion. And brother, do you need it, if you’re counting on those mugs. We’re assessing you — ” “Not long on Mars, are you?” Mother Corey asked. The whine was entirely missing from his voice now, though his face seemed as expressionless as ever. “What’s your boss Jurgens fig- ure on doing, punk? Taking over all the rackets for the whole city?” The dark face snarled, while the giant moved a step forward. Scarface’s fingers twitched nerv- ously towai'd a knife that rested on his hip. Then he shrugged. “Okay, Fatty. So Jurgens is be- hind it. So now you know. And I’m doubling your assessment, right now. To you it’s — ” A heav\- hand fell on the man’s shoulder, and Mother Corey leaned forward slightly. Even in Mars’ gravity, his bulk made the other buckle at the knees. The hand that had been reaching for the knife yanked the weapon out and brought it up sharply. Goi’don started to step in, then, but there was no time. Mother Corey’s free hand came around in an open-palmed slap that lifted .the collector up from the floor and sent him reeling back against a wall. The knife fell from the crook’s hand, and the dark face turned pale. He seemed to sag down the wall, to end up on the floor, out cold. The giant opened his mouth and took half a step forward. But the only sound he made was a choking gobble. Mother Corey moved without secmii;g haste, but before the other could make up his mind. There was a series of motions that seemed to have no pattern. The giant was spun around, somehow; one arm was

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 135 jerked back behind him, then the other was forced up to it. Mother Corey held the wrists in one hand, put his other under the giant’s crotch, and lifted. Carry- ing the big figure off the floor, the old man moved toward the seal. His foot found the button, snapping the entrance open. He pitched the giant out overhand- ed, to land squarely on the flat face and skid across the rough surface of the street. Holding the entrance, he reached for the dark man with one h.and and tossed him on top of the giant. “To me, it’s nothing,’’ he called out. “Take these two back to young Jurgens, boys, and tell him to keep his punks out of my house.” The entrance snapped shut then, and Corey turned back to Gordot\, wiping the wisps of hair from his face. He was still wheezing asthmatically, but theie seemed to be no change in the rhythm of his breathing. “As I was going to say, cobber,” he said, “we’ve got a little social game going upstairs — the room with the window. Fine view of the parades. We need a fourth.” Gordon started to protest that he was tired and needed his sleep. Then he shrugged. Corey’s house was one of the few that had kept some relation to Earth styles by installing a couple of windows in the second story, and it would give a perfect view' of the street. He follow'ed the old man up the stairs. Two other men were already in the surprisingly well-furnished room, at the little table set up near the window'. Gordon recog- nized one as Randolph, the pub- lisher of the little oppo.fition paper. The man’s pale Iflonde- ness, weak eyes, and generally rabbitty expression totally belied the courage that had permitted him to keep going at his hopeless task of trying to clean up itlars- port. The Crusader wa.s strictly a one-man weekly, against the strength of Mayor Wayne’s Chronicle, with its Earth- comics and daily circulation of over a hundred thousand. Wayne apparently let Randolph keep in business to give him a talking point about fair play; but the little paper’s history had been filled with trouble, wuecked presses, ruined paper, and every- thing the crooks whom Randolph had attacked had been able to think of. The man himself walked with a Jimp from the last w'orking over he had received. “Hi, Gordon,” he said. His thin, high voice was cool and reserved, in keeping with the opinion he had expressed publicly of the police as a body. But he did not protest Corey’s selection of a partner. "This is Ed Aims-

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136 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES woi’th. He’s an engineer on our railroad.” (^o)don acknowledged the in- troduction automatically. He’d almost forgotten that Marsport wa.s the center of a thinly popu- lated area stretching for a thou- sand mil(;s in all directions be- yond the city, connected by the winding link of the electric mon- orail. “So there really is a sur- rounding countryside,” he said. Aimsworth nodded. He was a big, open-faced man, just turn- ing bald. His handshake was firm and friendly. “There are even cities out there, Gordon. Nothing like Marsport, but that’s no loss. That’s where the real population of Mars is — decent people, men who are going to turn this into a real planet some day.” “There are plenty like that here, too,” Randolph said. He picked up the cards. "First ace deals. Damn it. Mother, sit down- wind fiom me, won’t you? Or else take a bath.” jMother Corey chuckled, and wheezed his way up out of the chaji', exchanging places with Gordon. In spite of the perfume, his effluvium was still thick and sour. “I got a surprise for you, ccbbcr,” he said, and there was only amusement in his voice. “I got me fifty gallons of water to- day, and tomorrow I do just that. Made up my rtiind there was going to be a clean-up in Mars- port, even if Wayne does win. And stop examining the cards, Bruce. I don’t cheat my friends. The readers are put away for old times’ sake.” Randolph shrugged, and went on as if he hadn’t interrupted himself. “Ninety percent of Marsport is decent. They have to be. It takes at least nine honest men to support a crook. They come up here to start ovei’ — maybe spent half their life sav- ing up for the trip. They hear a man can make fifty credits a day in the factories, or strike it rich crop prospecting. What they don’t realize is that thing.s cost ten times as much here, too. They plan, maybe on getting rich and going back to Earth . . .” “Nobody goes back,” Mother Corey wheezed. “/ know.” His eyes rested on Gordon. “A lot don’t want to,” Aims- worth said. “I never meant to go back. I’ve got me a farm up north. Another ten years, and I retire to it. M.y kids are up there now — grandkids, that is. They’re Martians. Maybe you won’t be- lieve me, but they can breathe the air here without a helmet.” The others nodded. Gordon had learned that a fair number of third generation people got that way. Their chests were only a trifle larger, and their heart-beat only a few points higher; it was an internal adaptation, like the

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POLICE VOUR PLANET one that had occurred in test ani- mals reared at a simulated forty- thousand feet altitude on Earth, before Mars was ever settled. “They’ll take the planet away from Earth yet,” Randolph agreed. “Marsport is strictly artificial. It’s kept going only because it’s the only place where Earth will set down her ships. If Security doesn’t do anything, time will.” “Security!” Gordon muttered bitterly. They were good at get- ting people in trouble, but he had seen no other sign of them. Randolph frowned over his cards. “Yeah, I know. The gov- ernment set them up, gave them a mixture of powers, and has been trying to keep them from working ever since. But some- how, they did clean up Venus. And every crook here is scared to death of the name. How come a muck-raking newspaperman like you never turned up any- thing on them, Gordon?” Gordon shrugged. It was the first reference he’d heard to his background, and he preferred to let it drop. But Mother Corey cut in, his voice older and hoarser, and the skin on his jowls even grayer than usual. “Don’t sell them short, cobber. I did — once . . . You forget them, here, after a while. But they’re around . . 137 Gordon felt something run down his armpit, and a chill creep up his back. His trick re- port suddenly floated up in front of his mental eye, along with the deadly sureness of the Security man back on Earth. If they were- here — and if they were a genuine power . . . Out on the street, a sudden whooping began, and he glanced down. The parade was finally outside. The Croopsters were in full swing, already mostly drunk. The main body went down the street, waving fluorescent signs, while side-guards preceded them, armed with axes, knocking aside the flimsier barricades as they went. He watched a group break into a small grocery store to come out with bundles. They dragged out the storekeeper, his wife, and young daughter, and pressed them into the middle of the parade. “If they’re so damned power- ful, why don’t they stop that?” he asked bitterly. Randolph grinned at him. “They might do it, Gordon. They just might. It can’t go on much longer. But are you sure you want it stopped?” “All right,” Mother Corey said suddenly. “This is a social game, cobbers.” Outside, the parade picked up enthusiasm as smaller gangs joined behind the main one.

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138 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES There were a fair number of plain citizens who had been im- pressed into it, too, judging by the appearance of little fright- ened groups in the middle of the mobsters. He couldn’t understand why the police hadn’t at least been kept on duty, until Honest Izzy came into the room. The little man found a chair and bought chips, silently, shaking his head. He looked tired, as if he’d had a rough time working his v/ay back from the station without being caught in the swarm down there. "Vacation?” Mother Core.v asked. Izzy nodded. “Trench took for- ever giving it to us. Mother. But it’s the same old deal. All the police gees get tomorrow off. You, too, gov’nor. No cops to influence the vote, that’s the word. We even gotta wear civ- vies when we go out to vote for Wayne. A bloody mess, that’s what it is.” Gordon looked down at the rioters, who were now only keep- ing up a pretense of a parade. It would be worse tomorrow, he supposed. And there would be nc cops. The image of the old woman and her husband in the little liquor store where he’d had his first experience came back to him. He wondered how well barricaded they were. He felt the curious eyes of Mother Corey dancing from him to Izzy and back, and heard the old man’s chuckle. “Put a uni- form on some men and they be- gin to believe they’re cops, eh, cobber ?” He shoved up from the table abruptly and headed for his room, swearing to himself. Damn it, if the couple couldn’t take care of themselves, they had no business in a town like this. If . . . He kicked open his door and began shucking off his uniform, cursing the lot of them. Ran- dolph and his incessant, hopeless ci'usading; Mother Corey and his needling; Izzy and his tangled ethics ; and even Whaler, sleeping peacefully on the bed, as if he didn’t have a thing to worry about. Damn the whole stupid planet. Somehow, once the elections were over, he’d have to step up his collections. He’d have to get in better with Trench, too. Another three months on Mars and he’d be as crazy as the rest of them. He lay down on the bed, fum- ing, and listening to the quiet siiCring of Whaler, while the distant sounds of the mob outside came through the walls. It was just beginning to quiet down a little towards morning when he went to sleep.

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 139 VIII Izzy was up first the next morning-, urging them to hurry before things began to hum. From somewhere, -he dug up a suit of clothes that Whaler could wear. He found the gun Gordon had confiscated from O’Neill and filled it from a box of ammuni- tion he’d apparently purchased. “I picked up some special per- mits,” he said. “I knew you had this cannon, gov’nor, and I fig- ured it’d come in handy. Wouldn’t be caught dead with one myself. Knives, that’s my specialty. Come on, Cap’n, we gotta get out the vote.” Whaler shook his head. “In the first place. I’m not registered,” he began. Izzy grinned. “Every cop’s reg- istered in his own precinct. Wayne got the honor system fixed for us. Show your papers and go into any booth in your territory. That’s all. And you’d better be seen voting often, too, Cap’n. What’s your precinct?” “Eleventh. But I’m not vot- ing.” Whaler brushed Izzy’s pro- test aside. “I’d like to come along with you to observe, but I wouldn’t butt into any choice be- tween two such men as Wayne and Murphy.” Downstairs, the rear room was locked, with one of Mother Corey’s guards at the door. From inside came the rare sound of water splashing, mixed with a wheezing, off-key caterwauling. Mother Corey was apparently making good on his promise to take a bath. But they had no time to exchange jokes with the man on guard. As they reached the hall, one of Trench’s lieuten- ants came through the entrance, waving his badge at the protest- ing man outside. He spotted the three, and jerked his thumb. “Come on, you. We’re late. And I ain’t staying on the streets when it gets going.” A small police car was waiting outside, and they headed for it. Gordon looked at the debacle left behind the drunken, looting mob. Most of the barricades were down. Here and there, a few citizens were rushing about try- ing to restore them, keeping wary eyes on the mobsters who had passed out on the streets. Across the wa.y, a hoy of about sixteen sat with his arm around a girl of under nine. She was crying vsoftly, and he was trying to comfort her, his own face pinched white with fear and hor- ror. Trailing down the steps were the garments ofe woman, though there was no sign of what had happened to iier. Suddenly a siren blasted out in sharp bursts, and the lieuten- ant jumped. He leaped into the

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140 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES car. “Come on, you gees: I gotta be back in half an hour.” They piled in.side, and the little electric car took off at its top speed. But now the quietness had been broken. There were trucks coming out of the plastics plant, and mobsters were gathering up their drunks, and chasing the citizens back into their houses. Some of them were wearing the forbidden guns, but it wouldn’t matter on a day when no police were on duty. In the Ninth Precinct, the Planters were the biggest gang, and all the others were tempo- rarily enrolled under them. Here, there were less signs of trouble. The joints had been better bar- ricaded, and the lootin>g had been kept to a minimum. The three got off. A scooter pulled up alongside them almost at once, with i gun-carrying mobster riding it. “You mugs get the hell out of — oh, cops! Okay, better pin these on.” He handed out gaudy arm- bands, and the three fastened them in place. Nearly eveiyone else already had them showing. The Planters were moving effi- ciently. They were grouped around the bootlis, and they had begun to line up their men, put- ting them in position to begin voting at once. Then the siren hooted again, a long steady blast. The bunting in front of the booths was pulled off, and the lines began to move. Izzy led the way to the one at the rich end of their beat, and moved toward the head of the line. "Cops,” he said to the si.x; mob- sters who surrounded the booth. “We got tei'ritory to cover.” A thumb indicated that they could go in. Whaler remained outside, and one of the thugs reached for him. Izzy cut him off. “Just a friend on the way to his own route. Eleventh pre- cinct.” There were scowls, but they let it go. Then Gordon was in the little booth. It seemed to be in order. There were the books of registration, with a checker for Wayne, one for Murphy, and a third supposedly neutral behind the plank that served as a desk. The Murphy man was protesting. “He’s been dead for ten years. I know him. He’s my uncle.” “There’s a Mike Thaler regis- tered, and this guy says he’s Thaler,” the Wayne man said de- cisively. “He votes.” The Murphy man wa.s starting a protest again when one of the Planters shoved his way in.side. He passed his gun to the insj)ec- toi- for the Wayne side, and went out. The Murphy ntan studied the gun, gulped, and nodded. “He votes. Heh-heh, yes, just a mix-up. He’s regi.stered, sc he votes.”

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 141 The next man was one that Gordon recognized from one of the small shops on his beat. The fellow’s eyes were desperate, but he was forcing himself to go through with it. “Murtagh,” he said, and his voice broke on the second syllable. “Owen Mur- tagh.’’ “Murtang. Murtang. No regis- ti’ation!’’ The Wayne man shrug- ged. “Next!” “It’s Murtagh. M-U-R- T-A-G-H. Owen Murtagh, of 738 Morrisy . . .” “Protest!” The Wayne man cut off the frantic wriggling of the Murphy man’s finger toward the line in the book*. “When a man can’t get the name straight the first time, it’s pretty damned suspicious.” The supposedly neutral man nodded. “Better check the name off, unless the real Murtagh shows up. Any objections. Yeo- man?” The Murphy man had no ob- jections— outwardly. He was sweating, and the surprise in his eyes indicated that this was all Tiew to him. He was probably a one-year man, unaware of what he’d been- getting into. Gordon came next, showing his badge. He was passed with a nod, and headed for the little closed- off polling place. But the Wayne man touched his arm and indicat- ed a ballot. There were two piles, and this pile was already filled out for Wayne. “Saves trouble, unless you want to do it your- self,” he suggested. Gordon shrugged, and shoved it into the slot. He went outside and waited for Izzy to follow. It was raw beyond anything he’d expected — but at least it saved any doubt as to how the votes were cast. The procedure was the same at the next booth, though they had more trouble. The Murphy man there was a fool — which meant he was neither greeii nor agreeable. He protested vigor- ously, in spite of a suspicious bruise along his temple. Finally, he made some of his protests stick. There was a conference going on among the Planters as they left, and more were arriv- ing. They couldn’t getr all their votes put through — but they could scare off all opposition voting. Gordon began to w'onder how it could be anything but a deal- unanimous vote, at that rate. But Izzy shook his head. “Wayne’ll win. But not that easy. The sticks don’t have strong mobs, and they pile up a heavy Murphy vote. And you’ll see things hum soon !” Gordon had voted three times under the “honor system,” before he saw. They were, just nearing a polling place when a heavy

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142 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES truck came careening around a corner. Men came piling put of the back before it stopped — men armed with clubs' and stones. The,y were in the middle of the Planters almost at once, striking without any science, but with a surprising ferocity. The line waiting to vote broke up, but the citizens had appai'ently organized carefully. A good number of the men in the line were with the attackers. There was the sound of a shot, and a horrified cry. For a second, the citizens broke. Then a wave of fury seemed to wash over them at the needless risk to the safety of all. The horror of rup- turing the dome was strongly engrained on every citizen of Marsport. They drew back, and then made a concerted rush. There was a trample of bodies, but no more .shots. In a minute, the citizens’ group was inside the voting place, ripping the fixed ballots to shreds, and racing to fill out and drop their own. They were paying no attention to the regis- tration clerks. A whistle had been shrilling for minutes. Now another group came onto the scene, and the Planters men began getting out, rapidly. Some of the citizens looked up and yelled, but it was too late. From the approaching para, pipes projected forward. Streams of liquid jetted out, and there was an agonized cry from the mob that had not yet escaped. Even where he stood, Gordon could smell the fumes of am- monia. Izzy’s face tensed, and he swore. “Inside the dome! They’re poisoning the air.’’ . But the t]’ick worked. In no time, men in crude masks were clearing out the booth, driving the last few struggling citizens away, and getting ready for busi- ness as usual. All the registra- tion clerks were missing, but the head Planters man picked out three at random and installed them. Probably all the ballots from that booth would be de- clared invalid, but they were taking no chances. Whaler turned on his heel. “I’ve had enough. I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “The cable offices must be open for the doctored reports on the election to Earth. Where’s the nearest?” Izzy frowned, but supplied the information. Gordon pulled Wha- ler aside. “Come off the head cop role,” he told Whaler. “It won’t work. They must have had re- ports on elections before this. And nothing came of it.” “Damn the trouble. It’s never been this raw before. Look at Izzy’s face, Gordon. Even he’s shocked. Something has to be done about this, before worse

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 143 happens. I’ve still got connec- tions back there — ” “Okay,” Gordon said bitterly. He’d liked Whaler, like a fool. He’d begun to respect him. It hurt to see that what he’d con- sidered hard-headedness was just another case of a fool fighting dragons with a paper sword. But he should have expected it. The publisher of the newspaper back on Earth had been carrying on a fight to the bitter end against exploitation of the planets — but when Gordon was picked up by Security for digging up the one thing that could do most for the cause, he’d gone off in a spasm of horror at the idea of Gordon’s using top secret stuff. “Okay, it’s your death certifi- cate,” he said, and turned back toward Izzy. “Go send your sob stories. Whaler.” They taught a bunch of pretty maxims in school- — even slum kids learned that honesty was the best policy, while their hon- est parents rotted in unheated holes and the racketee-rs rode around in fancy cars. They made pretty speeches over the radio, and showed pretty stories on television. It got the suckers. It had got him once. He’d refused to take a dive as a boxer, and wound up as a cop. He’d tried to play honest cards and count on his wits, and had almost starved — and had to give up because he couldn’t pay off the police. He’d tried honesty on his beat back there, and been made a scape- goat for his sergeant. He’d tried to help the suckers in his column, and he was here as a result. And he still felt himself slip- ping back. He’d been proud to serve under Whaler, at a cop’s salary. Okay, he’d seen enough ; all they had to offer a man was things on paper and an appeal to an outside justice that never came. From now on, he’d go back tc taking care of number one. Let them depend on their damned rule books. A man’s own muscle was all that counted, and ht was going to need plenty of muscle. “Come on, Izzy,” he said. “Let’s vote!” Izzy shook his head. “It ain’t right, gov’nor.” “Let him do what he damn pleases,” Gordon told him. Izzy’s small face puckered up in lines of worry. “No, I don’t mean him. I mean this business of using ammonia. I know some of the gees trying to vote. They been paying me off — and that’s a I'etainer, you might say. Now this gang tries to poison them. I’m still running an honest beat, and I bloody well can’t vote for that! Uniform or no uniform, I’m walking beat today. And the first gee that gives trouble to the men who pay me gets a knife

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144 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES vvhere he eats. When I get paid foi- a job, I do the job.” Gordon watched him head down the block, and started after the little man. Then he grimaced. He went down the row, voting regularly. The Planters had things in order. There were small skirmishes here and there, and a small mob had obviously been hired to help the citizens in one place, towai'd the cheaper end of the beat. But the mess had al- ready been cleaned up when he arrived. It was the last place where he e.xpected to do his duty by Wayne’s administration, and he waited in line, watching the feet of the thug ahead of him. Then a voice hit at his ears, and he looked up to see Sheila Corey only two places in front of him. “Mrs. Mary Edelstein,” she was saying. The Wayne man nodded, without bothering to check, and there was no protest. She picked up a Wayne ballot, and dropped it in the box. Then her eyes fell on Gordon, and creased to slits. She hesi- tated for a second, bit her lips, and finally moved out into the crowd. He could see no sign of her as he stepped out a minute later, but the back of his neck prickled. Now, in the crowd of her own type, she’d have a chance that she couldn’t miss. Even if she’d only rented her services to the Planters, they’d protect her. And one cop, more or less, wouldn’t matter. He started out of the ci’owd, trying to act normal, but glanc- ing down to make sure the gun was in its proper position. Satis- fied, he pivoted suddenly. For a second, he spotted her behind him, before she could slip out of sight. Then a shout went up, yanking his eyes around with the rest of those standing near. The eyes had centered on the alleys along the street, and men were begin- ning to run wildly, while others were jerking out their weapons. He saw a gray car, almost big enough to be the mayor’s, coming up the street; on its side was painted the colors of the Plant- ers. Now it swerved, hitting a siren button. But it was too late. Ti'ucks shot out of the little alleys, jam- ming forwards through the people. There must have been fifty of them. One hit the big gray car, tossing it aside. It was Trench himself who leaped out, together with the driver. The trucks paid no attention, but bore down on the crowd. From one of them, a machine gun opened fire. Gordon dropped and began crawling in the only direction that was open, toward the

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 145 alleys from which the trucks had come. A few others had tided that, but most were darting back as tJiey saw the colors of Murphy’s Star Point gang on the trucks. Other guns began firing, and men were leaping from the trucks and pouring into the mob of Planters, forcing their way toward the booth in the center of the mess. It was a beautifully timed sur- prise attack. And it was a well armed one, even though guns were supiiosed to be so rare here. Gordon .stumbled into someone ahead of him, and saw it was Trench. He looked up, and straight into the swinging niuz- zle of the machine gun that had started the commotion. Trench was reaching for his revolver, but he was going to be too late. Gordon brought his up the extra half inch, aiming by the feel, and pulled the trigger. The man behind the machine gun dropped, with a sick expression, his fingers clutching at the blood that was beginning to saturate the clothing around his stomach. Trench had his gun out now, and was firing, after a single suryirised glance at Gordon. He waved back toward the crowd. But Gordon had spotted the open truck of the gray car, and it offered better safety than the emptying street. He shook his head, and tried to indicate it. Trench jerked his thumb, and leaped to his feet, rushing back. Some kind of a command sounded over the fighting, but Goi'don had nc time to try to puzzle it out. He saw another truck go b.\’, and felt a bullet miss him b.i' inches. Then his legs were under him, and he was sliding into the big luggage compartment, whci-e the metal would shield him from most of the danger. Something soft under his feet threw him down. He felt a bod,\' under him, and coldness washed over him before he could get his eyes down. The cold went awa.y, to be replaced by shock. Between his spread knees lay Whaler, bound and gagged, and with his face a bloody mass of torn and bruised flesh. Only the man’s open eyes showed that he was alive. Gordon reached for the gag, but the other held up his hands and pointed to the gun. It made sense. The knots were tight, but Gordon managed to get his knife under the rope around Whaler’s wrists and slice through it. 'I’he older man’s hands went out for the gun, and his eyes swung to- ward the street, while Gordon attacked the rope around his ankles. Then his own eyes swept what he could see from the opened lid of the trunk. The Star Point men wore win-

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146 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES ning, but it was tough going. They had fought their way al- most to the booth, but there a V of Planters gang cars had been gotten into position somehow, and gun fire was coming from behind them. As he watched, a huge man reached over one of the cars, picked up a Star Point man, and lifted him behind the barricade. The gag had just come out when the Star Point man jumped into view again, waving a rag ovaf his head and yelling. Cap- tain Trench followed him out, and began pointing toward the gray car where Gordon and W'ha- ler were. “They want me,” Whaler ga.sp- ed thickly. “Get out, Gordon, be- fore they gang up on us!” It made no sense, yet there was a small nucleus of men from both gangs trying to head toward the car. Gordon jerked his eyes back toward the alley on the other side. It went at an angle and would offer some protection, if they could make it. He looked back, just as bullets began to land against the metal of the car. Whaler held up one finger and put himself into a position to make a run for it. Then he brought the finger down sharply, and the two men leaped out. Trench’s ex-lMarine bellow carried over the fighting. “Get the old man!” Gordon had no time to look back. He hit the alley in five heart-ripping leaps and was around the bend. Then he swung just as Whaler made it. Bullets spatted again.st the walls, but at first Gordon thought they had both escaped uninjured. Then he saw the blood pumping under Whaler’s right shoulder. “Keep going!” Whaler ordered. A fresh cry from the street cut into his order, however. Gor- don raised a quick look, and then stepped further out to make sure. The surprise raid by the Star Pointers hadn’t been quite as much of a surprise as they’d expected. Coming down the street, with no regard for men trying to get out from their way, the trucks of the Croopsters were roaring all out, battering aside the few who could no; reach safety. There were no ma- chine guns this time, but the straightforward drive of the trucks themselves were danger enough. They smacked into the tangle of Star Point trucks, and came to a grinding halt, with men piling out ready for battle. Gor- don nodded. In a few minutes, Wayne’s supporters would have the booth again, and there’d be

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POLICE YOUR PLANET a long delay before any organ- ized search could be made for the two of them. He looked down at Whaler’s shoulder, and calculated as rapidly as his still-scant knowledge of the city pei'mittecl. “Come on,” he said finally. “Or should I carry you?” wiialer shook his head. “I’ll walk. Get me to a place where we can talk — and be damned to this. Gordon, I’ve got to talk — but I don’t have to live. I mean that!” Gordon started off, disregard- ing the words. A place of safety had to come first. And for what- ever reason, sooner or later Trench would be looking for them. It had taken something pretty serious to get the nucleus of Star Pointers working with the Planters. Nobody would trust a strange couple on a day like this — but there was one faint chance, if he was right. He picked his way down alleys and small sft’eets, with Whaler following. The older man kept trying to stop to speak, but Gordon gave him no chance. He was lucky to be in a poor section, w'here a few' thugs would be enough to control things, and where there was little chance of gang wars to hold him up. Too, the defeated hopeless condition of the poorer inhabitants of Marsport would make most of 147 the streets deserted at a time like this. It was further than he thought and he began to suspect he’d missed the waj', until he saw the drugstore. Now it all fell into place — the beat he’d first had with Izzy, before he was pulled off it and shipped out to the Nineteenth Precinct. He ducked down back alleys, until he reached the right sec- tion. Then there was no chance, ho wouldn’t have knowm the rear entrance if there 'had been one. He scanned the street and jump- ed to the door of the little liquor store and began banging on it. There was no answer, though he was sure the old couple lived just over the store. Here there had been no looting, apparently, since the section was too poor to pro- vide a good target. He began banging again. Finally, a feeble voice sounded from inside. “Who is it?” "A man in distress!” he yelled back. There w'as no way to iden- tify himself as the man who had chased off the racketeers and returned their money. He could only hope she would look. The entrance seal opened briefly. Then it flashed open all the w’ay. He motioned to Whaler, and jumped to help the failing man to the entrance. The old lady looked, then moved quickly to the other side. Whaler was

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148 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES about done in. He leaned on the two of them, panting. “Ach, God," she breathed. Her hands trembled as she relocked the .seal. Then she brushed the thin hair off her face, and point- ed. lie followed her up the stairs, carrying Whaler on his back. She opened a door, passed through a tiny kitchen, and threw open another door to a bedroom. The old man lay on the bed, and this time there was no ques- tion of concussion. A club had ba.shed in his head, bringing almost instant death. The woman nodded. "Yes. Papa is dead, God forliid it. He icoiikl try to vote. I told him and told him — and then . . . With my own hands, I carried him here.” Gordon felt sick. He started to turn, but she shook her head quickly. ‘‘No. Papa is dead. He need.s no bed's now, and your friend is suffering. Put him here.” She lifted the frail old body of the man from the bedding, and lowered him onto the floor with a strength that seemed im- possible to her. Then her hands were .gentle as she helped lower W'haler where the corpse had been. ‘‘I’ll get alcohol from below — and bandages and hot water.” Whaler opened his eyes, breathing stertorously. His face was blanched, and his clothes were a mess. But he protested as Gordon tried to ^trip them. “Let them go, kid. There’s no way to save me now. And listen!” "I’m listening!” “With your mind, Gordon, not your ears. You’ve heard a lot about Security. Well, I’m Secu- rity. Top level — policy for Mars. We never got a top man here without his being discovered and killed— a leak, somehow. That’s why we’ve had to work under all the cover — and against our own government, as always. Damned nationalism! Nobody knew I was here — men we thought loyal to u.s are with the graftei's. Trench was our man — we sent him here. Thought he was still level- ling. Sold us out! We’ve got junior men — down to your level, clerks, such things. We’ve got a dozen plans. Rut we’re not l oady for an emergency, and it’s here — now! Gordon, you’re a self-made louse, but you’re a man under- neath it somewhere. That’.s why we rate .vou hi.gher th.an you think you ai’e. That’s why I’m going to trust you — because I have to.” He swallowed, and the thin hand of the woman lifted biandy to his lips. “Papa,” she said slowly. “He was a clei’k once for Sectirity. But nobody came, nobody called . . .” She went back to ti’ying to bandage the bleeding bluish hole

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 149 in his chest. Whaler nodded faintly. “Probably what happened to a lot — men like Trench, supposed to build an organization, just leaving the loose ends hanging. But — Anyhow, they had me trail- ed since — since they yanked me off the Nineteenth — maybe be- fore. When I headed for the cable oflice, they picked me up, fast.” He groaned, gritted his teeth, and grimaced. Sweat popped out on his forehead, but his eyes neve)- left Gordon’s. “Hell’s going to pop. The Govei'iiment’s just waiting to .step in and chuck the government hei-e out the window. Earth wayitn to tiike ovei-,” “It should,” Goi'don said. “No! We’ve studied these things. Mars won’t give up — and Earth wants a plum, not respon- sibility. You’ll have civil war and the whole planetary development ruined. Security’s the only hope, Gordon — the only chance Mars had, h;is, or will have! Believe me, I know. Security has to be notified. There’s a code message I had ready — a message to a fi’iend— even you c;in send it; and they’ll be watching. I’ve got the basic plans in the book here — Aaah!” He slumped back. Gordon frowned, then found the book and pulled it out as gently as he could. It was a small black memo book, covered with pages of shorthand. The back was an address book, filled with names — many crossed out, as he could see. A sheet of paper in normal w'riting fell out. “The message,” Whaler said. His voice was getting thick and faint. He took another swallow of brandy. “Take it. You’re head of Security on Mars now. It’s all authorized in the plans there. You’ll need the brain.s and knowl- edge of the others — but they can’t act. You can — we know that much about you.” The old woman sighed, aj)d shook her he;»d o\er the band- ages. She put down tha* hot water and picked up the bottle of brandy, starting down the .stairs. “Gordon!” Whaler said faintly. He turned to put his head down. From the stair.s. a sudden cry and thump sounded, and something hit the floor. Gordon jumped toward the .sound, to find the old lady bending over the inert figure of Sheila Corey. “I heard someone,” the woman said. She stared at the brandy bottle sickly. “God in heavens, look at me. Am I a killer too that I should .strike a young and beautiful girl. She comes into my house, and I sneak behind her ... It is an evil time, young man. Here, you carry her inside. I’ll get some twine to tie her up. The idea, spying on you!”

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150 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Gordon picked the girl up roughly. That capped it, he thought. There was no way of knowing how much she’d heard, 01 whether she’d tipped others off. He .should have guessed she’d follow him, even if no one else did. And they hadn’t locked the seal pi'operly. But she was still out. He drop- ped her near the bed, and went over to Whaler. The man was dying now. “So Security wants me to con- tact the others in the book and organize things?’’ he asked. “Yes.” Whaler swallowed. His eyes were becoming unfocussed, but his mind was still on his duty. “Not a good chance, then — but a chance. Still time — I think. Gordon ?” “What else can I do?” Gordon asked. He knew it was no answer, but Whaler apparently accepted it as a promise. The gray-speck- led head relaxed and rolled side- ways on the bloody pillow. The hand that had been touching the book dropped. And the blood stopped spurting from around the hole in his chest. Gordon knew he was dead. “Dead,” he said to the woman as she came up with the twine. “Dead, fighting windmills. And maybe winning. I don’t know.” Then he turned towards Sheila. But in that, he was a split second too late. The girl came up from the floor with a single push of her arm. She pivoted on her heel, hit the door, and her heels were clattering on the stairs. Before (iordon could reach the entrance, she was whipping around into an alley. There, in the confusion of the maze of backstreet Marsport, no- body could catch her. He watched her go, sick inside, and the last ho saw was the hand she held up, waving the little black book at him! He turned back into the liquor shop, where the woman stood on the stairs watching. She seemed to read his face, and her own expression darkened. “I should have watched her. It is a bad day for me, young man. I failed papa, I failed the ■ poor man who died — and now I have failed you. It is better . . .” He caught her as she fell to- ward him. She relaxed after a second. “Upstairs, please,’’ she whispered. “Beside papa. There was nothing else. And these Mar- tian poisons — they are so sure, they don’t hurt — much. Five minutes more, I think. Stay with me. I’ll tell you how papa and I got married. I want somebody should know how it was with us once, together.” He stayed. Then he picked the two bodies up and moved them

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POLICE YOUR PLANET 151 from the floor onto the bed where he had first seen the old man. He moved Whaler’s body aside, and covered the two gently. Finally, he went down the stairs, carrying Whaler with him. The man’s weight was a stiff load, even on Mars, but somehow he couldn’t leave it with the old couple to add to the scandal around their death. He stopped finally, ten blocks of narrow alleys away, and put Whaler down. Security, if it ever came, would probably blame him for the death of Whaler — with some gentle hints from Trench. If it didn’t come, Trench knew that he had run off with Whaler, and there was already a suspicion in the Captain’s mind that he was somehow involved with the hated Solar Security. Sheila had the book, for that matter, with his name probably in it. And she’d probably heard Whaler call him the head of Security. He heard the sound of a mo- bile amplifier, and strained his ears toward it at last. There was a bustle from above beginning now, as if the tenements around the alley were coming to life, and it took time to focus through to the sound of the speaker. Then he got enough to know that Wayne had won a thumping victory of better than three to two. Murphy had conceded. Which meant that Trench was still Captain of the Seventh Precinct. He stared around, realizing it was dark. It must have been dark when he carried Whaler’s body out, now that he' thought of it; he’d taken no precautions against being seen, at least. How long had he sat after the olS lady died, battling with the same problem that was confronting him now? It didn’t matter. He summed it up once again. Head of the hated Security on Mars, with an enemy to testify to it against him, and with no information — that, too, was in enemy hands. A cop who’d aided the escape of the one man his Captain most wanted to keep. A man who was exiled by Security until his good behavior could win him a pardon, and who was the obvious fall guy for the murder of the head of Security’s whole Martian project. Whaler had been right. He was a man who got things done. Well done, in fact — cooked to a fraz- zle, with himself as the chief frazzle. Look out for number one, he told himself grimly! He dusted himself off, leaving Whaler where he lay, and went looking for a phone booth. (To Be Concluded)

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Staff Using THE POWER THAT CAN GET YOU

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THE CHART ROOM Where Readers Help Us Plot Our Orbit Dear Editor : I was uttei'Iy appalletl with the stoi’y in youi' magazine entitled "How Phonetic Can You Get?” by Lester del Rey. I am amazed that you permitted it to find refutce in your publication and I am sure that you have alienated hundi’eds if not thousands of po- tential readers. This is a serious matter that has been the life’s work of count- less (,'i'cat men, honest, sincere, humanitarian. This mocking, de- riding ai'ticle i.s enough to undue the work of these valiant work- ers who sacrifice time and labor (not to mention money, for most of them have been poor men who could not afford even the post- age involved in their effoi’ts). It seems to me that a magazine (hat puiports to be scientific woultl be constructively scientific ■■ not (lest)'ucti\'ely. 1 belicA c you owe some sort of an ai)ology to your j'cader.s — or some sort of an ex|ilanation — the wise.st thing- you could do would be to o)'dei‘ a scientifically cor- rect (valuation of the subject of phonetic I'eform for the enlight- enment of your public — to take away the bitter taste left by the unfortunate publication of that article. I, for one, am thoroughly dis- gusted with it, for I have spent over 15 years in the study and research of phonetics and ])ho- netic reform. S. C. Seegay 107 University Place New York o, N. Y. We received nevend letters complaining aboid the article on phoneticr, ityid all of them were prettg violent. might have worried ns more, in .spite of the .fact that the rest of the nutga- zine was well liked. But then wc began, to count the total com- ments, and -we found that those in favor of the article on pho- netic.s ontninnbered. those aguiiist it by something tike thirty to one. hi fact, by reader acclaim, it rated just belou: the two lead stoj'ie.s. Nevertheless, we felt that it was up to Lester del Rey to answer the complaints. And here%vith, we turn it over to hi)ii. Dear Phil : Out of the small batch you sent me to answer. I’ve chosen 153

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154 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES the letter by Mr. Seegay as the best example of the complaints. He seems to speak for them all, and more strongly than most. I can’t promise to answer this fully — not because I feel unsure of my gi'ound,, but simply be- cause most of his points are so completely unspecific that no an.swer is possible. This was true with others. However, before going on, I’d like to mention that I have read the vvoiks of Bell on Visible Speech. I first read that some tw'enty-two years ago, and have studied it thoroughly. That’s one of the reasons I no longer think there are any specific number of sounds to any language — if you count local usage, you I'un into so many shadings that even Bell’s remarkable system of writ- ing can’t cover it — much less the International Phonetic Alphabet. There are not, as some people claimed, exactly 39 sounds in the language. This comes from mis- taking the minimum necessary operations of the voder-vocoder gadgets for the exact sounds to be found in the language as used. How many sounds there are depends entirely upon how roughly you are willing to draw the limits. The “R” in 7oar is not the same sound at the be- ginning and end of the word. The “L” in little also changes from the first sound to the last. And there are distinctions made in English that have been largely dropped in American speech. So it’s a complicated subject, and anyone who can sit back and claim he has found exactly how many of anything goes into it has my admiration for his self- esteem — but not for his erudi- tion in the subject. I’ve been playing around with it foi a couple of decades, and expect to go on for quite a while more. As to .Mr. Seegay, I’m glad to learn that his estimate of the number of people alienated by the article was somewhat wrong. But I agree that phonetics was and is a serious business. .All of the advantages I listed at the beginning of that article as pos- sible from a truly phonetic sys- tem of writing English are very genuine advantages. Also, all of the disadvantages likely to ac- crue from the changeover (not the finally adopted system, but the period of transition) are also real. If Mr. Seegay had read the article carefully, I do not see how he could have missed the point that I was making. I deliberately chose as my hero a young man who w'as a wild-eyed enthusiast. I mentioned that he had been dabbling with the subject the long period of some two weeks! I painted him as a know-it-all and a dilettante of the worst kind —

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THE CHART ROOM 155 someone generally referred to as a goon among experts in any field. My ba.sic point was never that phonetics is not a serious busi- ness. It was simply that it is Riuch too complicated and too un- rewarding for any young buck- eroo to come into it and simply gain mastery in a week. It is something that will take years of work by the finest possible minds. Sprague makes it much too sim- ple in his article, and I’m sure he knows this. I’ve seen some of the examples of new phonetic systems that are constantly being sprung on friends, relatives — and some- times the public — by enthusiasts who are freshly converted to the field and consider it simple. I saw one in a competing magazine of several yeais ago, since antholo- gized. In that, the writer hadn’t even realized that he was using one symbol foi’ as many as three conflicting sounds, and some- times using as many as four symbols foj' what was roughly the same sound! And a man such as Joe, as I painted him, would naturally rush in where angels have had their tootsies burned, and then run back screaming for merc.v when it all didn’t turn out to be a simple, easy -job — w'hich it is not. No crack against phonetics was intended. None was taken by most of your readers, ob- viously. As to the use of the W'ord scieritific, I resent having been accused of not being scientific in a subject which has darned little to do with science! Writing is not scientific — the only scientific way in which we now write is by dictating onto some form of record, tape, or film. Tliere, the squiggles are really scientific re- productions of our sounds — if they weren’t so complicated that we can’t learn to read them flu- ently. Writing is at best a matter of convention. I prefer to refer to rational orthography, rather than to phonetics, for that rea- son. We’re lucky to have a good — if somewhat limited — alpha- bet, but our use of it — even in the phonetic systems — is dic- tated by custom and choice, not by any rules or science. One sound for one symbol is a nice theory, and it sounds like science. But none of the methods of re- producing the words other than as writing seem to back it up. The most recent work in finding a method whereby the deaf can read the sounds bn a small screen actually uses several “symbols” for each sound. One sound for one symbol happens to be a sim- ple, convenient ideal for those of us who use our type of orthog-

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156 SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES raphy. I’m for it, but that has nothing to do with science. I’d love to see a scientifically correct evaluation of the subject of phonetic reform. I’d also like to see a scientifically correct evaluation of the type of human being we should permit to propa- gate the species. But I should then like to find out who is equipped to conduct such an in- ve.stigation, and what can bo done about it. Bell’s Visible Speech came out a great many years ago. It was the closest thing to a scientific appi'oach to writing that I have seen. It was based upon the idea that sound is a product of the arrangement of the various speaking organs, together with such things as breathing, etc. Professor Bell then invented a set of symbols which could be blended together to depict exactly how those organs were arranged — and still form a single "letter” in the blend. He even achieved a surprisingly graceful result. With it, it is possible for a trained linguist to pronounce ac- curately sounds which he has never heard before, just from looking at the symbol! What was the result of all that? As far as enlightening the public is concerned, nothing. Sprague is correct in assuming that people who can read have a vested interest in the system now existing. They see no reason to give up their hard won ability to make sense out of nonsense. And those who can’t read, of course, have nothing to do with Visible Speech. Anyhow, who determines what is the correct symbol for a sound which is not the same in various sections? This is not the lan- guage of an isolated little com- munity. We have great divisions in it. The Englishman might very seriously object if he saw the same sound represented in bath as he sees it in cat; the American would consider it un- phonetic if he had to learn to spell two sounds (to him the same sound) with two symbols! I have no way of knowing what Mr. Seegay’s actual experi- ence 'or background in the sub- ject of phonetics is. He has stated that he has been working over fifteen years in it. So have I. And yet — and this is going to be below the belt, Mr. Seega.v, if you see this, but you bi'ought it on yourself by your own tone — he does not choose the simplest form of spelling a word, even when that spelling is correct, and the other form not coj'rect in its current use. You’ll notice that he has spelled “undo” as if it were "undue.” I do not question the fact that Mr. Seegay knows the distinction. His letter is literate,

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THE CHART ROOM and he almost certainlj' does know the difference. But habit has cauKht up — and he has spelled the word with a form which is certainly loaded with a silent letter which does not exist in the correct form. When such things happen to even such men, it proves two things. First, the need for spell- ing reform is very genuine. Sec- ond, the achievement of it is about as close as the achievement of harmony in this split world! To Mr. Seegay, my apologies for singling out his letter. But since your magazine is short for space this month, I felt that the use of more of these letters — mostly about the same — would perform no useful function. And I felt that Mr. Seegay had ex- pressed himself well enough to make the point for the others as well. Lester del Key 151 West End Ave. New York City Okay, Les, thanks for "clear- ing the air,” and the next time, give vs warning before you go into n war where wc have to serve as the battlefield. If your piece did that, what will your letter do? Dear Editor: No! This is in references to any 157 and all serials. Again I will reit- erate— No ! Not that I have anything against serials as long stories; it’s the long stories when pre- sented as serials that makes m.v blood boil. Please — or I will let your otherwise passable 'zine languish on the stands three days before I buy a copy. Suggestion: At the end of a year’s publication of SFAM, compile The Dissecting Table into a book. This inspired bit of caustic commentary should be priceless. Thei’e is only one draw- back to the idea that I can see — What will happen when dear Damon finds he has to review the compilation ? Hoping to see you in Philly. . . . Larry Maddock 315 Canal St. Eaton Rapids, Mich. We’ll try to make sure that we don’t use serials you won’t be glad to see us use. But beyond that, we can’t promise. You know, I like that idea of seeing Damon KniglU have to re- view a copy of his own collected reviews. Egad, what the man would find to say. Think of the bitter comments he might make on the pointlessness of the plot, on the lack of a consistency of mood, and on the tveakness of the characters, who seem to be only a scattering of names.

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LET'S GET TOGETHER! You'll be disappointed if you miss all the fine stories coming up in SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES. So will we— since we’re trying to make sure that everyone can get his copy regularly. But we can’t always keep up with the demand. We want to save you the tedious work of shopping around from newsstand to newsstand, naturally. You also want to get your issues regularly and with the least possible trouble. Okay, let’s get together with the handy little coupon below. Fill it out and be sure of getting every copy delivered right to your door every month! Then you won’t have anything to be sorry about — and we’ll be able to give you the special service we want our readers to have. SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES Future Publications, Inc. 80 Fifth Avenue, New York, N. Y. Enclosed find $ for which send me issues subscription to SCIENCE FICTION ADVENTURES. Nome Street & No. City Zone State. RATES: $3.50 for 12 issues in U. S.; $4.50 in Canada; $5.00 elsewhere.

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i^TAnxiS^JopScience-FictmThr^ (Continued (rom Badi Cover! mm u sni'-xr,-: ,;..w Mili.! ,Mk'th l|... iks /'.MU.S In S 1 .III) ' l\.ii 1 1 Mill- 1 ' (I ;im llli'i I VI, dice I I I I liU I if t 1 II- I II I II I ' ' . p.'l'k llii' iii):i^'iii il ii>ii III, it Will in.iki’ ,-i I .--I;, .Ml'- A > Till. ii.iitiilHii^ 1.1 Did sr I l.lNCK-hUTloN l;(Hl)^ ci.i'i: d ;i til -iiiiiitiN-i (,t Dll- r,iti iii.ii Si |. Ill I l-'i. I iN!i l,;is w 1,11 ;i ].|;ii r ,i.- .-ili i;ill"H I all I >1, rr >.[ I.•-I.•I•|||. l’ia( )l d a \.l I'll In I'iN- .11 iV till- hll••'! w iMaail u ,i> ci i:;>’ ala.iil I In- i nsI. I'i. I^d aii.i: k.'-«ni Inaiiil- ,, I NO Duoi oi Compiicated Ru/es I. ;i. Tia- ..:..-ala.n -S tl- C ail) is Kai li nia- ntciillt II;- |;.‘aiii "l' lviit-n> i- ails all l!>r i>in:ni,s- S’li. 1 lllli- Kacll .'ili-i I lull IS lll-MTlhi.'l Will IN ADV'AN'T;. Ill 111.. Chili'.s iiiti.n.,siih(r li... laill..- liii. "Tlniikd 1" M will I ni I II i'll- II 111). -na 1 nrw Ixmk i llll) Tn l’KO\ K ' I . w r a>-.. niakuiK ll'i' ania/iiijf .ilf.-r |.> inw.. ni.-r^sii(.i s ’ Ymiii -il ANY :i ..f H-- n.-w Si . -K.i',...n iiia.'ti I |M... ( .I...M ! ii)-..l .III Di.. r.a.-k rn\c.|) — .AT OXl.V *1 I' OH Al.l, TllKKI-: T>' i. ai mui- iTil'l liiiiik.s I'c.r I'lnuiii:; till, 'iilii.r is smii' lii'.sl s, In I II 111 Tills |i|u I al iiiri-i ma' has !■ t.i lx w 1 1 1n il-awi, at am nnn. Sn mail |i.dt,anl lilDHT NOW ii. S( IKM K-H( T!ON H(M)K CLl H. DcpI. SF(1-.T till Inxik.s anil liisi si.li.i-iioii. Vim uill liDI I : all rli)|.. (plus .'i-w ri-nts .sliiiijiiiu; rhao:*'’. ami imtoll m.' as a .ai'MilM.i of III'- S.-:..|ii-.- |-'l(-ll■lll I'.oiik I'liil). I.Xi-.v iiMilill) si'inl ,'iir thf Clilh's In-i' liiilli‘lin, ‘ '|'hin;;s in riiii:.-, ' SM iliai ; i!ia\ .lr-ri.|i. ulii-itii'i (II iini 1 wish (d ti’C'.ji.c thf I'liiniiik' monthh .scicci inn i|.d(.| iln.d ilii'ii'iii l•'lll ranli hunk 1 ani'.-tn. [ Will ya.v only $1 pln.' nnlhin«. NO POSTAGE NEEDED (/'/. (dr lily Zone Stale Ofjvf ili^hdy liifjvrt'iit in Cnnuiln: lOS Biiritl Sf., Toronto, 2. (rood only in IJ,S..4. nnil Canada,

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SCIENCE-FICTION BOOK CLUB, DepL SFC-3 i ' ^ I Molt Posicofd GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK J See Other Side

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