THf MA~AZIH"£or;

Time Patrol (novelet) by POUL ANDERSON 3

Nobody Hunts -Witches (verse) by P. M. HUBBARD 35

With Malice to Come (J vignettes) by JAMES BLISH 36

Free Dirt by CHARLES BEAUMONT 41

James hy GORDON R. DICKSON 49

Mary Celestialby MIRIAM ALLEN DEFORD & ANTHONY BOUCHER 54

Recommended Reading (a department) by THE EDITOR 69

Pattern for Survival by RICHARD MATHESON 75

Eleventh Commandment (novelet) by J. T. McINTOSH 78

Who's Counting? by RODGER LOWE lIS

The Tin Halo by JOHN NOVOTNY 117

Imagine by FREDRIC BROWN 127

Coming Attractions appears on page II4

COVER PAINTING BY STANLEY MELTZOFF

(flight from the prison planet)

Joseph W. Ferman, PUBLISHER Anthony Boucher, EDITOR

The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Volume 8, No.5, Whole No. 48, May, 1955. Publishedmonthly by Fantasy House, Inc., at 35~ a copy. Annual suhscription, 14.00 in U. S. and Possessions; 15.00in "all other countries. Publication office, Concord, N. H. Gener.loffices, 471 ParI{ Avenue, New York 22,N. Y. Editorial office, 2643 Dana St., Berkeley 4, Calif. Entered as second class matter at the Post Office atConcord. N. H. under the Act of March 3, 1879. Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1955, by Fantasy HouwInc. All rights, including translation i"to other languages, reserveJ. Suhmissions must he accompanietllJynamped, self-addressed envelopes,. the Publisher assumes no responsibj/ityfor return ofunsolidted manuscripts.

]. Francis McComas, ADVISORY EDITOR; Robert P. Mills, ),{ANA-GINO BDITOR; George SaUer, ART DIRECTOR;HOlVllrJ K. Pruyn, PIlODUCTION MANAGER; Charles Angojf, ASSOCIATE EDITOR; Gloria LevitllS, ASSISTANT

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Space operas are IIll very wellJ ' but for relll honest swashbuckling adventure,.spiced with intellectual paradoxes ana startling histoNcal contrasts, .giveflU that rarer IJrt form, the time opera. No man in science fiction today can"·buckle a brighter swash or turn a prettier paradox than PONI Anderson, whohttings up to date the spirit of such classics as Jack Witliamson's THE LE­

GION OF TIME and Malcolm Jameson's ANACHRON, INC. series in thisnovelet of rousing adventure ana !Jreathless storytelling. (And will yourecogni(e the !Jook in which Manse Everard finds the clue to one of Time'smost audacious crimes?)

crime Patrolhy POUL ANDERSON

MEN WANTED: 21-40, PREP.

single, mil. or tech. exp., good phy­~ique, for high-pay work with for"eign travel. Engineering StudiesCo., 305 E. 45, 9-12 & 2-6.

"The work is, you understand,somewhat ttnusual," said Mr. Gor­don. "And confidential. I trust youc~ keep a secret?"

"Normally," said Manse Everard."Depends on what the secret is, ofcourse."

Mr. Gordon smiled. It was acurious smile, a closed curve ofhis lips which was not quite likeany Everard had seen before. Hespoke easy colloquial General Amer;ican, and wore an undistinguishedbusiness suit, but there was a for"'eigness over him which was morethan dark complexion, beardlesscheeks, and the inc9ngruity of Mon-

golian eyes above a thin Caucasiannose. It was hard to place.

"We're not spies, if that's whatyou're thinking," he said.

Everard grinned. "Sorry. Pleasedon't think I've gone as hystericalas the rest of the c;ountry. I've neverhad access to confidential data any"way. But your ad mentioned over­seas operations, and the way thingsare. .• I'd like to keep my pass"

.port, you understand."He was a big man, with blocky

shoulders and a slightly battered­face under crew-cut brown hair.His papers lay before him: Armydischarge, the record of work lin·several places as a mechanical en-:gineer. Mr. Gordon had seemed.barely to glance at them. ..

The office was ordinary, a deskand a coupIe of chairs, a filing

3

4

cabinet, and a door leading off inthe rear. A window opened on thebanging traffic of New York, sixstories down.

"Independent spirit," said theman behind the desk. "I like that.So many of them come cringing in,as if they'd be grateful for a kick.Of course, with your backgroundyou aren't desperate yet. You canstill get work, even in - ah, Ibelieve the current term is a rollingreadjustment."

"I was interested," said Everard."I've worked abroad, as you cansee, and would like to travel again.But frankly, I still don't have thefaintest idea what your outfit does."

"We do a good many things,"said Mr. Gordon. "Let me see ...you've been in combat. France andGermany." Everard blinked; hispapers had included a record ofmedals, but he'd sworn the man had­n't had time to read them. "Urn ...would you mind grasping thoseknobs on the arms of your chair?Thank you. Now, how do you react

- to physical danger?"Everard bristled. "Look here -"Mr. Gordon's eyes flicked to an

instrument on his desk: it wasmerely a' box with an indicatorneedle and a couple of dials. "Nevermind. What are your views on in­ternationalism?' '_

"Say, now-""Communism?-Pascism? Women?

Y'our personal ambitions? ..•That's all. You don't have to an-swer." ,

FANTASy'AND SCIENCE FICTION

"What the devil is this, anyway?"snapped Everard~

"A bit of psychological testing.Forget it. I've no interest in youropinions except as they reflect basicemotional orientation." Mr. Gor·don leaned back," making a bridge ofhis fingers. "Very promising so far.Now, here's the set-up. We're doingwork which. is, as I've told you,highly confidential. We ... ah... we're planning to spring asurprise on our competitors." He.chuckled. "Go ahead and report meto the FBI' if you wish. We've al-;ready been investigated and have.a clean bill of health. You'll findthat we really do carryon world­wide financial and engineering op­erations. But there's another aspectof the job, and that's the one wewant men for. I'll pay you onehundred dollars to go in the backroom and take a set of tests. It'lllast ab9ut three hours. If you don'tpass, that's the end of it. If youdo, we'll sign you on, tell you thefacts, and start you training. Areyou game?"

Everard hesitated. He had a feel­ing of being rushed. There wasmore to this enterprise than anoffice and one bland stranger. Still

Decision. "I'll sign on after you'vetold me what it's all about."

"As you wish," shrugged Mr.Gordon. "Suit yourself. The testswill say whether you're going to ornot, you know. We use some veryadvanced techniques."

TIME PATROL

That, at least, was entirely true.Everard knew a little somethingabout modern psychology: encepha­lographs, association tests, the Min­nesota profile. He did not recognizeany of the hooded machines thathummed and blinked around him,The questions which the assistant- a white-skinned, completely hair..less man of indeterminate age, witha heavy accent and no facial ex"pression - fired at him seemed ir...relevant to anything. And whatwas the metal cap he was supposedto wear on his head, into what didthe wires from it lead?

He stole glances at the meterfaces, but the letters and numeralswere like nothing he had seen be­fore. Not English, French, Russian,Greek, Chinese, anything belongingto 1954 A.D. Perhaps he was a1...ready beginning to realize the truth,even then.

A curious self..knowledge grewin him as the tests proceeded. Man..son Emmert Everard, age 30, .one­time lieutenant in the U. S. ArmyEngineers, design and productionexperience in America, Sweden,Arabia; still a bachelor, though withincreasingly wistful thoughts abouthis married friends, no current girl,no close ties of any kind; a bit of abibliophile, a dogged poker player,fondness for sailboats and hor~es

and rifles, a camper and fishermanon his vacations ... He had knownit all, of course, but only as isolatedshards of fact. It was peculiar, thissudden sensing of himself as an

5

integrated organism, this realiza­tion that each characteristic was asingle inevitable facet· of an overallpattern.

He came out exhausted and wring­ing wet. Mr. Gordon offered hima cigarette and swept eyes rapidlyover a series of coded sheets whichthe assistant gave him. Now andthen he muttered a phrase: "­Zeth-2o cortical .•• undifferenti­ated evaluation here . . • psychicreaction to antitoxin ••• weak­ness in central coordination .'. ."He had slipped into an accent, alilt and a treatment of vowels whichwere like nothing Everard hadheard in a long experience of theways in which the English languag.ecan be mangled.

It was half an hour before helooked up again. Everard was gettingrestless, faintly angry at this cava­lier treatment, but interest had kepthim sitting quietly. Mr. Gordonflashed improbably white teeth in abroad, satisfied grin. "Ah ... atlast. Do you know, I've had toreject twenty-four candidates al­ready? But you'll do. You'll defi­nitely do."

"Do for what?" Everard leanedforward, conscious of his pulse pick...ing up.

"The Patrol. You're going to bea kind of policeman."

"Yeah? Where?""Everywhere. And everywhen.

Brace yourself, this is going to be, ashock.

"_You see, our company, while

'.6

legitimate enough, is only a frontand a source of funds. Our real busi­ness is patrolling time."

II

The Academy was in the Ameri­can West. It was also in the Oligo­cene period, a warm age of forestsand grasslands when man's rattyancestors scuttled away from thetread of giant mammals. It had beenbuilt a thousand years ago; it wouldbe maintained for half a million­long enough to graduate as many asthe Time Patrol would require­and then be c~refully demolished sothat no trace would remain. Laterthe glaciers would come, and therewould be men, and in the yeari9352 A.D. (the 784Ist year of theMorennian Triumph) these menwould find a way to travel throughtime and return to the Oligocene toestablish the Academy.

It was a complex of long lowbuildings, smooth curves and shift­ing colors, spreading over a greens­ward between enormous ancienttrees. Beyond it, hills and woodsrolled off to a great brown river,knd at night you could sometimeshear the bellowing of. titanotheresor the distant squall of a sabertooth.

Everard stepped out of the timeshuttle - a big, featureless metalbox~ with a dryness in his throat.It felt like his first day in the Army,twelve years ago - or fifteen totwenty million years in the future,if you preferred. Lonely, and help­less, and wishing desperately for

FANTASY AND SCIE~CE FICTION

some honorable way to go home. Itwas a small comfort to see the othershuttles, discharging a total of fifty­odd young men and women. Therecruits moved slowly together,forming an awkward clump. Theydidn't speak at first, but stood star­ing at each other. Everard recog­nized a Hoover collar and a bowler;the styles of dress and hairdo movedup through 1954 and on. Where wasshe from, the girl with the iridescentclose-fitting culottes and the greenlipstick and the fantastically wavedyellow hair? No ... when?

A man of about 25 happened tostand beside him - obviously Brit­ish, from the threadbare tweedsand the long, thin face. He seemedto be hiding a truculent bitternessunder his carefully mannered ex­terior. "Hell," said Everard."Might as well get acquainted." Hegave his name and origin.

"Charles Whitcomb, London,.1947," said the other shyly. "I wasjust demobbed - RAF - and thislooked good. Now I wonder."

"It may be," said Everard, think­ing of the salary. Fifteen thousand ayear to start with! How' did theyfigure years, though? Must be interms of one's actual duration-sense.

A man strolled in their direction.He was a slender young fellow in askin-tight gray uniform with a deep"blue cloak which seemed to twinkle,as if it had stars sewn in. His facewas pleasant, smiling, and he spokegenially with a neutral accent:"Hello, there! Welcome to the

TIME PATROL

Academy. I take it yot.l all knowEnglish?" Everard noticed a man inthe shabby remnants of a Germanuniform, and a Hjndu, and otherswho were probably from severalforeign countries.

"We'll use English, then, tillyou've all learned Temporal." Theman lounged easily, hands on hiships. "My name is Dard KeIrn. I~as born in - let me see - 9573Christian reckoning, but I've madea specialty of your period. Which,by the way, extends from 1850 to1975, though you're all from somein-between years. I'ill your officialwailing wall, if something goeswrong.

"This place is run along differentlines from what you've probablybeen expecting. We don't turn outmen en masse, so the elaboratediscipline of a classroom or an armyis not required. Each of you willhave individual as well as generalinstruction. We don't need to pun­ish failure in studies, because the.preliminary tests have' guaranteedthere won't be any and made thechance of failure on the job small.Each of you has a high maturityrating in terms of your particularcultures. However, the variation inaptitudes means that if we're to de­velop each individual to t'he fullest,there must be personal guidance.

"There's little formality here be­yond normal courtesy. You'll havechances for recreation as well asstudy. We never expect more ofyou than you can. give. I might add

7

that the hunting and fishing a;restill pretty good even in this neigh~

borhood, and if you fly just a fewhundred miles they're fantastic.

"Now, if there aren't any ques­tions, please follow me and I'll getyou settled."

Dard KeIrn demonstrated thegadgets in atypical room. They werethe sort you would have expectedby, say, 2000 A.D: unobtrusivefurniture readily adjusted to a per­fect fit, refresher cabinets, screenswhich could draw on a huge libraryof recorded sight and sound forentertainment. Nothing too ad­vanced, as yet. Each cadet had hisown room in the "dormitory" build­ing; meals were in a central refec­tory, but arrangements could bemade for private parties. Everardfelt the tension easing within him.

A welcoming banquet was held.The courses were familiar, but thesilent machines which rolled up toserve them were not. There waswine, beer, an ample supply oftobacco. Maybe something had beenslipped into the food, for Everardfelt as euphoric as the others. He.ended up' beating out boogie on apiano while half a dozen peoplemade the air hideous with attemptsat song.

Only Charles Whitcomb heldback, sipping a moody glass over in acorner by himself. Dard KeIrn wastactful and did not try to force himinto joining.

Everard decided he was going tolike it. But: the work and the or-

8

ganization and the purpose werestill shadows.

"Time travel was discovered at aperiod wh~n the Chorite Heresi­archy was breaking up," said Keirnin the lecture hall. "You'll study thedetails later; for now, take my wordthat it was a turbulent age, whencommercial and genetic rivalry wasa tooth-and-claw matter betweengiant combines, anything went, andthe various governments were pawnsin a galactic game. The time effectwas the byproduct of a search for ameans of instantaneous transporta­tion, which some of you will realizerequires infinitely discontinuousfunctions for its mathematical de­scription ... as does travel intothe past. I won't go into the theoryof it - you'll get some of that inthe physics classes - but merelystate that it involves the concept ofinfinite-valued relationships in acontinuum of 4N dimensions, whereN is the total number of particles inthe universe.

"Naturally, the group which dis­covered this, the Nine, were awareof the possibilities. Not only com­mercial - trading, mining, andother enterprises you can readilyimagine - but the chance of strik­ing a death-blow at their enemies.You see, time is variable; the past

.can be changed -""Question!" It was the girl from

1972, Elizabeth Gray, who was arising young physicist in her ownperiod.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"Yes?" said KeIrn politely."I think you're describing a logi­

cally impossible situation. I'll .grantthe possibility of time travel, seeingthat we're here, but an event cannotboth have happened and not havehappened. That's self-contradic­tory."

"Only if you insist on a logicwhich is not Aleph-sub-Aleph-val­ued," said Keirn. "What happens islike this: suppose I went back intime and prevented your fatherfrom meeting your mother. Youwould never have been born. Thatportion of universal history wouldread differently ; it would alwayshave been differ.ent, though I would·retain memory of the 'original' stateof affairs."

,,Well, howabout doing the same toyourself? Would you cease existing?"

"No. Because I would belong tothe section of history prior to myown intervention. Let's apply it toyou. If you went back to, I wouldguess, 1946, and worked to preventyour parents' marriage in 1947, youwould still have existed in thatyear; you would not go out of ex­istence just because you had influ­enced events. The same would applyeven if you had only been in 1946one microsecond before shooting theman who would otherwise have ·be­come your father."

"But then I'd exist without­without an origin I" she protested."I'd have life, and memories, and• • . everything • • • though noth­ing had produced them."

TIME PATROL

KeIrn shrugged. "What of it?You insist that the causal law, orstrictly speaking the conservation­of-energy law, involves only con­tinuous functions. Actually, dis­continuity is entirely possible."

He laughed and leaned on thepulpit. "Of course, there are im­possibilities," he said. "You couldnot be your own mother, for in...stance, because of sheer genetics. Ifyou went back and married yourformer father, the children wouldbe different, none of them you,because each would have only halfyour chromosomes."

Clearing his throat: "Let's notstray from the subject. You'll learnthe details in other classes. I'm onlygiving you a general background.To continue: the Nine saw thepossibility of going back in timeand preventing their enemies fromever having gotten started, evenfrom ever being born. But then theDaneelians appeared."

For the first time, his casual, half­humorous air dropped, and he stoodthere as a man very naked and alonein the presence of the unknowable.He spoke quietly: "The Daneeliansare part of the future - our future,more than a million years ahead of·me. Man has evolved into some­thing ... impossible to describe.You'll probably never meet aDaneelian. If you ever should, itwill be . . . rather a shock. Theyaren't malignant - nor benevolent- they are as far beyond anythingwe can know or feel as we are be-

9

yond those insectivores who aregoing to be our ancestors. It isn'tgood to meet that sort of thing faceto face.

"They were 'simply concernedwith protecting their own existence.Time travel was old when theyemerged, there had been uncounta­ble opportunities for the foolish andthe greedy and the mad to go backand turn history inside out. Theydid not wish to forbid the travel- it was part of the complex whichhad led to them - but they hadto regulate it. The' Nine were pre­vented from carrying out theirscheme~. And the Patrol was· set upto police the time lanes.

"Your work will ~ mostly withinyour o\vn eras, unless you graduateto unattached status. YQU will live,on the whole, ordinary lives, familyand friends as usual; the secret partof those lives will have the satisfac..tions of good pay, protection, occa­sional vacations in some very in..teresting places, supremely worth­while work. But you will always beon call. Sometimes you will helptime travelers who ·have gotten intodifficulties, one way or another.Sometimes you will work on mis­sions, the apprehension of would-bepolitical or military or economicconquistadors. Sometimes the Patrolwill accept damage as done, andwork instead to set up counteractinginfluences in later periods which willswing history back to the desiredtrack.

"I wish all of you luck."

10

The first part of instruction wasphysical and psychological. Everardhad never realized how his own lifehad -crippled him, in body andmind;. he was only half the man hecould be. It came hard, but in theend it was joy to feel the utterlycontrolled power of muscles, theemotions which had grown deeperfor being disciplined, the swiftnessand precision of conscious thought.

Somewhere along the line, he wasthoroughly conditioned against re­vealing anything about the Patrol,even hinting at its existence, to anyunauthorized person. It was simplyimpossible for him to do so, underany influence, as imposSible as jump­ing to the moon. He also learned theins and outs of his 20th-century pub­lic persona.

Temporal, the artificial languagewith which Patrolmen from all agescould communicate without beingunderstood by strangers, was a mira­cle of logically organized expressive­ness.

He Jhought he knew somethingabout combat, but he had to learn.the tricks and the weapons of fiftythousand years, all the way from aBronze Age rapier to a cyclic blastwhich could annihilate a continent.Returned to his' own era, he wouldbe given a limited arsenal, but hemight be called into other periodsand overt ...anachronism was rarelypermissible.

There was the study of history,science, arts and philosophies, finedetails of dialect and ·mannerism.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FIcnON

These last were only for the 1850­1975 period; if he had occasion to goelsewhen he would pick up specialinstruction from a hypnotic condi­tioner. It was such machines that.made it possible to complete histraining in three months.

He learned the organization ofthe Patrol. Up "ahead" lay the darkmystery which was Daneelian civ­ilization, but there was little directcontact with it. The Patrol was setup in semi-military fashion, withranks though without special formal­ities. History was divided intomilieus, with a head office located ina major city for a selected twenty­year period (disguised by someostensible activity such as com­merce) and various branch offices.For his time, there were threemilieus: the Western world, head­quarters in London; Russia, inMoscow; Asia, in Peiping; each inthe easy-going years 1890-1910,when concealment was less difficultthan in later decades, which werestaffed by smaller offices such asGordon's. An ordinary attachedagent lived as usual in his own time,often with an authentic job. Com­munication between years was bytiny robot shuttles or by courier,with automatic shunts to keep suchmessages from piling up at once.

The entire organization was sovast that he could not really appre­ciate the fact. He had entered some­thing new and exciting, that was allhe truly grasped with all layers ofconsciousness . • . as yet.

TIME PATROL

He found his instructors friendly,ready to gab. The grizzled veteranwho taught him to handle space'"ships had fought in the Martianwar of 3890. "You boys catch onfairly quick," he said. "It's reallyhell, though, teaching pre':industrialpeople. We've quit even trying togive them more than the rudiments.Had a Roman here once - Caesar'stime - fairly bright boy, too, buthe never got it through his head thata machine can't be treated like ahorse. As for those Babylonians­time travel just wasn't in theirworld-picture. We had to give thema battle-of-the-gods routine."

"What routine are you givingus?" asked Whitcomb.

The spaceman regarded him nar'"rowly. "The truth," he said at last."As much of it as you can take."

"How did you get into this job?""Oh ... I was shot up off Jupi­

ter. Not much left of me. Theypicked me up, built me a new body- since none of my people werealive, and I was presumed dead,there didn't seem much point ingoing back home. No fun livingunder the Guidance Corps. So Itook this position here. Good com'"pany, easy living, ..and furloughs in alot of eras." The spaceman grinned."Wait till you've been to the de­cadent' stage of the Thi-rd Matri...archy! You don't know what fun. "IS.

Everard said nothing. He was toocaptured by the spectacle of Earth,rolling enormous against the stars.

II

He made friends with his fellowcadets~ They were a congenial bunch.- naturally, with the same typebeing picked for Patrollers, bold andintelligent minds. There were acouple of romances. Everard remem­bere,d Portrait of fenny, but thesewere not so doomed. Marriage wasentirely possible, with the couplepicking some year in which to setup housekeeping. He himself likedthe girls, but kept his head.

Oddly, it was the silent andmorose Whitcomb with whom hestruck up the closest friendship.There was something appealingabout the Englishman - he was socultured, such a thoroughly goodfellow, and still somehow lost.

They were out riding one day­horses whose remote ancestors scam'"pered before their gigantic descend...ants. Everard had a rifle, in thehope of bagging a shovel-tusker hehad seen. Both wore Academy uni­form, light grays which were cooland silky under the hot' yellow sun.

"I wonder we're allowed to hunt,"remarked the American. "SupposeI shoot a sabertooth - in Asia, Isuppose - which was .originallyslated to eat one of those pre-human'insectivores. Won't that change thewhole future?"

"No," said Whitcomb. He had'progressed faster in studying thetheory of time travel. "You see, it'srather as if the continuum were amesh of tough rubber bands. It isn'teasy to distort it, the tendency isalways for it to snap back to its,

12

uh, 'former' shape. One individual-insectivore doesn't- matter, it's thetotal genetic pool of their specieswhich led to man.

"Likewise, if I killed a sheep inthe Middle Ages, I wouldn't wipeout all its later descendants, maybeall the sheep there were by 1940.Rather, those would still be there,unchanged down to their very genesin spite of a different ancestry­because over so long a period oftime, all the sheep, or men, aredescendants of all the earlier sheepor men. Compensation, don't -yousee; somewhere along the line, someother ancestor supplies the genesyou thought you had eliminated.

"In the same way . . . oh, sup­pose I went back and preventedBooth from killing Lincoln. UnlessI took very elaborate precautions, itwould probably happen that some"one else did the shooting and Boothgot blamed anyway..

"That resilience of time is thereason travel is permitted at all. Ifyou want to change things, youhave to go about it just right andwork very hard, usually."

His mouth twisted. "Indoctrina­tion! We're told again and againthat if we interfere, there's going tobe punishment for us. I'm not al..lowed to go back and shoot thatruddy bastard Hitler in his cradle.I'm supposed to let him grow up ashe did, and start the war, and killmy girl."

Everard rode. quietly for a while.The only noise was the squeak of

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

saddle leather and the rustle of longgrass. "Oh," he said at last. "I'msorry. Want to talk about it?"

"Yes. I do. But there isn't much.She was in the WAAF - MaryNelson - we were going to get mar­ried after the war. She was in Lon­don in '44. November seventeenth,I'll never· forget that date. The v­bombs got her. She'd gone over to aneighbor's house in Streatham­was on furlough, you see, stayingwith her mother. That house wasblown up; her own home wasn'tscratched."

Whitcomb's cheeks were blood­less. He stared emptily before him."It's going to be jolly hard not to•.. not to go back, just a fewyears, and see her at the very least.Only see. her again ... No! Idon't dare."

Everard laid a hand on the man'sshoulder, awkwardly, and they rodeon in silence.

The class moved ahead, each athis own pace, but there was enoughcompensation so that all graduatedtogether: a brief ceremony followedby a huge party and many maudlinarrangements for later reunions.Then they went back to the sameyears they had come from: the samehour.

Everard accepted Gordon's con"gratulations, got a list of contem­porary agents (several of them hold..ing jobs in places like military in­telligence), and returned to hisapartment. Later he might find

TIME PATROL

work arranged for him in somesensitive listening post, but hispresent assignment - for income­tax purposes, "special consultant toEngineering Studies Co." - wasonly to read a dozen papers a dayfor the indications of time travel hehad been taught to spot, and holdhimself ready for a call.

As it happened, he made his ownfirst job.

III

It was a peculiar feeling to readthe headlines and know, more or less,what was coming next. It took thetense edge off, but added a sadness,for this was a tragic era and he knewwhat man must' go through. Hecould sympathize \vith Whitcomb'sdesire to go back and change his­tory.

Only, of course, one man \vas. toolimited. He could not change it forthe better, except by some freak ­most likely, he would bungle every­thing. Go back and kill Hitler andthe Japanese and Soviet leaders­maybe someone shrewder wouldtake their place. Maybe atomicenergy would lie fallow, and theglorious flowering of the VenusianRenaissance never happen. Thedevil we know . • .

He looked out his window. Lightsflamed against a hectic sky; thestreet crawled wit~ automobiles anda hurrying faceless crowd; he couldnot see the towers of Manhattanfrom here, but he knew they rearedarrogant toward the clouds. And it

13

was al~ one swirl on a huge resistlessriver, sweeping thunderously fromthe peaceful pre-human landscapewhere he had been to the unimagi­nable Daneelian- future. How manybillions and trillions of human crea­tures lived, laughed, wept, worked,hoped, and died in its rushing cur­rents!

Well •.. He sighed, stoked hispipe, and turned back. A long walkhad not made him less restless; hismind and body were impatient forsomething to do. But it was late and- he went over to the bookshelf,picked out a volume more or less atrandom, and started to read. It wasa collection of Victorian and Ed­wardian stories.

A passing reference struck him.Something about a tragedy at Ad­dleton and the singular contents ofan ancient British barrow. Nothingmore. Hm. Time travel? He smiledto himself.

Still-No, he thought. This is crazy.It wouldn't do any harm to check

up, though. The incident was men­tioned as occurring in the year1894, in "England. He could get outback files of the London Times.Nothing else to do ... Probablythat was why he was stuck with thisdull newspaper assignment: so thathis mind, grown nervous from bore­dom, would prowl into every con­ceivable corner.

He was on the steps of the publiclibrary as it opened. /

The account was 'there, dated

14

June 25, 1894, and several days fol­lowing. Addleton was a village inKent, distinguished chiefly by aJacobean estate belonging to LordWyndham and a barrow of unknownage. The nobleman, an enthusiasticamateur archaeologist, had been ex"cavating it, together with one JamesRotherhithe, an expert from theBritish Museum who happened tobe a relative. Lord Wyndham haduncovered a rather meager Saxonburial chamber: a few artifactsnearly rusted and rotted away,bones of men and horses. There wasalso a chest in surprisingly goodcondition, containing ingots of anunknown metal presumed to be alead or silver alloy. He fell deathlyill, with symptoms of a peculiarlylethal ,poisoning; Rotherhithe, whohad barely looked into the casket,was not affected, and circumstantialevidence iuggested that he hadslipped the nobleman a dose of someobscure Asiatic. concoction. ScotlandYard arrested the man when LordWyndham died, on the 25th. Roth..erhithe's family engaged the servicesof a well-known consulting detec­tive, who was able to show, by mostingenious reasoning followed bytests on animals, that the accusedwas innocent and that a "deadlyemanation" from the chest was re­sponsible. Box and contents hadbeen thrown into the English Chan"nel. Congratulations all around.Fadeout to happy ending.

Everard sat quietly in the long,hushed room. The story didn't tell

FANTASY AND SCIENCE PICTION

enough. BOut it was highly sugges­tive, to say the least.

Then why hadn't the Victorianoffic~ of the Patrol investigated? Orhad they? Probably. They wouldn'tadvertise their results, of course.

Still, he'd hetter send a memoran­dum.

Returning to his apartment, hetook one of the little message. shut­tles given him, laid a report in it,and set the control studs for theLondon office, June 25, 1894. Whenhe pushed the final button, the boxvanished with a small whoosh of airrushing in where it had been.

It 'returned in a few minutes.Everard opened it and took out asheet of foolscap covered with neattyping - yes, the typewriter hadbeen invented by then, of course.He scanned it with the swiftness hehad learned.

Dear Sir:In reply to yrs. of 6 September,

1954, beg to acknowle~ge re-,ceipt and would commend yourdiligence. The affair has only justbegun at this end, and we aremost occupied at present withpreventing assassination of HerMajesty, as well as the BalkanQuestion, the 1890-22370 opiumtrade with China, &c. While wecan of course settle current busi­ness and then return to this, it iswell to avoid curiosa such as beingin two places at oQce, whichmight be noticed. Would there­fore much appreciate it if you and

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some qualified British ag~nt couldcome to our assistance. Unless wehear otherwise, we shall expectyou at 14-B, Old Osborne Road,on 26 June, 1894, at 12 midnight.

Believe me, Sir, yr. humble &obt. svt.,

J. MAINwEmERING

There followed a note of the spatio­temporal coordinates, incongruousunder all that floridity.

Everard called up Gordon, got anokay, and arranged to pick up atime hopper at the "company's"warehouse. Then he shot a note toCharlie Whitcomb in 1947, got aone-word reply - "Surely" - andwent off to get his machine.

It was reminiscent of a motorcyclewithout wheels or handlebars. Therewere three saddles and an antigrav­ity propulsion unit. Everard set thedials for Whitcomb's era, touchedthe main button, and found himselfin another warehouse.

London, 1947. He sat for a mo­ment, reflecting that at this instanthe himself, seven years younger, wasattending college back in the States.Then Whitcomb shouldered pastthe watchman and took his hand."Good to see you again, ~ld chap,"he said. His haggard face lit up inthe curiously charming smile whichEverard had come to know. "Andso - Victoria, eh?"

"Reckon so. Jump on." Everardre-set. This time he would emergein an office. A very private inneroffice.

J.5

It blinked into existence aroundhim. There was an unexpectedlyheavy effect to the oak furniture,the thick carpet, the flaring gas·mantles. Electric lights were avail­able, but Dalhousie & Roberts wasa notoriously solid, conservative im­port house. Mainwethering himselfgot out of a chair and came to greetthem: a large and pompous manwith bushy side whiskers and amonocle. But he moved with an airof strength, and his Oxford accentwas so cultivated that Everard couldhardly understand it.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Pleas­ant journey, I trust? Dh, yes •••sorry ... you gentlemen are newto the business, aren't you? Alwaysa little disconcerting at first. I re­member how shocked I was on avisit to the 21st century. Not Britishat all... Only a res naturae,though, only another facet of analways surprising universe. Youmust excuse my lack of hospitality,but we really are frightfully busy.Fanatic German up in 1917 learnedthe time travel secret from an un­wary anthropologist, stole a ma­chine, has come to London to as­sassinate Her Majesty. We're havingthe devil's own time finding him."

"Will you?" asked Whitcomb."Gh, yes. But deuced hard work,

gentlemen, especially when onemust operate secretly. I'd like to en'"gage a private inquiry agent, but theonly worthwhile one is entirely tooclever, he might easily deduce thetruth. His operating principle is

16

that when one has eliminated theimpossible, whatever remains, how­ever improbable, must be the truth- and I'm afraid he's very open­minded about what constitutes theimprobable-but-possihIe."

"I'll bet he's the same man who'sworking on the Addleton case - orwill be tomorrow," said Everard."That isn't important; we knowhe'll prove Rotherhithe's innocence.What matters is the strong proba­bility that there's been hanky-pankygoing on back in Saxon times."

"Yes ... yes ... hm. Clotheshere, gentlemen. And funds. 'Andpapers, all prepared for you. I some­times think you field agents don'tappreciate how much work we haveto do in the offices for even thesmallest operation. Haw! Pardon.Have you a plan of campaign?"

" Yes." Everard was stripping offhis 20th-century garments. "I thinkso. We both know enough aboutthe Victorian era to get by. I'll haveto remain American, though . . .yes, I see you put that in mypapers."

Mainwethering looked mournful."If the barrow incident has foundits way into a famous piece of litera­ture as you say, we shall be getting ahundred memoranda about it. Yourshappened to come first. Two othershave arrived since, from 1923 and1960. Dear me, how I wish I wereallowed a robot secretary!"

Everard struggled with the awk­ward sui~. It fitted him well enough,his measurements were on file· in

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this office, but he hadn't appreciatedthe relative comfort of his ownfashions before. Damn that waist­coat! "Look here," he said, "thisbusiness may be quite harmless. Infact, since we're here now, it musthave been harmless. Eh?"

"As of now," said Mainwethering."But consider. You two gentlemengo hack to Saxon times and find themarauder. But you fail. Perhaps heshoots you before you can shoothim; perhaps he waylays those wesend after you. Then he goes on toestablish an industrial revolution orwhatever he's after. History changes.You, being back there before. thechange-point, still exist ... if onlyas cadavers ... but we up herehave never been. This conversationnever took place. As Horace putsit -"

"Never mind I" laughed Whit­comb. "We'll investigate the barrowfirst, in this year, then pop backhere and decide what's next." Hebent over and began transferringequipment from a 20th-centuryhandbag to a Gladstonian monstros­ity of flowered cloth. A couple ofguns, some physical and chemicalapparatus which his own age hadnot invented, a tiny radio withwhich to call up the office in case oftrouble.

Mainwethering consulted hisBradshaw. "You can get the 8:23out of Charing Cross tomorrowmorning," he said. "Allow half anhour to get from here to the sta­tion."

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"Okay." Everard and Whitcombremounted their hopper and van"ished. Mainwethering sighed,yawned, left instructions with hisclerk, and went home. At 7:45 A.M.

the clerk was there when the hopperrnaterialized.

This was the first moment thatthe reality of time travel struckhome to Everard. He had known itwith the top of his mind, been dulyimpressed, but it was, for his emo­tions, merely exotic. Now, cloppingthrough a London he did not knowin a hansom cab (not a tourist-trapanachronism, but a working rna"chine, dusty and battered), smellingan air which held more smoke thana 20th-century city but no gasolinefumes, seeing the crowds whichmilled past - gentlemen in bowlersand top hats, sooty navvies, long­skirted women, and not actors butreal, talking, p~rspiring, laughingand somber human beings off on realbusiness - it hit him with full forcethat he was here. At this momenthis mother ha'd not been born, hisgrandparents were young couplesjust getting settled to harness,Grover Cleveland was President ofthe United States and Victoria wasQueen of England, Kipling waswriting and the last Indian. uprisingsin America yet to come.•.•• Itwas like a blow on the head.

Whitcomb took it more calmly,but his eyes were always moving ashe drank in this day of England'sglory. "I begin to understand," he

17

murmured. "They never have agreedwhether this was a period of un­natural, stuffy convention and thinlyveneered brutality, or the last flowerof Western civilization before itstarted going to seed. Just seeingthese people makes me realize: itwas everything they have said aboutit, good and bad, because it wasn't asimple thing happening to everyonebut millions of individual lives."

"Sure," said Everard. "That mustbe true of every age."

The train was almost familiar, notvery different from the carriages ofBritish Railways Anno 1954, whichgave Whitcomb occasion for sar­donic. remarks about jnviolable tra­ditions. In a couple of hours it letthem off at a sleepy village stationamong carefully tended flower gar..dens, where they engaged~ a buggyto drive them to the Wyndhamestate.

A polite constable admitted themafter a few questions. They werepassing themselves off as archaeolo­gists, Everard from America andWhitcomb from Australia, who hadbeen quite anxious to meet Lord,Wyndham and were shocked by histragic end. Mainwethering, whoseemed to have tentacles every"where, had supplied them withletters of introduction from a well..known authority at the BritishMuseum. The inspector from Scot..land Yard agreed to let them l~k

at the barrow - "the case is solved,gentlemen, there are no more clues,even if my colleague does not agree,

18·

hah,-hah!" The private agent smiledsourly and watched them with anarrow eye as they approached themound; he was tall, thin, hawk­faced, and accompanied by a burly,mustached fellow with a limp whoseemed a kind of amanuensis.

The barrow was long and high,covered with grass save where a rawscar showed excavation to the fu­neral chamber. This had been linedwith rough-hewn timbers but longago collapsed; fragments of whathad been wood still lay on the dirt."The newspapers mentioned some­thing about a metal casket," saidEverard. "I wonder if we mighthave a look at it too?"

The inspector nodded agreeablyand led them off to an outbuildingwhere the major finds were laid forthon a table. Except for the box, theywere only fragments of corrodedmetal and crumbled bone.

"Hm," said Whitcomb. His gazewas thoughtful on the sleek bareface of the small chest. It shimmeredbluely, some time-proof alloy yet tobe discovered. "Most unusual. Notprimitive at all. You'd almost thinkit had been machined, eh?"

Everard approached it warily. Hehad a pretty good idea of what wasinside, and all the caution aboutsuch matters natural to a citizen ofthe soi..disant Atomic Age. Pulling acounter out of his bag, he aimed it atthe box. Its needle wavered, notmuch but-

"Interesting item there," said theinspector. "May I ask what it is?"

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"An experimental electroscope,"lied Everard. Carefully, he threwback the lid and held the counterabove the box.

God! There was enough radio­activity inside to kill a man in aday! He had just a glimpse of heavy,dull-shining ingots before qe slammedthe lid down again. "Be careful withthat stuff," he said shakily. Praiseheaven, whoever carried that devil'sload had come from an. age ·whenthey knew how to block off radia­tion!

The private detective had comeup behind them, noiselessly. A.hunter's look grew on his keen face."So you recognize the contents,sir?" he asked quietly.

"Yes ... I think so." Everardremembered" that Becquerel wouldnot discover radioact_ivity for almosttwo years; even X-rays were stillmore than a year in the future. Hehad to be cautious. "That is .. . .in Indian territory I've heard storiesabout an ore which is poisonous _".

The detective's companion clearedhis throat. "Indian, eh? Strangeland, India. When I was in -"

"Nonsense, my dear fellow," saidthe detective impatiently. "Surelyit's obvious from the gentleman'saccen t that the Indians he refers toare redskins..•. Most interest­ing." He began to stuff a well-black­ened clay pipe. "Like mercuryvapor, what?"

"So Rotherhithe placed that boxin the grave, did he?" muttered theinspector.

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"Don't be ridiculo~s!" snappedthe detective. "I have three lines ofconclusive proof that Rotherhitheis entirely innocent. What puzzledme was the actual cause of his lord­ship's death. But if, as this gentle­man says, there happened to be adeadly poison buried in that mound... to discourage grave-robbers? Iwonder, though, how the old Saxonscame by an American mineral. Per­haps there is something to thesetheories about early Phoenicianvoyages across the Atlantic. I havedone a little research on a notion ofmine that there are Chaldean ele­ments in the Cymric language, andthis seems to bear me out."

Everard felt guilty about whathe was doing to the science ofarchaeology. Oh, well, this box wasgoing to be dumped in the Channeland forgotten. He and Whitcombmade an excuse to leave as soon aspossible.

On the way back to London,when they were safely alone in theircompartment, the Englishman tookout a moldering fragment of wood."Slipped this into my pocket at thebarrow," he said. "It'll help us datethe thing. Hand me that radiocar­bon counter, will you?" He poppedthe wood into the device, turnedsome knobs, and read off the an­swer. "One thousand, four hund~edand thirty years, plus or minusabout ten. The mound went uparound ... urn ... 464 A.D.,

then, when the Saxons were justgetting established in Kent."

19

"If those ingots are still thathellish after so long," murmuredEverard, "I wonder what they werelike originally? Hard to see how youcould have that much activity withsuch a long half-life, but then, up inthe future they can do things withthe atom my period hasn't dreamedof."

Turning in their report to Main­wethering, they spent a day sight­seeing while he sent messages acrosstime and activated the great ma­chine of the Patrol. Everard wasinterested in Victorian London, al-;most captivated in spite of thegrime and poverty. Whitcomb got afaraway look in his eyes. "I'd haveliked to live here," he said.

"Yeah ... with their medicineand dentistry?"

"And no bombs' falling." Whit­comb's answer held an angry defi...ance.

Mainwethering had arrangeqlentsmade when they returned to hisoffice. Puffing a fat cigar, he strodeup and down, pudgy hands claspedbehind his tailcoat, and rattled offthe story.

"Metal been identified with highprobability. Isotopic fuel fromaround the 30th century. Checkup­reveals that a merchant from theIng Empire was visiting year 2987to barter his raw rnaterials for theirsynthrope, secret of which had beenlost in the Interregnum. Naturally,he took precautions, tried to passhimself off as a trader from theSaturnian System, but nevertheless

20

disappeared. So did his time shuttle.Presumably someone in 2987 foundout what he was and murdered himfor his machine. Patrol notified, butno trace of machine. Finally recov­,ered from 5th-century England bytwo Patrolmen named, haw!, Ev"er­ard and Whitcomb."

"If we've already succeeded, whybother?" grinned th~ American.

Mainwethering looked shocked."But my dear fellow! You have notalready succeeded. The job is yet todo, in terms of your and my dura­tion-sense. And please do not takesuccess for granted merely becausehistory records it. Time is not rigid;man has free will. If you fail, historywill change and will not ever haverecorded your success; I will nothave told you about. it. That isundoubtedly what happened, if Imay use the term happened, in thefew cases where the Patrol has arecord of failure. Those cases arestill being worked on, and if successis achieved at last, history will bechanged and there \vill always havebeen success. Telnpus non nascitur,fit, if I may indulge in a slightparody.."

"All right, all right, I was onlyjoking," said Everard. "Let's getgoing. Tempus fugit." He added anextra"g." with malice aforethought,and Mainwethering winced.

It turned out that even the Patrolknew little about the dark periodwhen the Romans had left England,the Romano-British civilization wascrumbling, and the Saxons were

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

moving in. It had never seemed animportant one. The office at Lon­don, 1000 A.D., sent up what ma­terial it had, together with suits ofclothes that would get by. Everardand Whitcomb spent an hour un­conscious under the hypnotic educa­tors, to emerge with fluency inLatin and in several Saxon andJutish dialects, and with a fairknowledge of the mores.

The clothes were awkward: trou­sers, shirts, and coats of rough wool,leather cloaks, an interminable num­ber of thongs and laces. Long flaxenwigs covered modern haircuts; aclean shave would pass unnoticed,even in the 5th century. Whitcombcarried an ax, Everard a sword, bothmade to measlire of high-carbonsteel, but put more reliance on thelittle 26th-century sonic stun gunstucked under their coats. Armorhad not been included, but the timehopper had a pair of motorcyclecrash helmets in one saadlebag:these would not attract much at­tention in an age of homemadeequip{llent, and were a good dealstronger and more comfortable thanthe real thing. They also stowedaway" a picnic lunch and some earth­ernware jugs full of good Victorianale.

"Excellen t. " Mainwetheringpulled a watch out of his pocket andconsulted it. "It shall expect youback here at . . . shall we say fouro'clock? I will have some armedguards on hand, in case you have aprisoner along, and we can go out

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to tea afterward. U He shook theirhands. "Good hunting!"

Everard swung onto the timehopper, set the controls for 464 A.D.

at Addleton Barrow, a summer mid­night, and threw the switch.

IV

There was a full moon. Under it,the land lay big and lonely, with adarkness of forest blocking out thehorizon. Somewhere a wolf howled.The mound was there yet, they hadcome late.

Rising on the antigravity unit,they peered across a dense, shado\\TYwood. There was a thorp about amile from the barrow, one hall ofhewn timber and a cluster of smallerbuildings around a courtyard. In thedrenching moonlight, it was veryquiet.

"Cultivated fields," observedWhitcomb. His voice was hushed inthe stillness. "The Saxons weremostly yeomen, you know, whocame here looking for land. Imaginethe Britons were pretty well clearedout of this area some years ago."

"We've got to find out about thatburial," said Everard. "Shall we goback and locate the moment thegrave was made? - No, it mightbe safer to inquire now, at a laterdate when' whatever excitementthere was has died down. Say to"morrow morning. U

Whitcomb nodded, and Everardbrought the hopper down into theconcealment ofa thicket and jumped'up five hours. The sun was blinding

21

in the northeast, dew was still onthe long grass, and the birds weremaking an unholy racket. Dis­mounting, the agents sent the hop­per shooting up at fantastic velocity,to hover ten miles aboveground and.come to them when called on amidget radio built into their hel­mets.

They approached the thorpopenly, whacking off the savage..looking dogs which came snarlingat them with the flat of sword andax. Entering the courtyard, theyfound it unpaved but richly car­peted with mud and manure. Acouple of naked, tow-headed chil­dren gaped at them from a hut ofearth and wattles. A girl who wassitting outside milking a scrubbylittle cow let out a small shriek; athick-built, low..browed farmhandswilling the pigs grabbed for hisspear. Wrinkling his nose, Eve~rd

wished that some of the NobleNordic enthusiasts of his centurycould visit this one.

A gray-bearded man with an axin his hand appeared in the hall en"trance. Like everyone else of thisperiod, he was several inches shorterthan the 20th-century average. Hestudied them warily before wishingthem good morning.

Everard smiled politely. "I hightUffa Hundingsson, and my brotheris Knubbi," he said. "We are mer­chants from Jutland, come hitherto trade at Canterbury." (He gaveit the present name, Cant"wara­byrig.) "Wandering from the place

where our ship is b~ached, we lostour way, and after fumbling aboutall night found your home."

"I hight WQlfnoth, son of Ael..fred," said the yeoman. "Enter andbreak your fast with us."

The hall was big and dim andsmoky, full of a chattering crowd:Wulfnoth's children, their spousesand children, dependent carls andtheir wives and children and grand..children. Breakfast consisted ofgreat wooden trenchers of half...cooked pork. It was not hard toget a conversation going; these peo'"pIe were as gossipy as isolated yokelsanywhen. The trouble was withinventing plausible accounts of whatwas going on in Jutland. Once ortwice Wulfnoth, who was no fool,caught them in some mistake, butEverard said firmly: "You haveheard a falsehood. News takesstrange forms when it crosses thesea." He was surprised to learn how"much contact there still was withthe old countries. But the talk ofweather and crops was not muchdifferent from the kind he knewin the 2oth...century Middle West.

Only later was he able to slip in aquestion about the barrow. Wulf...noth frowned, and his plump, tooth...less wife hastily made a protectivesign toward a rude wooden idol. "Itis not good to speak of such things,"muttered the Saxon. "1 would thewizard had not been buried on myland. But he was close to my father,who died last year and would hearof naught else."

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"Wizard?" Whitcomb pricked uphis ears. "What tale is this?"

"Well, you may as well know,"grumbled Wulfnoth. "He was astranger hight Stane, who appearedin Canterbury some six years ago.He must have been from far away,for he spoke not the English orBritish tongues, but King Hengistguested him and eftsoons he learned.He gave the king strange but goodlygifts, and was a crafty redesman,on whom the king came more andmore to lean. None dared cross him,for he had a wand which threwthunderbolts and had been seen tocleave rocks and once, in battle withthe Britons, burn men down. Thereare those who thought he wasWoden, but that cannot be since hedied."

"Ah, so." Everard felt a tingle ofeagerness. "And what did he whilstyet he lived?" .

"Oh . . . he gave the king wiseredes, as I have said. It was histhought that we of Kent shouldcease thrusting. back the Britons andcalling in ever more of our kinsmenfrom the old country; rather, weshould make peace with them. Hethought that with our strength andtheir Roman learning, we could to­gether shape a mighty realm. Hemay have been right, though I forone see little use in all these booksand baths, to say naught of thatweird cross...god they have....Well, anyhow, he was slain by un...knowns three years ago, and buriedhere with sacrifices and such of his

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possessions as his foes had not reaved.We give him an offering twice ayear, and I must say his ghost hasnot made trouble for us. But still amI somewhat uneasy about it."

"Three years, eh?" brea thedWhitcomb. "I see...."

It took a good hour to breakaway, and Wulfnoth insisted onsending a boy along to guide themto the river. Everard, who didn'tfeel like walking that far, grinnedand called down the hopper. As heand Whitcomb mounted it, he saidgravely to the bulging-eyed lad:"Know that thou hast guestedWoden and Thunor, who will here­after guard thy folk from harm."They jumped three years back.

"Now comes the rough part," hesaid, peering out of the thicket atthe nighted thorp. The mound wasnot there now, the wizard Stanewas still alive. "It's easy enough toput on a magic show for a kid, butwe've got to extract this characterfrom the middle of a big, toughtown where he's the king's right...hand man. And he has a blast-ray."

"Apparently we succeeded - orwill succeed," said Whitcomb.

"Nope. It's not irrevocable, youknow. If we fail, Wulfnoth will betelling us a different story threeyears from now, probably that Staneis there - he may kill us twice!And England, pulled out of theDark Ages into a neoclassical cul­ture, won't evolve into anything.you'd recognize by 1894.... Iwonder what Stane's game is."

23

He lifted the hopper and sent itthrough the sky toward Canterbury.A night wind whistled-darkly pasthis face. Presently the town loomednear, and he grounded in a copse.The moon was white on the half...ruined Roman walls of ancientDurovernum, dappled black on thenewer earth and wood of the Saxonrepairs. Nobody would get in aftersunset.

Again the hopper brought themto daytime - near noon - and wassent skyward. His breakfast, twohours ago and three years in thefuture, felt soggy as Everard ledthe way onto a crumbling Romanroad and toward the city. Therewas a goodly traffic, mostly farmersdriving creaky oxcarts of producein to market. A pair of vicious­looking guards halted them at thegate and demanded 'their business.This time they were the agents of atrader on Thanet who had sentthem to interview various artisanshere. The hoodlums looked surlytill Whitcomb slipped them a coupleof Roman coins; then th~ spearswent down and they went past.

The· city brawled and bustledaround them, though again it wasthe ripe smell which impressedEverard most. Among the jostlingSaxons, he spotted an occasionalRomano-Briton, disdainfully pi~..ing a way through the muck andpulling his shabby tunic clear ofcontact with these savages. It wouldhave been funny if it weren'tpathetic. ~

24

There was an extraordinarilydirty inn filling the moss-grownruins of what had been a marbletown house. Everard and Whitcombfound that their money was of highvalue, here where trade was stillmostly in kind. By standing a fewrounds of drinks, they got all theinformation they wanted. KingHengist's hall was near the middleof town . . . not really a hall, anold building which had been de­plorably prettied' up under thedirection of that outlander Stane... not that our good and doughtyking is any pantY\\Taist, don't get mewrong, stranger ... why, only lastmonth ... oh, yes, Stane! Helived in the house right next to it.Sfrange fellow, some said he was agod . . . he certainly had an eyefor the girls . . . yes, they said hewas behind all this peace-talk withthe Britons. More and more of"those slickers coming in every day,it's getting so an honest man can'tlet a little blood without ... ofcourse, Stane is very \vise, I wouldn'tsay anything against him, under­s~and, after all he can throw light­ning ...

"So what do we do?" askedWhitcomb, back in their own room."Go on in and arrest him?"

"No ... I doubt if that's possi­ble," said Everard cautiously. "I'vegot a sort of a plan, but it dependson guessing what he really intends.Let's see if we can't get an audi­ence." As he got off the straw tickwhich served for a bed, he was

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

scratching. "Damn! What this pe­riod needs isn't literacy but fleapowde,r!"

The house had been carefullyrenovated, its white, porticoed fa­~de almost painfully clean againstthe grubbiness around it. Twoguards lounged on the stairs, snap-'ping to alertness as the agents ap­proached. Everard fed them moneyand a story about being a visitorwho had news that would surelyinterest the great wizard. "Tellhim, 'Man from tomorrow.~ 'Tis apassword. Got it?"

"It makes not sense," complainedthe guard.

"Passwords need not make sense,"said Everard with hauteur.

The Saxon clanked off, shakinghis head dolefully. All these new­fangled notions!

"Are you sure this is wise?" mut­tered Whitcomb. "He'll be on thealert now, you know."

"I also know a VIP isn't g~ing towaste time on just any stranger.This business is urgent, man! Sofar, he hasn't accomplished anythingpermanent, not even enough to be­come a lasting legend; but if Hengistshould make a genuine union withthe Britons -"

The guard returned, gruntedsomething, and led _them up thestairs and across the peristyle. Be­yond Was the atrium, a good'-sizedroom where tnodern bearskin rugsjarred with chipped marble andfaded mosaics. There was a manstanding before a rude wooden

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couch. As they en tered, he raised hishand, and Everard saw the slimbarrel of a 30th-century 'blast-ray.

"Keep your hands in sight andwell away from your sides," said theman gently. "Other\vise I shall be­like have to smite you \vith a thun­derbolt."

Whitcomb sucked in a sharp, dis­mayed breath, but Everard hadbeen rather expecting this. Even so,there was a cold knot in his stomach.

The wizard Stane was a small man,dressed in a fine embroidered tunicwhich must have come from someBritish villa. His body was lithelymuscled, his head large, with a faceof rather engaging ugliness under ashock of black hair. There was agrin of tension on his lips.

"Search them, Eadgar," he or­dered. "Take out aught they maybear in their clothing."

The Saxon's frisking was clumsy,but he found the stunners andtossed them to the floor. "Thoumayst go," said Stane.

"Is there no danger from them,my lord?" asked the soldier.

Stane grinned wider. "With thisin my hand? Nay, go." Eadgarshambled out. At least we still havesword and ax, thought Everard. Butthey're not much use with that thinglooking at us.

"So you come from tomorrow,"murmured Stane. A ·sudden film ofsweat glistened on his forehead. "Iwondered about that. Speak you thelater English tongue?"

25

Whitcomb opened his mouth,but Everard, improvising as he wentwith his life at wager, beat him tothe draw. "What tongue meanyou?"

"Thus-wise." Stane broke in to anEnglish which had a peculiar accentbut was recognizable to 20th-cen­tury ears: "Ih want know where an"when y're from, what y'r 'tentions~

air, an' all else. Gimme d' facts ~t

Ih'll burn y' doon."Everard shook his head. "Nay,H

he answered in Saxon. "I under­stand you not." Whitcomb. threwhim a glance and then subsided,ready to follow the American's lead.Everard's mind raced; under thebrassiness of desperation, he knewthat death waited for his first mis­take. "In our day we talked thus: -"And he reeled off a paragraph ofMexican-Spanish chatter, garblingit as much as he dared.

"So ... a Latin tongue!" Stane'seyes flamed. The blaster shook inhis hand. "When be you from?"

"The 20th century after Christ~

and our land bight Lyonesse. It liesacross the western ocean'-"

"America!" It was a gasp. "Wasit ever called America?"

"No. I wot not what you speakof."

Stane shuddered uncontrollably.Mastering himself: "Know you theRoman tongue?"

Everard nodded.Stane laughed nervously. "Then

let us speak that. If you knew howsick I am of. this Saxon hog-lan-

26

guage _It His Latin was a littl~

broken-, obviously picked up in thiscentury, but fluent enough. Hewaved the blaster. "Pardon my dis­courtesy with this. But I have to becareful."

"Naturally," said Everard. HAh. . . my name is Mencius, and myfriend is Iuvenalis. We came fromthe future, as you have guessed; weare historians, and time travel hasjust been invented."

"Properly speaking, I am RozherSchtein, from the year 2987. Haveyou ... heard of me?"

"Who else?" said Everard. "Wecame back looking for this mys­terious Stane who seemed to be oneof the crucial figures of history. Wesuspected he might have been a -"Everard fumbled in his Latin vocab­ulary for an expression meaning timetraveler, and finally improvised one."- peregrinator temporise Now weknow."

"Three years~" Schtein beganpacing feverishly, the blaster swing­ing in his hand; but he was too faroff for a sudden leap. "Three yearsI have been here. If you knew howoften 1 have lain awake, wonderingif I would succeed - Tell me, isyour world united?"

"The world and the planets," saidEverard. "It has been for a longtime." Inwardly, he shivered. Hislife hung oD:~is ability to guess whatSchtein's plijij' ·were.

"And are you a free people?""We are. That is to say, the Em­

peror presides, but' the Senate makes

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the laws and it is elected by the peo­ple."

There was an almost holy look onthe gnomish face, transfiguring it."As 1 dreamed," whispered Schtein."Thank you."

"So you came back from yourperiod to ... create history?"

"No," said Schtein. "To changeit."

Words tumbled out of him, as ifhe had wished to speak and darednot for many years: "I was a his­torian too. By chance 1 met a manwho claimed to be a merchant fromthe Saturnian moons, but since I hadlived there once, I saw through thefraud. Investigating, 1 learned thetruth. He was a time traveler fromthe very far future.

"You must understand, the age Ilived in was a terrible one, and as apsychographic historian I realizedthat the war, poverty, and tyra'nnywhich cursed us were not due to anyinnate evil in man, but to simplecause and effect. Machine technol­ogy had risen in a world dividedagainst itself, and war grew to be anever larger and more destructive en­terprise. There had been periods ofpeace, even fairly long ones: but thedisease was t,oo deep-rooted, conflictwas a part of our very ~ivilization.

My family had been wiped out in aVenusian raid, I had nothing to lose.I took the time machine after • • •disposing of its owner.

"The great mistake, I thought,had been made back in the DarkAges. Rome had united a vast em'"

TIME PATROL

pire in peace, and out of peace justicecan always arise. But Rome ex­hausted herself in the effort, and wasnow falling apart. The barbarianscoming in were vigorous, they coulddo inuch, but they were quicklycorrupted.

"But here is England. It has beenisolated from the rotting fabric ofRoman society. The Saxons are en­tering, filthy oafs but strong andwilling to learn.. In my history, theysimply wiped out British civilizationand then, being intellectually help­less, were swallowed up by the new- and evil - civilization calledWestern. I want to see somethingbetter happen.

"It hasn't been easy. You wouldbe surprised how hard it is to sur­vive in a different age until youknow your way around, even ifyou have modern weapons and in­teresting gifts for the king. But Ihave Hengist's respect now, and in­creasingly more of the confidenceof the Britons. I can unite the twopeoples in a common war on thePicts. England will be one kingdom,with Saxon strength and Romanlearning, powerful enough to standoff all invaders. Christianity is in­evitable, of course, but I will see toit that it is the right kind of Chris­tianity, one which will educate andcivilize men without shackling theirminds.

"Eventually England will be in aposition to start taking over on theContinent. Finally ... one world.I will stay here long enough to get

27

the anti-Pictish union started, thenvanish with a promise to returnla~er. If I reappear at, say, fifty-yearintervals for the next several cen­turies, 1 shall be a legend, a god,who can make sure they stay on theright track."

"I have read much about St.Stanius," said Everard slowly.

"And I won!" cried Schtein. "Igave peace to the world." .Tears.were on his cheeks.

Everard moved closer. Schteinpointed the blast-ray at his belly,not yet quite trusting him. Everardcircled casually, and Schtein swiv­eled to keep him covered. But theman was too agitated by the seemingproof of his own success to remem­ber Whitcomb. Everard thre\v alook over his shoulder at the Eng­lishman.

Whitcomb hurled his ax. Everarddove for the floor. Schtein screamed,and the blast-ray sizzled. The axhad cloven his shoulder. Whitcombsprang, getting a grip on his gunhand. Schtein howled, struggling toforce the blaster around. Everardjumped up to help. There was amoment of confusion.

Then th~ blaster went off again,and Schtein was suddenly a deadweight in their arms. Blood drenchedtheir coats' from the hideous-openingin his chest.

The two guards came running in.Everard snatched his stunner off thefloor and thumbed the ratchet up to·full intensity. A flung 'spear grazedhis arm. He fired twice, and the

28 -

burly forms crashed. They'd be outfor hours.

Crouching a moment, Everardlistened. A feminine scream soundedfrom the inner chambers, but noone was entering at the door. "Iguess we've carried it off," hepanted.

"Yes." Whitcomb looked dullyat the corpse sprawled before him.It seemed pathetically small.

"I didn't mean for him to die,Hsaid Everard. "But time is ...tough. It was written, I suppose."

"Better this way than a Patrolcourt and the exile planet," saidWhitcomb.

"Technically,- at least, he was athief and a murderer," said Everard."But it was a great dream he had."

"And we upset it.""History might have upset it.

Probably would have. One man justisn't powerful enough, or wiseenough. I think most human miseryis due to well-meaning fanatics likehim there."

"So we just fold our hands andtake what comes."

"Think of all your friends, up in1947. They'd never even haveexisted."

Whitcomb took off his cloak andtried to wipe the blood from hisclothes.

"Let's get going," said Everard.He trotted through the rear portal.A frightened concubine watched·him with large eyes.

He had to blast the lock off aninner door. The room beyond held

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

an Ing..model time shuttle, a fewboxes with weapons and supplies,some books. Everard loaded it allinto the machine except the fuelchest. That had to be left, so thatup in the future he would learn ofthis and come back to stop the manwho would be God.

"Suppose you take this to thewarehouse in 1894," he said. "I'llride our hopper back and meet youat the office."

Whitcomb gave him a long stare.The man's face was drawn. Even asEverard watched him, it stiffenedwith resolution.

"All right, old chap," said theEnglishman. He smiled, almost wist­fully, and clasped Everard's hand."So long. Good luck."

Everard stared after him as heentered the great steel cylinder.That was an odd thing to say, whenthey'd be having tea up in 1894 in acouple of hours.

Worry nagged him as he went outof the building and mingled with thecrowd. Charlie was a peculiar cuss.Well-

No one interfered with him as heleft the city and entered the thicketbeyond. He called the time hopperback down and, in spite of the need·for haste lest someone come to seewhat kind of giant bird had landed,cracked a jug of ale. He needed itbadly. Then he took a last look atSaxon England and jumped up to1894. .

Mainwethering and his guardswere there as promised. The officer

TIME PATROL

looked alarmed at the sight of oneman arriving with blood clottingacross his garments, but Everardgave him a reassuring report.

It took a while to wash up, changeclothes, and deliver a full account tothe secretary. By then, Whitcombshould have arrived in a hansom, butthere was no sign of him. Main­wethering called the warehouse upon the radio, and turned back witha frown. "He hasn't come yet," hesaid. "Could something have gonewrong?"

"Hardly. Those machines are fool­proof." Everard gnawed his lip. ·"1don't know what the matter is.Maybe he misunderstood and wentup to 1947 instead."

An exchange of notes revealedthat Whitcomb had not reported inat that end either. Everard andMainwethering went out for theirtea. There was still no trace of Whit...comb when they got back.

"I had best inform the fieldagency," said Mainwethering. "Eh,what? They should be able to findh" "1m.

"No ... wait." Everard stoodfor a moment, thinking. The ideahad been germinating in him forsome time. It was dreadful.

"Have you a. notion?""Yes ... sort of." Everard be­

gan shucking his Victorian suit. His"hands trembled. "Get my 20th-cen­tury clothes, will you? I may beable to find him by myself."

"The Patrol will want a prelimi­nary report of your idea and inten-

29

tions," reminded Mainwethering."To hell with the Patrol," said

Everard.

v

London, 1944. The early winternight had fallen, and there was athin cold wind blowing down streetswhich were gulfs of darkness. Some­where came the dull crash of an ex­plosion, and there was a fire burning,great red banners flapping above thehuddled roofs.

Everard left his hopper on thesidewalk - nobody was out whenthe V-bombs were falling - hadgroped slowly through a shudderingmurk. November 17; his trainedmemory had called up the date forhim. Mary Nelson had died this day.

He found a public phone booth onthe corner and looked in the direc­tory. There were a lot of Nelsons,but only one Mary listed for theStreatham area. That would be themother, of course - he had to guessthat the daughter would have thesame name. Nor did he know thetime at which the bomb had struck,but there were ways to learn that.

Fire and thunder roared at him ashe came out. He flung himself on hisbelly while glass whistled where hehad been. November 17, 1944. Theyounger Manse Everard, lieutenantin the United States Army Engin­eers, was somewhere across the Chan­nel, near the German guns. Hecouldn't recall exactly where, justthen, and did not stop to make theeffort. It didn't matter. He knew he

3°

was going to survive that danger.The new blaze was a lurid red

dance behind him as he ran for his-machine. He jumped aboard andtook off into the air. High aboveLondon, he saw only a vast darknessspotted with flame. Walpttrgisnacht,and all hell let loose on earth!

He remembered Streatham well, adreary stretch of brick inhabited bylittle clerks and greengrocers andmechanics, the very petite bourgeoi­sie who had stood up and fought to astandstill the power which had con­quered Europe. There had been agirl living there, back in 1943 . . .eventually she married someoneelse.

Skimming low, he tried to findthe address. A volcano erupted notfar off. His mount staggered in theair, he almost lost his seat. Hurryingtoward the place, he saw a housetumbled and smashed and flaming.I t was only. three blocks from theNelson home. He was too late.

No! He checked the time - just10:30 -and jumped back two hours.It was still night, but the slain housestood solid in the gloom. Briefly, hewanted to warn those inside. Butno - all over the world, millions ofpeople were dying. He was notSchtein, to take history on his shoul-­ders.

Then he grinned wryly, dis­mounted, and walked through thegate. He was not a damned Daneel..ian either. He knocked on the door,and it opened. A middle-agedwoman looked at him through the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

murk, and he realized it was odd tosee an American in civilian clotheshere.

"Excuse me," he said. "Do youknow Miss Mary Nelson?"

"Why ... yes." Hesitation."She lives nearby. She's coming oversoon. Are you a friend?"

Everard nodded. "She sent mehere with a message for you, Mrs. -"

"Enderby.""Oh, yes, Mrs. Enderby. I'm ter­

ribly forgetful. Look, Miss Nelsonwanted me to say she's very sorrybut she can't come. However, shewants you and your entire familyover at 10:3°."

"All of us, sir? But the chil­dren -"

"By all means, the children too.Everyone of you. She has a veryspecial surprise arranged, somethingshe can only show you then. All ofyou have to be there."

"Well ... all right, sir, if shesays so."

"All of you at 10:30, without fail.I'll see you then, Mrs. Enderby."Everard nodded and walked back tothe street.

He had done what he could. Nextwas the Nelson house. He rode hishopper three blocks down, parked itin the gloom of an alley, and walkedup to the house. He was guilty toonow, as guilty as Schtein. He won­dered what the exile planet was like.

There was no sign of the Ing shut­tle, and it was too big to conceal. SoCharlie hadn't arrived yet. He'dhave to play by ear till then.

TIME PATROL

-- As he knocked on the door, hewondered what his saving of theEnderby family would mean. Thosechildren would grow up, have chil­dren of their own - quite insignifi­cant middle-class Britons, no doubt,but somewhere in the centuries tocome an important man would beborn or fail to be born. Of course,time was not very flexible. Except inrare cases, the precise ancestry didn'tmatter, only the broad pool of hu­man genes and human society. Still,this might be one of those rare cases.

A young woman opened the doorfor him. She was a pretty little girl,not spectacular but nice-looking inher trim uniform. "Miss Nelson?"

"Yes ...?""My name is Everard. I'm a

friend of Charlie Whitcomb. May Icome in? I have a rather surprisingbit of news for you."

"I was about to go out," she saidapologetically.

"No, you weren't." Wrong line;she ,vas stiffening with indignation."Sorry. Please,'·may I explain?"

She led him into a drab and clut­tered parlor. "Won't you sit down,Mr. Everard? Please don't talk tooloudly. The family are all asleep.They get up early."

Everard made himself comforta­ble. Mary perched on the edge of thesofa, watching him with large eyes.He wondered if Wulfnoth and Ead­gar were among her ancestors. Yes• .. . undoubtedly they were, afterall these centuries. Maybe Schteinwas too.

. 31

"Are you in the Air Force?" sheasked. "Is that how you met Char­lie?"

"No. I'm in Intelligence, which isthe reason for this mufti. May I askwhen you last saw him?"

"Oh ... weeks ago. He's sta­tioned in France just now. I hopethis war will soon be over. So silly ofthem to keep on when they mustknow they're finished, isn't it?" Shecocked her head curiously. "Butwhat is this news you have?"

"I'll come to it in a inoment." Hebegan to ra~ble as much as he dared,talkingofconditions across theChan­nel. It was strange to sit conversingwith a ghost. And his conditioningprevented him from telling thetruth. He wanted to, but when hetried his tongue froze up on him."- and what it costs to -get a bot­

tle of red-ink ordinaire - ""Please," she interrupted 'impa­

tiently. "Would you mind comingto the point? I do have an engage-ment for tonight." ,

"Oh, sorry. Very sorry, I'm sure.You see, it's this way -"

A knock at the door saved him."Excuse me," she murmured, andwent out past the blackout drapes toopen it. Everard padded after her.

She staggered back with a smallshriek. "Charlie!"

Whitcomb pressed her to him,heedless of the blood still wet on hisSaxon clothes. Everard came intothe hall, and the Englishman staredwith a kind of horror. "You-"

He snatched for his stunner, but

32

Everard's was already out. "Don'tbe a fool," said the American. "I'myour friend. I want to help you.What crazy scheme did you have,anyway?"

"I . . • keep her her~ • • • keepher from going to-"

"And do you think they haven'tgot means ofspotting you?" Everardslipped into Temporal, the only pos­sible language in Mary's frightenedpresence. "When I left Mainwether­ing, he was getting damn suspicious.Unless we do this right, every unitof the Pat-l"ol is going .to be alerted.The error will be rectified, probablyby killing her. You'll go to exile.'''

" 1-" Whitcomb gulped. His facewas a;. mask of fear. "You ...would you let her go ahead and die?"

"No. But this has to be done morecarefully."

"'We'll escape •... find some,per'"iod away from everything ... goback ,to the dinosaur age, if wemust."

Mary stepped away from him. Hermouth was pulled open, ready toscream. "Shut up!" said Everard toher. "Your life is in. danger, andwe're trying to save you. If youdon't trust me, trust Charlie."

Turning back to the man, he wenton in Temporal: "Look, fellow, thereisn't any place or any time you canhide. Mary Nelson died tonight.That's history. She wasn't around in1947. That's history. I've already gotmyself in Dutch - the family shewas ,going to will be out of theirhome when the bomb hits it. If you

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

try to run away with her, you'll befound. It's pure luck that a Patrolunit hasn't already arrived."

Whitcomb fought for steadiness."Suppose I jump up to 1948 withher. How do you know she hasn'tsuddenly reappeared in 1948? May­be that's history too."

"Man, you can't. Try -it. Go on,tell her you're going to hop her fouryears into the future."

Whitcomb groaned. "A giveaway- and I'm conditioned-"

"Yeah. You have barely enoughlatitude to appear this way beforeher, but talking to her, you'll haveto lie out of it because you can't helpyourself. Anyway, how would you,explain her? If she stays Mary Nel­son, she's a deserter from the WAAF.If she takes another name, where'sher birth certificate, her schoolrecord, her ration book, any of thosebits of paper these 20th-centurygovernments worship so devoutly?It's hopeless, son."

"Then what can we do?""Face the Patrol and slug it out.

Wait here a minute." There was acold calm over Everard, no time tobe afraid or to wonder at his own in­credible quixotism.

Returning to the street, he lo­cated his hopper and set it to emergefive years in the future, afhigh noonin Piccadilly Circus. He slappeddown the main switch, saw the ma­chine vanish, and went back inside.Mary was in Whitcomb's arms,shuddering and weeping. The poor,damned babes in the woods!

TIME PATROL

"Okay." Everard led them backto the parlor and sat down with hisgun ready. "Now we wait."

It didn't take long. A hopper ap­peared, with two men in P~trolgrayaboard. There were weapons in theirhands. Everard cut them down witha low-powered stun beam. "Helpme tie 'em up, Charlie," he said.

Mary huddled voiceless in a cor­ner.

When the men awoke, Everardstood over them with a bleak-smile."What are we charged with, boys?"he asked in Temporal.

"I think you know," said one ofthe prisoners calQl1y. "The mainoffice had us trace you. Checking up

.·next ·week, we found that you hadevacuated a family scheduled to bebombed. Whitcomb's record sug­gested you had then come here, tohelp. him save this woman who wassupposed to die tonight. Better letus go or it will be the worse for you."

"I have not changed history,"said E'verard. "The Daneelians arestill up there, ar~n't they?tt

"Yes, of course, but-""How did yoti know the Enderby

family was supposed to die?"."Their house was struck, and they

said they had only left it because -""Ah, but the point is they did

leave it. That's written. Now it'syou who wants to change the past."

"But this woman, here -""Are you sure there wasn't a

Mary Nelson who, let us say, settledin LOndon in 1850 and died of oldage about I90o?"

33

The lean face grinned savagely."You're trying hard, aren't you? Itwon't work. You can't fight the en­tire Patrol."

"Can't I, though?" I can leave youhere to be found by the Enderbys.I've set my hopper to emerge inpublic at an instant known only tomyself. What's that going to do tohistory?"

"The Patrol will take correctivemeasures • • . as you did back" inthe 5th century."

"Perhaps I I can make it a lot easierfor them, though, if they'll hear myappeal. I want a Daneelian."

"What?""You heard me," said Everard.

"If necessary, I'll mount that hop­per of yours and ride a million yearsup. I'll point out to them personallyhow much simpler it'll be if theygive us a break."

That will not be necessary.Everard spun around with a gasp.

The stunner fell from his hand.He could not look at the shape

which blazed before his eyes. Therewas a dry sobbing in his throat as hebacked away.

Your appeal has been considerfd,said the soundless voice. It was f<!zownand weighed ages before you wereborn. But you were still a necess~ry

link in the chain of time. Ifyou hadfailed tonight, there would be nom~cy.

To us, it was a matter of recordthat one Charles and Mary Whitcomblived,in Victoria's England. It wasalso a matter ofrecord that Mary Nel-

34

son died with the family she was visit­ing in 1944, and that Charles Whit--co11}b had lived a bachelor andfinallybeen killed, on active duty with thePatrol. The discrepancy was noted, andas even the smallest paradox is adangerous weak?zess in the space-time

.fabric, it had to be rectified by elimi­n~ting one or the other fact from everhaving existed. You have decidedwhich it will be.

Everard knew, somewhere in hisshaking brain, that the Patrolmenwere suddenly free.. He knew thathis hopper had been .0 • . was being... would be snatched invisiblyaway the instant it materialized. Heknew that history now read: WAAFMary Nelson missing, presumedkilled by bot:J1b near the home of theEnderby family, who had all been ather house when their own wasdestroyed; Charles Whitcomb dis­appearing in 1947, presumed acci­d~ntally drowned. He knew that

..Mary was given the truth, condi­tioned against ever revealing it, andsent bqck with Charlie to 1850. He.knew they would make their middle­.class way through life, .never feelingquite at home "in Victoria's reign,that Charlie would often have wist­ful thoughts of what he had been inthe Patrol ... and then turn toJUs wife and children and decide it

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

had no~ been such a greatsacrihceafter all.

That much he knew, ang then theDaneelian was gone. As the whirlingdarkness in his head subsided and helooked with clearing eyes at the twoPatrolmen, he did not know whathis own destiny was.

"Come on," said the first man."Let's get out of here before some­body wakes up. We'll give you a liftback to your year - 1954, isn't it?"

"And then what?" asked Everardwonderingly.

The Patrolman shrugged. Underhis casual manner lay the shakennesswhich had seized him in the Daneel­ian presence. "Report to your sectorchief. You've shown obviously unfitfor steady work."

"So ... just cashiered, huh?""You needn't be so dramatic. Did

you think this case was the only oneofits kind in a million'years of Patrolwork? There's a regular procedurefor it.

"You'll want more training, ofcourse. Your type ofpersonality goesbest with unattached status - anyage, any place, wherever and when...ev~r you may be needed. I thinkyou'lllike it.". Ever~rd climbed weakly aboard

the 4opper. And when he got offagain, a decade had passed.

1{obody Hunts Witcheshy P. M. HUBBARD

Weare for the sweep of the widenight skies,

Bursting in a moment from thedarkened room,

The speed of the whistle of thewind on thighs

Sitting up astraddle on a big,bare broom.

But nobody hunts us witchesnow;

Nobody grudges us the streamingstars;

Nobody worries with gravita..tion,

Being briefed in planetary naviga..tion

And flying saucers and men fromMars.

We are for the high, unlikely places,The wind in the wood and the

wailing note.Of pipe and tympani, the solemn

pacesOf eleven ladies and a dancing

goat.But nobody hunts us witches

now;Nobody cavils at a coven's way:

They have all been exercised inself"expression,

In the .Cinerama and the be-bopsessIon

And the mass emotion of a laterday.

Weare for ma~ging to make things·die,'

The bantam's blood upon thebarnyard door,

The emptied furrow and the storm­filled sky,

The dried-up water and the un..healed sore.

But nobody hunts ~s witches now,Nobody minds what spells one

casts:They have all gone gunning for

new oppressors,The business bosses and the pink

professorsAnd· the famous physicists with

foolish pasts.

We are for the primal, person~l

SIns,The private probings on the single

track,The ~urry familiar, the jabbed-in

pIns,The small-scale errands for the

man in black.But nobody hunts us witches now;

Nobody bothers us with bell andban:

.Nobody nowadays seems to heedus,

Us or the church that would super­sede us,

Both of us being for the singleman.

as

"-

James Blish is ordinlJrily one of the most sohe, and serioNs of science fictionwriters. &t he is also" critic, with 'luite II literIJry reputation ,utside ofour field,,· lind here he employs his critical skill to proJuc, an IIst.te lindhilIJr;ous triptych of parodies of three famililJr (jar too familiar!) types ofscience ftction. I

With dJ1alice to Comehy JAMES BLISH

I: eA Feast of 1{eason couldn't read, so both men weredriven to falling back upon their

As IT H~PPENED, THE FIRST PLANET intelligence.to which the ZZZ Zynergy Plane- "I seem to remember," Adolph'stary Exploitation Administration - distant voice said, "that the oxygenconsisting of two men - was as- tension on the planet is too low tosigned was Mars. It was Grig Dick- support. any life higher than that ofard, of course, who was to do the the insect."actual job; his partner Adolph stayed "Suppose it is?" Grig said im..behind in the office, paring his finger- patiently. "The point is -"nails with a dagger made ofWurdge- "Now, what's the highest typewood and cooking up new schemes of insect?" Adolph continued im...for making millions. placably. "The termite, of course.

The difficulty was that - also You see if I'm not right."as usual- both men had failed to "Nonsense," Grig retorted.find out from their new employer "Everybody knows that a giantjust what the job was. insect can't live. The inverse..cube. Since the spaceship ~ flew itself, law, or something. What you fail

this left Grig with vtry ~ttle to to take into account -"think about. As a resulr~":he had "Who said any thing a bou toccupied himself through most of giant -"the two. week trip WI-.' a running "- is the historical factor. Marsargument, by radio, . h Adolph. has been· the Planet of War sinceSubject: what was dominant prehistoric .times. Where there's.race on Mars? Grig ha·~.~~_. orgotten to ·smoke, .ther~'s got to be fire. Mars,look it up before leaviriJ and Adolph is probably wh~re that old warrior

36

WITII MALICE TO COME

cult originated - the what's-it's­name, the Nasties."

"Hello," said the radio."What dtyou mean, hello?" Grig

said', "Haven't we met before?""I wasn't talking to you, stupid,"

Adolph's voice said. "It's our client.He's just come into the office. Howare you, Mr, Grummummum?"

There was an indistinct rumblefrom the loudspeaker, Grig sud­denly remembered all the long houishe had kicked himself for not ques­tioning Grummummum more closelybefore the trip started. "Hey,Adolph," he shouted into the mike."Ask him!"

More indistinct rumbles, and thenAdolph's voice. "He says there' ex­cellent reason to suppose that Marsis inhabited .exclusively by...did you say jackasses? Yeah, that'swhat he said.

"Why?"After a while, Adolph said, eel

made him write this down so I'd"be sure I had it right. It's on thebasis of something called Bernoulli'sPrinciple, which says that if we arewholly ignorant of the different waysan event can occur, and thereforehave no reasonable ground for pref­erence -"

"Hold everything," Grig said."I think we're coming in for a land­ing. Yes, we are. I'll talk to you i~

a minute."The landing was uneventful, giv­

ing Grig' plenty of time to rig theradio so that he cMlld still talk· toAdolph while outside the ship. As

37

he left the airlock, Adolph wassaying, "- then that event is aslikely to occur one way as another.That right, Mr. Grummummum?"

The "Martian air" was too thin tocarry ZZZ's client's answer. Nearby,Grig saw something moving, buthe motioned it away. It was im..portant to get to the bottom ofthis before even risking any dealingswith the natives.

"So where does that leave us?" hedemanded.

"Why, it means that the proba­bilities of the Martians being ter­mites, Nasties or jackasses is ex­actly equal. What else?"

"But," Grig spluttered, "that'san impossible conclusion. It leavesus with three exclusive alternatives,each one of which is as likely as theother two!"

"Well, don't blame me. That'swhat he says."

The Martian, which had waitedpolitely for the argument to ~nd,

apparently took Grig's despairings4rug as a signal. Still chewingplacidly on its cud of wood, itrose polite~y on its rear legs, ex­posing the swastika emblazoned onits chest.

"Heehaw, 0 Earthman," it said.

II.' ~he qJi//ion-Year qJinge

The rocket came down with a ter­rible bang and then stood silenton the red Martian desert. It shonein the Martian sunlight, sil~eredlike the fish Mom .used to bring

38

home on Sundays, after you'dwatched the summer nodding like abright jack..in.. the·pulpit toward thepurple evening.

As soon as he was sure every-­thing wa-s really all right, Fatherturned off all the sparkplugs. Allbut one.

"In case we need to go back upagain," he said gravely. "We mayneed to go back up again, after all."

"You know very well that youwon't want to go back up again,"Mom said, coming out of the kitch­enette. Her hair shone like brightcornsilk in the streak of Martiansunlight that was coming throughthe open porthole. I wanted torun to her, but I didn't becauseJames was crying underneath thecontrol board and I ·had to show thatI was older and braver than he was.

"Well, we might want to go upagain," Father said. He and motherlooked at each other, like childrenlook when they are looking at eachother. The sparkplug he had leftgoing ticked in the room like theclock that ticked you to sleep whenyou were little and all the starswere little glowing points on yournursery wallpaper that Father hadput there, painstakingly licking theback of each one and pasting it on.

"No, we mightn't," Mom said."When do we go out, anyhow?"

I said."We're·already out," Father said,

going to the porthole and lookingout of it, his eyes like those of a manlooking into a tropical fish tank and

FANTASY AND SCIE.NCE FICTION

seeing there the little fish, shininglike spaceships, circling around thetoy diver that made real bubblesin the glowing water. "We got outjust in time."

He took a deep breath of thestill, wintery air.

"What do you see?" Mom said."I see great shining cities, run by

just governments of simple people,and kind people, people who arekind to the ghostly Martians whodrift through them."

I ran to the porthole and lookedout. I didn't see any cities. I sawmillions and millions of beer cans- millions of them, all rusty withthe rusty red of the Martian desert.

"I don't see any cities," I said."All I see are some old beer cans.All the way to the horizon."

"Those are what we'll build theshining cities with," Father breathed.'~we'll pile them up, one on topof the other. We'll bring old Marsback to life."

~'Gee," I said. "But, Dad­what about the ghostly Martians?"

He turned and pointed to me andJames. "You," he said, "will be theMartians. tJ

I was surprised.

Ill: t.A Matter of energy

As soon as I saw Joe Jones, I knewthat he was the man I needed tosend back to the Augustan Age.I knew it because I could not readhis expression.iI!I#

To the~·I.~~Y man who can't

WITH MALICE TO COME

even read his own expression thiswouldn't be a significant datum,but with me it is different. As aconsulting industrial psionic psicho­logist I am accustomed to "readingthe faces of anything, even checks.I always understand everybody in­stantly.

But I didn't understand Joe Jones.He was Everyman's nobody. He hadno emotions. If he had had them,I could have read them - if not bythe patterns formed by the hairsin his moustache, then by thepsionic techniques which I havedeveloped by correspondence withpsichotic people all over the country.So it had to be true that Joe had noemotions.

He was the perfect man to go backin time and take over the AugustanAge forme.

"Joe," I asseverated, "I've givenyou the invincible w.eapon to takeover the Romans: twisted semantics.I t can't fail, but if it does, trytwisted dianetics. Do you under­stand w~at yolj're to do?"

~'Yes, Cliff," he lipped thinly."But there's one danger I haven't

warned y.ou of until now~" I ad­monished sternly. "You must notuse Arabic numerals while you'rein Rome. The Romans didn't know·them. If you use them, you will bedriven to hide like a witch. Un­derstand?"

"Yes, Cliff," he acknowledgedflatly. *' ~

"Now, I have~iven you anytraining in ho~. to. calculate in

39

Roman numerals," I outpointed."I could have given it to you bymy own revolutionary educationalsystem, or implanted it on yourcerebral cortex with my psionic~wers, but there's one great draw­back: calculating with Roman nu­merals just takes too long. Youwouldn't have time to take overthe Empire if you had to do allyour fig~ring that way. Is thatclear?"

"That's clear, Cliff," he admittedimmediately.

"So," I perorated triumphantly,"I've provided you with the answer,inside this little black box. This isa computer, called the THROBAC.That's short for THrifty ROrrlan­numeral BAckwards-looking Calcu­lator. It will add, subtract, multiplyor divide in Roman numerals, andgive you- th~ answer in Romannumerals. Coupling and that crow4at Bell think that they invented it,but I can see through them like aglass of antigravity elixir. Use thismachine - secretly, of course- whenever you need to do anyfiguring. Do you dig me?"

"I dig you, Cliff," he penulti­mated.

"Then go," I concluded com­mandingly. He stepped into thetime machine, wh,ch I had namedELSIE, and vanished at once. Withthe help of my psionic correspond­ents I could have sent him backwithout a machine, but this whole-;operation had to be kept secretfrom the politicians, industrialists,

4°and .other pressure groups whomight bring twisted semantics tobear on me.

lie was back in no time, ofcourse. He had instructions toreturn to this moment, no matterhow long he stayed .in ancientRome. ·But there was somet~ing

wrong.I could read his expression!"What have you done?" I hissed

g~indingly.

"I did just like you said, Cliff,"he replied defensively. "Soon as Ihad to do some figuring, I holed upin my room and plugged 1HROBACinto the nearest socket. But-"

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"Get to the pointl" I ordered~ommandingly.

"But Cliff," he wailed protest­ingly, "you overlooked something.1HROBAC operates only on ACcurrent! And the first AC generatorwasn't built until after the 1830's- A.D.!"

I was crushed. That small over­sight-no, it was an undersight,typical of me, underestimating theextent of my own massive knowl­edge - must have blown everyfuse and circuit-breaker in AugustanRome. I rushed to the nearesthistory book.

What had I undone?

It's dangerous to prohe too far into the symholism of a good story: as M.AcLeishsaia of " poem, a story should not mean, but he. I'll venture, however, tosuggest something of thl meaning of this curious and temhle littl, ,piso4econceived hy Mr. Beaumont: Ifyou devote your life to the philosophy of Some­thing-For-Nothing (as so relentlessly propaganJi~ed on the lowest levels ofdaytime TV), retrihution too may come For Nothing: the Blind Goas are.the least. safe from whom to seek favors. • • •

Free Virtby CHARLES BEAUMONT

No FOWL HAD EVER LOOKED· soposthumous. Its bones lay stackedto one side of the plate like kindling:white, dry and naked in the softlight of the restaurant•. Bones only,with every shard and filament ofmeat stripped methodically off.Otherwise, the plate was a vastglistening plain.

The other, smaller dishes andbowls were equally virginal. Theyshone fiercely against one another.And all a pale cream color fixedupon the snowy white of a table­cloth unstained by gravies arid: un­spotted by coffee and free from thestigmata of breadcrumbs, cigaretteash and fingernail lint.

Only the dead fowl's bones andthe stippled traceries of hardenedred gelatine clinging timidly to thebottom of a dessert cup gave evi­dence thai these ruins had once beena magnificent six..course dinner.

Mr. Aorta, not a small man, per­mitted a mild belch, folded thenewspaper he had fouJl9~n the chair,inspected his vest for rood leavingsand then made his way briskly to thecashier.

The old woman glanced at hischeck.

"Yes, sir," she said."All eighty," Mr. Aorta said and

removed from his hip pocket a largeblack wallet. He opened it casually,whistling "The Seven Joys of Mary"through the space provided by histwo front teeth.

The melody stopped, abruptly~

Mr. Aorta looked concerned. Hepeered into his wallet, then beganremoving things; presently its en­tire COf\tents was spread out.

He frowned. I"What seems to be the difficulty,~

sir?""Oh, no difficulty," the fat man

42

said, "exactly." Though the walletwas manifestly empty, he flappedits sides apart, held it upside downand continued to shake it, suggest­ing the picture of a hydrophobicbat suddenly seized in mid-air.

Mr. Aorta smiled a weak har­rassed smile and proceeded to emptyall of his fourteen separate pockets.In time the counter was piled highwith miscellany. ,.

"Well !"" he said impatiently.,hWhat nonsense! What bother! Do,you know what~s happened? Mywife's gone off and forgotten to leaveme any change! Heigh-ho, well, ah- my name is James Brockelhurst:I'm with the Pliofilm Corporation:I generally don't eat out, and­here, no, I insist. This is ,embarrass­ing for you as well as for myself. Iinsist upon leaving my card. If youwill retain it, I shall return tomor­row evening at this time and reim­burse you."

Mr. Aorta shoved the pasteboardinto the cashier's hands, shook hishead, shoveled the residue back intohis pockets and, plucking a tooth­pick from a box, left the restaurant.

He was quite pleased with ~mself

- an invariable reaction to the ac­quisition ofsomething for nothing inreturn. It had all gone smoothly,and what a delightful meal!

He strolled in the direction of thestreetcar stop, casting occasionallicentious glances at undressed man­nequins in department store win­dows.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

The prolonged fumbling for hiscar token worked as efficiently asever. (Get in the middle of thecrowd, look bewildered, inconspicu­ous, search your pockets earnestly,the while edging from the vision ofthe conductor - then, take a farseat and read a newspaper.) ]n fouryears' traveling time, Mr. Aortacomputed he had saved a total of$211.20.

The electric's ancient list did notjar his warm feeling of serenity. Hestudied the amusements briefly,then went to work on the currentpuzzle, whose prize ran ,into thethousands. Thousands of dollars, ac­tually for nothing. Something for·nothing. Mr. Aorta loved puzzles.

But the fine print made readingimpossible.

Mr. Aorta glanced at the elderlywoman standing near'his seat; then,because the woman's eyes were fullof tired .pleading and insinuation, herefocused out the wire cross-hatchwindows.

What he saw caused his heart tothrob. The section of town was onehe passed every day, so it was awonder he'd not noticed it before­though generally there was littleprovocation to sight-see on whatwas irreverently, called "Death Row'- a dreary round of mortuaries, col­umbariums, crematories and thelike, all crowded into a five-blockarea.

He yanked the stop-signal, hur...ried to the rear of the streetcar anddepressed the exit plate. In a few

FREE DIRT

moments he had walked to whathe'd seen.

It was' a sign, artlessly letteredthough spelled correctly enough. Itwas not new, for the white paint hadswollen and cracked and the rustednails had dripped trails of dirtyorange over the face of it.

The sign read:

FREE DIRTAPPLY WITIIIN

LILYVALECEMETERY

and was posted upon the molderinggreen of a woodboard wall.

Now Mr. Aorta felt a familiarsensation come over him. It hap­pened whenever he "encountered theword FREE - a' magic word thatdid strange and wonderful things tohis metabolism.

Free. What is the meaning, theessence of free? Why, something fornothing. And, as has been pointedout, to get' something for nothingwas Mr. Aorta's cmefest pleasure inthis mortal life.

The fact that it was dirt whichwas being offered free did not op­press him. He seldom gave morethan fleeting thought to these things;for, he reasoned, nothing is withoutits use.

The other, subtler circumstancessurrounding the sign scarcely oc­curred to him: why the dirt wasbeing offered, where free dirt in acemetery would logically come from;

43

et- cetera. In this connection he con­sidered only the probable richnessof the soil.

Mr. Aorta's solitary hesitation en-'circled such problems as: Was thisoffer an honest .one, without stringswhereby he would have to buysomething? Was there a limit onhow much he could take home? Ifnot, what would be the best methodof transporting it?

Petty problems: all solvable.Mr. Aorta did something inwardly

that resembled· a smile, looked aboutand finally located the entrance tothe Lilyvale Cemetery.

These desolate ~rounds, which hadaccommodated in turn a twine fac­tory, an upholstering firm and anoutlet for ladies' shoes, now layswathed in a miasmic vapor - ac'"creditable, in the absence of nearbybogs, to a profusion of windwardsmokestacks. The blistered hum­mocks, peaked with crosses, slabsand stones, loomed gray and sad inthe gloaming: withal, a place purelydelightful to describe, and a pity itcannot be - for how it looked therethat evening had little to do withthe fat man and what was eventu'"ally to become of him.

Important only that it was a placefull of dead people on their backsunder ground, moldering and mold­ered.

Mr. Aorta hurried because he,despised to waste, along with every"'~thing else, time. It was not long be...fore he had encountered the proper

44

party and had this conversation:".I understand you're offering free

dirt.""Yes.""How much may one have?""Much as you want."'·'On what days?""Any days - and there'll always

be some fresh."Mr. Aorta sighed in the manner

of one who has just acquired a life­time inheritance or a measuredchecking account. He then' made anappointment for the following Sat­urday and went home to ruminateagreeable ruminations.

At a quarter past 9 that night hehit upon an ~xcellent use to whichthe dirt might be put. ,

His back yard, an ochre waste, laychunked and dry, a barren stretchrepulsive to all but the' grossestweeds. A tree had once flourishedthere, in better; days, a haven forsuburbanite birds; but then the birdsdisappeared for no good reason ex­cept that this is when Mr. Aortamoved into the house, and the treebecame an ugly naked thing.

No children played in this yard.Mr. Aorta was intrigued. Who

could say, perhaps something mightbe made to grow! He had long agowritten an enterprising firm for freesamples of seeds, and r.eceivedenough to feed an army. But the~·fir~t experiments had shriveled intohard useless pips and, seized by lassi­tude, Mr.· Aorta had shelved theproject. Now . . •

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

A neighbor named Joseph WilliamSantucci permitted himself to beintimidated. He lent his old Reotruck, and after a few hours the firstload of dirt had arrived and beenshoveled into a tidy mound. Itlooked beautiful to'Mr. Aorta, whosepassion overcompensated for hisweariness with the task. The secondload followed, and the third, and thefourth, and it was dark as a coalbinout when the very last was dumped.

Mr. Aorta returned the truck and{ell into an exhausted, though notunpleasant sleep.

The next day was heralde4 by thedistant clangor of church bells and.the chink-chink of Mr. Aorta's spade,leveling the displaced graveyardsoil, distributing it and grinding itin with the crusty earth. It had acontinental look, this new dirt:swarthy, it seemed, black and satur­nine: not at all dry, though the sunwas already quite hot.

Soon the greater portion of theyard was covered, and Mr. Aortareturned to his sitting room.

.He turned on the radio in time toidentify a popular song, marked hisdiscovery on a postcard and mailedthis away, confident that he wouldreceiver either a toaster or a set ofnylon hose for his trouble.

Then he wrapped -four bundlescontaining, respectively: a can ofvitamin capsules, half of them gone;a half-tin of coffee; a half-full bottleof spot remover; and a box of soapflakes wit.h most of the soap flakesmissing. These he mailed, each with

~ pote curtly expressing his totald~tisfaction, to the companiesthat had offered them to him on amoney-back guarantee.

Now it was dinner time, and Mr.Aorta beamed in anticipation. Hesat down to a meal of sundry deli­cacies such as anchovies, sardines,mushrooms, caviar, olives and pearlonions. It was not, however, that heenjoyed this type of food for anyesthetic reasons: only that it had allcome in packages small enough to beslipped into one's pocket withoutattracting the attention of busygrocers. .

Mr. Aorta cleaned his plates sothoroughly no cat would care tolick them; the empty tins also lookednew and bright: even their lidsgleamed iridescently.

Mr. Aorta glanced at his checkbook balance, grinned indecently,and went to look out the back win­dow. (He was not married, so he feltno urge to lie down after dinner.)

The moon was cold upo.n the yard.Its rays passed over the high fenceMr. Aorta had constructed fromfree rocks, and splashed moodilyonto the now black earth.

Mr. Aorta thought a bit, putaway his check book and got out theboxes containing the garden seeds.

They were good as new.

.Joseph William Santucci's ·truckwas in use every Saturday thereafterfor five weeks. This good. manwatched curiously as his neighborreturned each time with more dirt

;45

and .yet mQre, and he made severalremarks to his wife about the odd­ness of it all, but she could not beareven to talk about Mr. Aorta.

"He's robbed us blind I" she said."Look! He wears your old cl~thes,he uses my sugar and spices andborrows everything else he can thinkof! Borrows, did I say? I mean steals.For years! I have not seen the manpay for a thing yet I Where does hework he makes so little money? '

Neither Mr. nor Mrs.. Santucciknew that Mr.. Aorta's daily laborsinvolved sitting on the ·sidewalkdowntown, with dark glasses on anqa battered tin cup in front of him.They'd both passed him severaltimes,· though, and given him pen­nies, both unable to penetrate theclever disguise. It was all kept, thedisguise, in a free locker at the rail­road terminal.

"Here he comes again, that loony!"Mrs. Santucci \vailed.

Soon it was time to plant theseeds, and Mr. Aorta went about thiswith ponderous precision, after hav­ing consulted numerous books at thelibrary. Neat rows of summer squashwere sown in the richly dark soil;'and peas, corn, beans, onions, beets,.rhubarb, asparagus, water cress' andmuch more, actually. When therows were· filled and Mr. Aorta 'wasstuck with extra packs, he ~miled .and dispersed strawberry seeds and;;watermelon .seeds and seeds without"clear description. Shortly the paperpackages were all.empty. '

46

A few days passed and it was get­t~irig time to go to the cemeteryagain for a fresh load, when Mr.Aorta noticed an odd thing.

The dark ground had begun toyield to tiny eruptions. Closer in­spection revealed that things hadbegun to grow. In the soil.

Now Mr. Aorta knew very littleabout gardening, when you gotright down to it. He thought it~trange, of course, but he was notalarmed. He saw things growing,that was the important point. Thingsthat would become food.

Praising his, Weltanschauung, hehurried to Lilyvale and there re­ceived a singular disappointment:Not many people had died lately.There was scant dirt to be had:~rdly one truckful.

Ah well, he thought, things arebou:od to pick up over the holidays;and he took home what there was.

_..Its addition- marked the improve­ment of the garden's growth. Shootsand buds came higher, and the ex"·panse was far less bleak.

He could not contain himselfuntil the next Saturday, for obvi­ously this dirt was acting as some~rt of fertilizer on his plants - thefree food called out for more.

But the next Saturday came acropper. Not even a shovel's load.And the garden was beginning todessicate••••

Mr. Aorta's startling decision cameas a result of trying all kinds of newdirt and fertilizers of every imagin-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

able description. Nothing worked.His garden, which had promised afull bounty of edibles, had sunk tonew'lows: it was almost back to itsoriginal state. And this Mr. Aortacould not abide, for he had put inconsiderable labor on the projectand this labor must not be wasted.It had deeply affected his otherenterprises.

So, with the caution born of des­peration, he entered the gray quietplace with the tombstones one night,located freshly dug but unoccupiedgraves and added to their six-footdepth yet another foot. It was notnoticeable to anyone who was notlooking for such a discrepancy.

No need to mention the manytrips involved: it is enough to say_that in time Mr. Santucci's truck,parked a block away, was a quarterfilled.

The following morning saw a re­birth in the garden.

And so it went. When dirt was tobe had, Mr. Aorta was obliged; whenit was not, well, it wasn't missed.And the garden kept growing andgrowing, until.-

As ifovernight, everything openedupl Where so short a time past hadbeen a parched little prairie was nowa multifloral, multivegetable para­dise. Corn bulged yellow from itsspiny green husks; peas were brilliantgreen in their half-split pods, andall the other wonderful foodstuffsglowed full rich with life and show..case vigor. Rows and rows of them.

:FREE DIRT

Mr.. Aorta was almost felled byenthusiasm.

A liver for the moment and anidiot in the art of canning, he .knew\vhat he had to do.

It took a while to systematicallygather up the morsels; but with pa..tience, he at last had the gardenstripped clean of all but weeds andleaves and other unedibles.

He cleaned. He peeled. He stringed.He cooked. He boiled. He took allthe good free food and piled it geo..metrically on tables and chairs andcontinued with this until it was allready to be eaten.

Then he began. Starting with theasparagus - he had decided to do itin alphabetical order - he ate andate clear through beets and celeryand parsley and rhubarb, pausedthere for a drink of water, and wenton eating, being careful not to wastea jot, until he came to water cress.By this time his stomach was twist­ing painfully, but it was a sweetpain, so he took a deep breath and,by chewing slowly, did away withthe final vestigal bit of food.

The plates sparkled white, like aseries of bloated snowflakes. It wasall gone.

Mr. Aorta felt an almost sexualsatisfaction, by which ~ meant he.had had enough for now. He couldn't·even belch. .

Happy thoughts assailed his mind,·as follows: His two greatest passionshad been fulfilled; life's meaning

,"acted out symbolically like a con­densed Everyman. These two things

47

only ·are wha~ this man thought of.He chanced to look out the win­

dow.What"·he saw was a speck of bright

in the middle of blackness. Small,somewhere at the end of the garden·- faint yet distinct.

With the effort of a brontosaurusemerging from a tar-pit Mr. Aortarose from his chair, walked to thedoor and went out into h~ emascu"lated garden. He lumbeted pastoangling grotesqueries formed byshucks and husks and vines.

The speck seemed to have disap"peared, and he looked carefully inall directions, sFtting his eyes, tryingto get accustomed to the moonlight.

Then he saw it. A white frondedthing, a plant, perhaps only a flower;but there, certainly, and all that wasleft.

Mr. Aorta was surprised to seethat it was located at the bottom ofashallow declivity very near the deadtree. He couldn't remember how ahole could have got dug ill his gar­den, but there were always neighbor­hood kids and their pranks. A luckything he'd gra.b.bed the food whenhe did I

Mr. Aorta leaned over. the edgeof the small pit and reached downhis hand toward the shining plant..It resisted his touch, somehow. Heleaned farther over and yet a littlefarther, and still he c<:>.uldn't layfingers on the thing.

Mr. Aorta was not an agile man,_However, with the intensity of apainter. trying to cover o.ne last tiny'

48

spot awkwardly placed, he leanedjust a mite farther and ploslz! he'dtoppled over the edge and landedwith a peculiarly subaqueous thud.A· ridiculous damned bother - nowhe'd have to make a fool of himselfclambering out again. But, the plant. . . He searched the floor of thepit, and searched it, and no plantcould be found. Then he looked upand was appalled by two things:Number· one, the pit had beendeeper than· he'd thought; Numbertwo, the plant was waving in thewind above him, on the rim he hadso recently occupied.

The pains in Mr. Aorta's stomachgot progressively worse. Movementincreased the pains. He began to feelan ov~rwhelming pressure in his ribs.

. It was at the moment of his dis­covery,that the top of the hole wasup beyond his reach that he saw thewhite plant in full moon glow. Itlooked rather like a hand, a big hu-­m~n ·hand, waxy and stiff and at-­tached to the earth. The wind hit itand it moved slightly, caus~ng a rainof dirt pellets to fall upon Mr.Aorta's face... He thought a moment, judgedthe whole situation, and began toclimb. But the pains were too muchand he fell, writhing a bit.

The wind came again and morec1irt was scattered down into thehole: soon the strange plant wasbeing pushed to and ffO against thesoil, and· the dirt fell more and moreheavily. More and more. More heav­ily and more heavily.

FANTASY AND SCIBNCE FICTION

Mr. Aorta, who had never up totl;tis paint found occasion to scream,screamed. It was quite successful,despite the fact that no one heard it.

Mr. and Mrs. Joseph WilliamSantucci found Mr. Aorta. He waslying on the floor in front of severaltables. On the tables were manyplates. The plates on the tableswere clean and shining.

His stomach was distended pastburst belt buckle, popped buttonsand forced zipper. It was not unlikethe image of a great white whale ris­ing from placid forlorn waters.

"Ate hisself to death," Mrs. San­tucci said in the manner of the con­cluding line of a complex joke.

Mr. Santucci reached down andplucked a tiny ball of soil from thefat man's dead lips. He studied it~

And an idea came to him. . . .He tried to get rid of the idea, but

when the doctors .found Mr. Aorta'sstomach to contain many pounds ofdirt - and nothing else - Mr. San­tucci slept bfldly, for almost a week.

They carried Mr. Aorta's bodythrough the weedy but otherwiseempty and desolate back yard, pastthe mournful dead tree and the rockfence.

And then they laid him to rest ina place with a moldering greenwoodboard wall: The wall had alittle sign nailed to it, artlessly let­tered though spelled correctlyenough.

And the wind blew absolutelyFree.

Here is a pleasingly mad little caprice, in which Mr. DicksDn (with anassist from Mr. Milne) illuminlltes for us the Galactic Significance of theSnail.

Jameshy GORDON R. DICKSON

"James gave the hutHe of a snail in "H. Sapiens?" asked James. "Why,.danger. •.•" I wouldn't have thought it of them.

(from "Four Friends," a poem by A. A. Milne) They seemed like such large harm­less creatures, for· all their rushing

JAMES HUFFLED. around. I've just been observingHe paused,' his horns searching one -"

the air. Something was coming to" "They may look harmless," inter­ward him along the brick he himself rupted Egbert,. sternly, "but thewas traversing. For a moment he mischief's in them. And we can~t

tensed, then his trained perception tolerate it, of course: After comingrecognised that the one approach.. halfway across the Galaxy to try anding was another snail. James glowed get away from Them, you know."with pleasure and hurried to meet "True," agreed James. He"added,him. a trifle wistfully, "Sometime~ I think

"I'm James," he said, joyfully we should have crushed Them thetouching horns. "And you?" last time they overran the planet

"Egbert," replied the other. we were on. If not the previous time."Honored to make your acquaint- Or the time before that." .anee, James." , "But what a labor it would have

"Honored to make yours,U replied been," protested Egbert. "Of courseJames; and then, avidly, as all snails all they had were primitive materialdo, he asked, "What's new?" weapons: space warps, disintegrators

"The word," said the other. "The. and the like. But there were soword is being passed." many of Them - thousands of plan-

"Nol" said JameS. etary systems all popul~ted up '.to"Absolutely," confirmed Egbert. the plimsoll mark. What a weary

"It's Homo Sapiens, of course; you task to zzitz hard enough to ex·­might have expected it." He sighed. terminate them all.· And how .easy,.

49

i(5°

-comparatively, to zzitz just enoughto protect ourselves."

'''Ah, yes,'" sighed James. "Ofcourse we are by nature sensible andwary of overexertion. 'Well, I sup­pose we're. better off here after all,even with Homo Sapiens dashingback and forth as if his shell was onfire. Who would ever have thoughta life form could become so active?And what is it, by the way, thatthey've finally done?"

"Well," said Egbert darkly, "braceyourself. I t's almost unbelievable,but since it comes through thegrapevine, it must be true. T'he.official word just filtered up fromthe valley of the Euphrates, or the

..~ile, or someplace around there.One of them -" he spaced thewords slowly and impressively "­one - of - them has actually justinvented a wheel!"

"No!" cried James, stunned."That'.s the word," insisted Egbert.

"I don't blame you for being surprised..J had trouble believing it myselfwhen it was told to me just themonth before last."

"That explains it!" cried James."1 thought I'd .been seeing thingswith wheels around; -but naturallyI couldn't believe. my senses on thebasis of purely empirical evidence.An old friend of mine was crushedby' one the other day. His namewas Charlie. You didn't know him,by any chance?"

"No," replied 'Egbert. "I neverknew a Charlie." They brOQded "insilence for a second.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FleT10N

"He was a Good Snail," saidJames, at last, bestowing the wordsof highest tribute upon his deceasedfriend. His mind swung back to theimplications of the news he had just·heard. "But this -" he stammered,"- this is terrible!"

"Ofcourse it is," brooded Egbert,darkly. "You know what's bound tohappen now, don't you? They'll besettling down, making pottery. Firstthing you know they'll buildpyramids, discover gunpowder. Why,before we can turn around they'llbe splitting the atom, and you knowwhat happens then!"

"Spaceflight ..." breathed James,h6rrified.

"Exactly!" replied Egbert grimly."And the minute they get a shipoutside the atmosphere, it'll registeron Their separation-index. And youknow what They'll do when Theyfind out."

"Poor H. Sapiens!" quaveredJames.

"Yes," said Egbert. "And poor us•The minute a ship gets outside theEarth's atmosph~re, it. won't bemore than three days, .loc~l time,before They notice it and have afleet here englobing the planet.'Which means we have only thelimited time remaining between nowand the launching of the first spacerocket to take defensive measures.And that time gets shorter by thecentury. Why, for all we know­at the mad pace these humans move~ one of them may be expe~iment-·

ing with a potter's wheel even now."

JAMES

"Indeed," said James, anxiously,"I could almost swear .. l've noticedsigns of pottery culture among ourlocal H. Sapiens. Of course -" headded hastily "- I have no con­firmation of the fact in the way ofcomparative reports from otherSnails."

"True. I too ••." Egbert loweredhis voice. "Let us speak off therecord, James. Unscientific as itmust be for only two observers tocompare .notes - tell me: Youhaven't seen any eyidence of pyramidbuilding here in North America?"

"N-no ..." answered James cau­tiously. "I have seen some rather oddstructures - but no true pyramid."

"Thank heaven for that," saidEgbert, with a sigh of relief. "Norhave I. Not that our two unofficialobservations mean anything, butthey represent a straw in the wind,a hope, James, that what you andI have seen mirrors the Big' Picture,and that H. Sapiens is still, essentially,a happy herdsman."

"Still," said James doubtfully, "ifI were to venture a guess on myown-"

"James I" reproved Egbert,shocked. "This in unsnailike. Putsuch thoughts from your mind. No,no, rest assured that we have somefew tho~sands of years still in whichto contact H. Sapiens if the race isto be taught how to zzitz and soprotect itself and its planet fromThem. Reassure YO\lrself t~t it ismerely a matter of contacting theright individual, one who will be-

51

lieve us and who in turn will·· bebelieved by his fellows."

For a moment silence hung heavybetween the two snails.

"Some people," said James finally,in an apologetic voice, "might callus slow."

"Oh, nol" cried Egbert,profoundlyshocked. "Surely not I"

"And perhaps," continued James,his voice strengthening, "who knowsbut what we actually may be a bitslow? I want to be fair about this.I will be fair about this I Think,Egbert: it has been at least twentyplanets, one after the other, whichwe have seen blown from beneath us,and their native life destroyed byThem in spite of all our good in­tentions about teaching that nativelife to protect itself by zzitzing."

"But-""But me no buts, Egbertl Twenty

chances we have had to protectthe. weak and defenseless. Twentytimes - in a row - we have beenjust a little bit late in giving. aid.And I say to you, Egbert, here andnow, that if by following our tra­ditional cautious methods we againslip up and see the human racedestroyed, then, by all that's holy,we are a trifle slow!"

"James," breathed Egbert, shrink­ing back in awe. "Such energy ISuch fire! You are a Snail Trans­formed!"

And, indeed, James was. Quiver­ing with righteous in~ignation, hehad reared ·up a full three-quartersof an inch above the. surface of the

= ..52',"

brick and both sets of his hornsstuck out rigidly, as if challenging"the universe." "Egbert," he said fiercely, "thetradition of eons is about to bebroken. You have spoken of severalthousand years in which to contactH. Sapiens. Know, Egbert, that 'thefur end of this brick touches thesill of a window, that that sill over­hangs -a desk, and thatat that desksits a man 'high in the councils ofthe Five Indian Nations, or theUnited Nations, or some such impor­~ant organization. This man I havebeen observing and I have dis­covered in him the capability tounderstand and believe the threatthat They will pose to his race, if

.that seU-same race continues this~ad plunge- of progress which hasj~st. recently brought forth the in­vention of the wheel."

"James!" gasped Egbert. "Youmean •..? You wouldn't ...?Not without first submitting a re­port for the. consideration of othersnails, the formation of an investi­gative forum, the collection of anadequate number of blanketing re­ports, a general referendum-"

"Cease, Egbert I" interruptedJames sternly. "I would, and I will."'Vhat you and other snails havealways refused to recognise is theimpermanence of the" individual H.Sapiens. They are here today, and­if l·may coin a phrase - gone to­morrow." The tone of his voicechanged. A note almost of pleadingc·cept into it. "Can't yo~ under~

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTIO.N

stand, EglJert, that this is a crisis!We can't afford to waste a thousandyears here and a thousand years therejust to make the matter official."

"But scientific method -" beganEgbert.

-"Scientific method, boshl" re­torted James, crudely. Egbert gasped."What good was scientific methodto the life forms of the last twentyplanets we've inhabited?"

Egbert was struck dumb. It wasa good twenty minutes before hemanaged to answer.

"Why -" he said at last. "Inever thought of that. That's true,it didn't help them much;- did it?"He stared at James with wonder andadmiration dawning in the littleeye at the tip of each of his twomajor horns. "But James -" hesaid. "To flout tradition in thisfashion - to throw off at one fellswoop the age-welded bonds ofancient custom and establishedmeans. Why, James -" he wenton, falling, as all Snails do whendeeply moved, into iambic pentame..ter "- this step will sound through..out the halls of time; and throughthe echoing vault of universe; beduplicated to infinity. So that allfuture ages, hearing it, and lookingback, will wonder how you could.And tell me James, how is it thatyou can?"

James bowed his horns in gracefulacknowledgment of the question.

"I am," he replied simply, "whatyou might possibly characterize asa humanitarian."

JAMES

"Ah," said Egbert softly, "sothat's it."

"Yes," answered James. "Andnow - my duty calls. Farewell,Egbert."

"Farewell!" choked Egbert, almosttoo overcome to speak. They brokecontact; and James began to turnaround. "Farewell, oh brave andgallant spirit I"

Resolutely, James completed histurn and began his march. Insidethe window, at the desk, a heavybalding man with tired eyes straight­ened his glasses and began to reada report stamped TOP. SECRETand headed PARTICULARS OF FORTH­

COMING FLIGHT OF UN SPACE ROCKET

X--I. He read steadily into the reportas the sun crept across the sky.

After a while he stopped tempo­rarily to rub ~is eyes. As he did,

53he caught sight of a snail which hadjust crawled across the sill fromoutside the window. It stood balancedon the edge. It was James, of course,and for a long second they lookedat each other. Then the man turnedback to the report.

James paused to catch his brea~h.

The trip had been all ofeleven inchesand he had come at top speed.

Finally he collected himself andturned toward the man. The H.Sapiens' head was bent over a sheafof paper; but whatever engro~

him there would be small potatoesto what James was about to hit himwith. James took a deep breath.

"HutHe," he said. "HufBe. Huf­jlel Ruffle, huffle, huffle, huffle ..•"

"James gave the hufHe ofa s1lQ11 indanger - And nobody heard him litall." A. A. Milne

ADVANCE NOTICE

It's a little early to tell you many details about the ThirteenthWorld Science Fiction Convention, to be held in Cleveland at theManger Hotel from September 2. through September 5. But threepoints should be enough to make you send off your check immedi­ately: I) the guest of honor will be Isaac Asimov, who is (I solemnlyassure you) even more entertaining in person than on the printedpage; 2.) this convention will, uniquely, take over almost an entirehotel for its own use, with no house detectives and night managersto worry about; 3) cDntJentions Me I*n! ~o, to help the Clevelandersthrough the difficult early months of arrangements, please sendyour $2.. registration at once to 13th World S. F. CGnvention, Box5°8, Edgewater Branch, Cleveland 7, Ohio. See you in September!

·A. B.

·POOTNOTE ON A COLLABORATION: More often than reaaers suspect, II storycarrying II solo hy-line hils heen Jf} extensively rrplotted "nd even rewritten.Ily the editor that it is actually a collahorat;on. (In F&SF any sllch r'visionsa,e always undertaken only with the appro11al of the author.,· in one of our'tlaJing rivals, I am told, the printed form of a story IS often II complete su'­prise to its nominal creator.) I know, for instance, that many of my ownstories anthologi(ea from Astounding should, if I were II wholly serltpulousman, hear the credit-line "IJy Anthony Boucher and John W. CamplJell,Jr." Miriam Allen deForJ is, I hlWe discovered, II singularly scrupulouswoman.,· after this story passed back and forth between liS II nMmIJ,r (Jf times,she decided that it should carry a cotlahorative by-line. I hope you like theremIt.

~ary Celestialhy MIRIAM ALLEN DEFORD AND

ANTHONY BOUCHER

XILMUCH WAS DISCOVERED- ONCE.

It was discovered in 3942 by PatrickOstronsky..Vierra, a Two Star Scoutof the Galactic Presidium.

. It is easy to find - it is in factPlanet IV of Altair. If it were not alit~le off the beaten track it would.have been discovered long before.It is almost precisely the size of ourEarth, has similar atmosphere, rota"tion, gravity, and climatic condi­tions. It is two-thirds land surface,and in every way is admirablyadapted to human habitation. Ithas been ~he home of beings in...distinguishable from humans, andwas once the seat of a high civiliza'"

54

tion very like our own of· the 40thcentury, except in minor details.There are no noxious animal forms(the only beasts are herbivorousand inoffensive), and there are nohuman inhabitants who would re­sist colonization.

And yet, no matter how over­crowded the colonized planets maybecome, Xilmuch (that was its namein the dominant native language)will never be discovered again. Itwill never be colonized.

Not after the report PatrickOstronsky-Vierra brought back in3942 •

He land~ in what seemed to be

MARY CELESTIAL

its largest city, after a preliminarysurvey of the entire planet in hislittle one-man scout ship. Therewas a beautiful airport, equippedfor planes of every descriptio~. Itwas not in good repair. Squirrel-likeanimals infested the hangars full ofgrounded atmosphere-ships. Grasswas growing between cracks in thewide runways. A storm had leveledwhat had been a huge neo-neonbeacon.

Patrick spent two days exploringthe city on foot. There were multi­tudes of parked surface cars and ofhelicopter-like planes, some of whichhad crashed and were piles of junk.All had been propelled by some fuelunknown to him, all the tanks were:

.empty, and he could not find anystores of fuel that he could recog­nize. A good many of the mainstreets had moving sidewalks unclerplastic roofs, and some were stilloperating by remote control. It wasthe sort of civilization which in hisexperience implied the services ofrobots, but no robots of any kindwere visible.

He explored systematicallyt start­ing at one end of the city and cu-­cling closer and closer to the center,which appeared to be a huge civic orcontrol area, with overgrown parks,large imposing buildings, and a far­est of tri-dimensional televiz masts.The" city itself stood on the .banksof a wide river, an arm of which hadbeen diverted to run in a circlearound this Civic Center, withnumerous bridges between.

55

He went in and ·out of privatehouses, what seemed ta be hotels,stores, warehouses, schools, halls,factories, and one buiiding appar-'ently a center of worship. Not onesolitary human being met him, norany other living creature higher inthe scale of evolution than theequivalent of a cow. The cow-likecreatures were not abundant, butthey looked well fed; apparentlythey browsed on the vegetatioJ;l ofthe many parks and gardens. It wasunthinkable that they could be thedominant race. This civilization hadbeen. built by animals with devel­oped cortices and opposable thumbs.. ·

The planet was as advanced ar­tistically as it was scientifically. In.the homes, under thick layers ofdust, were delicate jewels and pilesof beautiful thin coins engraved instrange designs. The walls of thelarger buildings were all carved inbas-relief, in a manner nearer toancient Mayan art than to any otherPatrick knew. Demonology musthave played a large part in the re...ligion, for there were numerouscarvings of small winged beingswith long Grecoesque features andwhat looked like lightning-bolts forarms and legs. In the temple, agrotesque and horrible statue, ahundred feet high, filled most ofthe great nave.

There were no libraries or mu­seums, no books, no paintings, nomusical instruments, no microfilm.Yet the inhabitants must have hadsome means of visual and auditory

56

public communication, judging bythe televiz masts at the CivicCenter.

Patrick camped for his first twonights in the nearest house, spread­ing his blanket on a rug because thebeds were too' thick in dust. He hadhis own food supplies in a knapsack,

-but the stores were full of shelvesof -met~l containers obviously(though he could not understandthe. drawings on the labels) withedible contents. He sampled one ortwo, after testing them for harmless~

ness, and found one to bea preservedfruit with a pleasant subacid flavor,another a sort' of paste resemblingpate de foie gras mixed with caviar.There was also a pale pink liquid ina plastic bottle which turned out tobe a delicate wine somewhat like. ,vtn rose.

He felt like a cross between Goldi­locks and Alice.

On the third day. he passed overa bridge to the Civic Center. Thebuildings in their disheveled parkswere grouped around a spreadingstone edifice with a dome, which hetook to be the City Hall. It wasmorning, a beautiful sunny summerday in the bluish whiteness of Altair.The ragged trees, something likeoaks, were full of white and greenbirds, all singing their little heartsout. A metal fountain, carved· in thelikeness of a spreading tree, wasspouting water. from the tips of itsbranches into a little pond. Thegrass was covered with myriads oflow-growing, velvety purple flowers

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

run wild. Patrick took the broadroad, whose ornamental green andbrown tiles showed wide gapsthrough which grassy blades grewthickly, that led to the central build­ing. A long Bight of steps ended ata massive bronze-like door, heavilyand intricately carved.

Before his eyes, the door opened.A man' stood for a second in thedoorway, then dashed down thesteps toward him.

Patrick braced himselfand reachedfor his raygun. But the man's armswere opened wide, his mouth wasstretched in' an ecstatic smile, andtears were running down his cheeks.

He was a tall, burly man, seem­ingly in late middle age; his hairwas white but his movements werelithe and supple. He was clean­shaven, and was dressed in a sort ofoverall made ~of a grey fabric whichlooked both soft and durable. Hecalled out something in a harshguttural tongue. The scout shookhis head.

"Welcome, welcome to Xilmuch!"cried the man then in perfect Stand­ard Galactic. "Who are you? Howdid you get here? Where are youfrom? I was never so glad to see any.."one in all my life!"

He gave Patrick no time to an­swer. Seizing him by the arm, hehustled him inside.

It had been an official buildingall right, Patrick could see that.There was a great lobby rising un­impeded to the dome, with anenormous wasteful' central staircase.

MARY CELESTIAL

There were banks of levescalatorson either side, and wide hallwaysled to ground-floor offices withtransparent plastic doors runningfrom floor to ceiling~'

But half the rooms to the righthad been transformed into a dwell..ing place. Patrick was hurried intoa living-room' whose stone floorswere covered with thick grey rugsinto which his boots sank. Therewere couches and low chairs, heavycream-colored curtains at all the tallwindows, long tables of a darkgleaming wood, their legs carved inflowers and birds.

An inner door opened, revealinga corner ofa white shining room thatmust be a kitchen. A woman burstthrough it and ran to them.

She was about as old as the man,sturdy also, but too plump, withgrey hair elaborately curled. Shetoo was dressed in an overall, buthers was bright purple and over itshe wore a fancy apron of lac~ withpink bows at its corners. She hadbeen pretty once, in a vapid way­probably a piquant blonde of thebuttercup-and-daisy variety.

She burst into excited chatter inthe unknown tongue, clutching atthe man's hand. Her voice was highand twittering, with a whine be­neath it. The man answered her, andthough Patrick could not under­stand the words, the contemptuoustone was clear enough. The scoldingran off her like water; she gazed atthe man meltingly, then turned tostare angrily at the Terran.

57

The man disengaged himself fromher. In Galactic he said to the scout:

"Oh, this is wonderfull A visitor- a visitor at lastl _

"We must celebrate. We will havea feast. The last case of rexshan Icould find - I must open it now.Tell me what you want: if there isany of it left, it is yours.

"Oh, what a miracle! Somebodyto talk to after so terribly long!"

The woman had sidled up andcuddled against the man, holdinghis hand to her cheek. He jerkedaway impatiently, and barked whatmust have been an order, for shenodded brightly and trotted backto the kitchen, throwing a kiss asshe went. The man shrugged as ifthrowing off a weight and turned toPatrick with undisguised relief.

"Sit here," he said. "It is the most.comfortable. And now tell me whoyou are, my friend, and how youfound me."

Patrick showed his credentials.The stranger shook his head. He ex­plained them in words. The mannodded sagely.

"I understand. I had never daredto hope for a' visitor from beyondXilmuch. But I have heard of spacetravel, though we never attained it."

"And yet you speak Galactic.""Is that what it is? That is one of

my - But tell me first -""No, you tell me. Who are you?

What happened to this city? Whydid I see nobody -in three days, untilI found you and - and the lady? Isall your world like this?"

58

"My name is Zoth - ZothCherrik, but you must call me.Zoth,and I shall call you Patrick. All therest you ask - I shall be glad to tellyou everything, but we have plentyof time. We'll talk and talk I Butfirst I want to know all about you,your world, how you all live, yourown life - everything. I have beenso starved for conversation - youcan't imagine how much, or howlong!" .

"But oughtn't we to be helpingthe lady?" Patrick ·asked uneasily.

"Her name is Jyk. She is mywife." He scowled. "She can man"age. She cooks well, at least. It willtake' her hours; I have· ordered allthe best for us. Meanwhile, we will

:drink while we wait."'"He opened a tall cabinet with

carved doors and took out gobletsand a squat yellow bottle.

"Not rexshan - we shall havethat at dinner. But almost as good;it is pure stralp of a very good year."

He poured an iridescent liquid."You smell it for a few minutes,

then you sip, then you smell itagain," he explained.

"Like brandy," Patrick agreed."That I do not know. But that is

as good a place to start as any. Tellme of your foods and drinks."

There was no help for it. Thisguy was going to give' in his owngood time only. Planet scouts aretrained in diplomacy. Patrick' set..

.tIed down· to being a vocal encyclo­pedia attached to a question-ma­chine.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Twice they were interrupted. bycalls from the kitchen. Each timeZoth rose reluctantly and went out,first replenishing Patrick's goblet;he could be heard lifting and settingdown some heavy object, his an­noyed, voice interrupted by hiswife's. cooing tones. The ,relationbetween the two puzzled Patrickas much as anything else he hadchanced upon in this strange world~

this seeming Mary Celeste of thespace-seas.

Several hours and several glassesof the iridescent stralp later, he wasfeeling only relaxed and very hun..gry. Zoth's wife appeared in thekitchen door, rosy and dimpling.This time Zoth beamed. "Now weshall eat," he said. "We are having atender young ekahir I had been sav"ing in the freezing- box. I shall bringit in."

Jyk - what ought he to call her?Mrs. Cheruk? - cleared one of thelong tables and from the lower partof the cabinet took dishes of sometransparent plastic, golden yellowand delicately etched. She drewfrom a drawer knives and spoons ­there were no forks - of a metalthat looked like steel. Patrick hur..ried to help her. Her manner wasdistrait, and she kept 'glancingyearningly toward the kitchen.Presently Zoth entered, bearing alarge tray heaped with steamingfood. .

The ekahir turned out to' be acrisply roasted bird, its flesh tastinglike a combination of turkey and

"MARY· CELESTIAL

..duck. Zoth carved it a~roitly, usinga long thin knife with a carvedmetal handle, while his wife piled.the plates high with unknown butinteresting-looking vegetables. Therexshan, poured into tall slenderglasses, proved to be a cool bubbling:wine, with a warm aftertaste and aninsidious effect.

The food was delicious, the drink.delightful, and the Terran's appetitesharp; but after his first hunger wassatisfied, Patrick found himself in­creasingly disquieted.

.Something he could not under­stand was very wrong between thesetwo.· He didn't need to comprehendthe words they exchanged to realizethat Zoth loathed his wife, arid thatshe worshiped him. There was scornin every harsh command he gaveher, and to each she hastened torespond with servile promptness. Itgot on Patrick's nerves, until at lastZoth. himself noticed, and made anobvious effort to restrain himself.

The climax came when Iyk,watching her husband's plate with

'anxious solicitude, suddenly jumpedfrom her seat, carried a dish of tartblue jelly to Zoth's place, placed aportion of it on his plate, and caress­ingly threw her other arm aroundhis neck just as he was raising aspoonful of ekahir to his mouth.

:,The meat fell from his jostled armto the table, and he leapt to his feet.The angry syllables he shouted were

.~unmistakably a curse.Then suddenly, before Patrick

could take in what was happening,

'59

Zoth seized the long knife withwhich. he had carved the bird - andplunged it full into his wife's breast.

Patrick dived and caught him bythe arm before he could ,strikeagain. Shaking with horror, heturned his eyes to the victim.

She was not dead, she had notfallen, she was not even bleeding.With a gay laugh she plucked theknife from her flesh, chirped a fewwords in a tone of affectionate teas­ing, patted her husband's cheek, andreturned amiably to her place at thefoot of the table, where she calmlyhelped herself to more of the jelly.

Patrick's hand fell. He stood star­ing in paralyzed astonishment. Zothlaughed then too - but his laughwas half a groan.

"Forgive me for interrupJing our. meal so impolitely, my friend," hesaid. "Sometimes this woman exas­perates me 'beyond endurance­but, as you see, it does her no harm."

Patrick could only continue tostare, as he slowly resumed his seat.

As for Iyk, she sat drinkingrekshan, and smiling at her husbandas a' mother smiles at -her naughtychild.

Patrick's -app.etite was gone; hesat uncomfortably waiting for an ex­planation that did not come. Zothcleaned the last ·s.crap from his plate,drained the last drop of rexshan, andonly then addressed a few curt re­marks to his wife. She rose quicklyand began removing the dishes. Thehost turned· to his guest.

"Exercise is good after a full

60

meal, Patrick. Let us walk for awhile arounQ the city, and I willshow you how I get our food and allour supplies. There is still much I,have not yet asked you about yourworld."

"There is much I want to knowalso, Zoth," the Terran remindedhim.

"Later; there is no hurry. Whenit is dark I shall send the woman offto bed. alone, and then we shall sit-over glasses of stralp and you mayask me anything you wish to know.But now you must tell me more ofthis Galactic Presidium, and how itoperates. You say there is an agree­ment by which hitherto undiscov­ered planets are opened for col­·onization by whatever life-form isbest adapted to them? You may.imagine how much this interests me,since I can detect no difference'whatever between your form andmine - we are akkir together."

"Akkjr- that means human?""Yes. And here is a whole empty

world, with all the foundations ofcivilization already laid."

~~ am only a scout, you under­stand," said Patrick. "I have no.authority."

"I Wlderstand. But your recom­mendation would have great in­fluence. I am only wondering howlong it would take. Perhaps it wouldbe better . . . However, all thatwe can discuss later. Now I want toask you-"

Patrick turned again into a vocalencyclqpedia.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FlcnON

Their walk took them to a largewarehouse. Zoth opened the door.

"Here, you see,'.' he explained,"are stored garments made of furs­furs of the carnivorous animalswhich no longer exist on Xilmuch.When it is cold, and we need warmclothing, we have only to take ourpick. In the same way, all the storesand warehouses of the city are opento us to obtain whatever we desirein the way of food, clothes, furni­ture, ornaments - anything at all.There is only one real scarcity: rhaz,the fuel by which we run our planesand cars. I have stored all of that Icould find in our house, which wasonce the City Hall, and I use avehicle only when it is necessary tocarry heavy loads. Otherwise, Iwalk. One man cannot operate therhaz supplier, though when mine isgone I shall have to find someway."

"What about public utilities?"Patrick asked. "Water, lights, thingslike that?"

"Enough is still operating auto­matically to serve us. Much, ofcourse, has failed. If, before I - ifwe of Xilmuch had only learned tosplit the atom, as you say yourworld has done - But we hadn't,and so, you' will understand, there isgreat deterioration in such things,though they could be easily re­habilitated with sufficient manpower.After all, it has been fifty years."

"Fifty years since what?""Shall we turn hack now? I don't

want to tire you, and the sun will

: MARY CELESTIAL

b.~ .sett~g soon. There. are no streetlig~ts any more, and I shouldn't likeyou to stumble in our ruts and gul­lies in the darkness: Besides, I'mthirsty again, and so must you be.The woman will have finished clean­ing up; I shall have her set out somerefreshment.for us and send her off."

They had walked farther thanPatrick had realized; it was twilightbefore they crossed the bridge to theCivic Center where the great domedominated the skyline. A glow oflights came from the right-handwindows on the first floor, and as.they mounted the steps they foundJyk pacing up and down before thebronze door.

As soon as she glimpsed them, sheran toward them and threw her armsaround her husband with a babble'of speech. Zoth pulled away im­patiently.

"The fool thought she had lostme~" he said with a wry grin. "Thisi~ the first time I have been this longou't of her sight in 50 years. She in­sists on following me everywhere I;go, and it's not worth the trouble to~get rid of her when I have no other'companion - but today, when I~~ve you - today I ordered her tostay at home and leave me free. Sheha.s been weeping. I am glad of it.4t .her .weep.":j' Pretty cool, thought Patrick, for

a ..tJlcln who had just tried to murderhis wife in cold blood, and had failedto do so only by a miracle!

The big municipal-office-turned­.l~yiqg-room was aglow with tubes of

61

soft neo-neon light, and he sank.wearily into. one of the soft chairs.'The cream-colored curtains' weredrawn, but through a gap he couldsee the dark sky. This world, he hadfound, had no moon; and since thecity lay near the equator, twilightand d:awn were very brief.

He could have done with somesleep; but after all, a scout is a sortof diplomat: if his host were lookingforward to a long evening, there wasnothing to do but acquiesce. Besides,curiosity was scratching at him; hecOl!ld make nothing at all of thepersonal situation here, and it wastime for Zoth to talk.

Zoth addressed his wife in a seriesof staccato remarks. She bustledobediently into' ,the kitchen, whileher hus.band laid out the goblets andfresh bottles of the stralp. In a fewminutes . she returned, bearing aplate heaped with strips of some.crisp white 'substance glistening withwhat looked like salt. She threw herarms 'around her husband's neck,and, standing on tiptoe, pressedkisses on his unresponsive face:Patrick looked about him nervously,but this time .Zoth stood uncom­plainingly like a statue, his fistsclenched. He said a few curt words,and Jyk disentangled herself andwith a rebe~ous pout bowed un­smilingly to Patrick, making noattempt to .dissemble her jealousy.She departed slowly through an­other door.

"Ah!" . sai4 the host., stretchingluxuriously. "Slie will not dare to

trouble us again tonight." He pouredthe glasses full. "You cannot imaginewhat this means to mel At last - anevening of social conversation witha congenial friend I I have waited solong - I had almost ceased tohope."

"I think it is your turn to talknow," said the scout coldly.,

"I know. You are right. And I<:an see that you are displeased withme. You think me rude and brutal,you think I abuse a poor womanwhose only fault is that she adoresme too much. But when you haveheard -"

"You tried to kill her, at dinner.""Precisely: she angered me be­

yond endurance . . . and I tried.You observed that I did not suc­ceed."

Patrick recovered his aplomb."I apologize," he said. "It is not

my business to judge what I cannotunderstand. But you will realize Imust.be-puzzled."

"I do indeed. And you are myfriend - my first friend in fiftyyears. I will tell you everything youwant to know. Only, it is hard toknow how to start.

"Tell me: in your world, arethere . . . beings . . . personsthat are not human?"

Patrick smiled indulgently. "Some'people in my world believe so.Everybody believed so once."

"Here also. Only, I have provedthat they are real."

Oh, come now'- Patrick thought.Fairy tales at this point? "You have?"

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

he said in his best diplomatic man­ner.

"As you see about you . . . Then,have you a story that one may forcesuch a being to do one's will?"

"·We do have a myth - a symbolwhich has inspired some of ourgreatest artists - about selling one'ssoul to the devil-"

"Oh, as with the. NamelessI"Zoth turned pale and raised hisarms high, the thumbs and fore­fingers firmly pressed together. "Donot speak of Him!" .

Patrick remembered the terrify­ing hundred-foot statue in the naveof the great temple. Unreasoningly,he knew that this was the Nameless;and for a moment he felt less scorn­ful of the fairy tale.

"No," Zoth went on; "what Imean is closer to the simple akkjrplane. These are lesser beings, butpowerful enough. If one of them canbe brought into your power, he canbe compelled to grant you fivewishes. You have such?"

"Fairies, leprechauns, demons• • . I see what you mean. But onEarth it is, according to legend,only three wishes that he grants."

"You are luckier than we."So Zoth·s Standard Galactic, the

scout thought with amusement, wasnot so altogether perfect as he hadassumed - luckier when he" meantless luckY. Patrick hid a smile asZoth refilled their goolets.

"I shall tell you the whole story.It is the easiest way to make itclear."

MARY CELESTIAL

. . if not necessarily convincingPatrick thought. And yet, he askedhimself, have you, my bright Galacticscout, found ,any normal rationalmethod ofaccounting for this desertedplanet, this celestial Mary Celeste?

"Fifty years ago I was 23 yearsold. You look surprised. I can agelike other akldr, but I can never besenile.

"I was young. I was poor. I had amean job I hated. I was lonely, withno close friends - I, so gregarious aman - and I was madly in love witha girl who would not even look atme. I was in despair.

"How the grosh was summoned tome and how he came under mypower I shall not tell you. It ·wouldbe too hard to make it plain, andbesides, these are secret things bet­ter not told. But he came, and I didsubdue him to my will."

"The grosh - that's the demon?""You may call him so; he is in any

event a being like neither you norme, nor any material creature. Imay tell you that my own grand­father was a vardun - a priest in thegreat temple of the Nameless in thiscity - and from him, though I my'"self was not chosen to be a vardun,I had learned many things in myboyhood."

He repeated the propitiatory, ge~ture - the arms raised and the

thumbs and forefingers pressed to­gether.

"So there I was, with five wishesat my disposal. Even then - thoughI never guessed -" Zoth shud-

63

d:ered~ "I thought it wise not touse up all of them at once, but tokeep one at least in 'reserve. You willsee how wise that was - but stillnot wise enough."

"What does anyone want? Longlife, health, wealth, love, fame per­haps, though that I' did not careabout: and if one's heart is good,one wants also good fortune forothers as well. I was canny; I hadspeculated long, to -get int? smallcompass as much as possible of thethings I craved and had never had."

"Understandably," Patricknodded. "We are of different worlds,Zoth, but of the same nature."

"So I wished, first, to live to ahundred years at least, and always ingood health and strength, without·injury or illness. 'Granted/ said thegrosh.

"Then I wished, not for greatwealth which may be a burden, butthat I should never lack for anycomfort or luxury I might desire.And, since I am one who loves myfellow-beings, loves company and.good talk - I, who for fifty yearshave spoken.only to that silly crea'"ture in therel - I specified thatamong these comforts and luxuriesmust be the ability to conversefreely with every person I ever met.You must realize that in Xilmuchat that time there were differentcommunities, all equal, but speakingdifferent tongues-"

"You mean, different nations?"~'Of course; that is your word for

them. I intended to travel much,

64

and I wanted to be able to associate·with all whom I met. So thist Istipulatedt must be part of my sec­ond wish."

"So thatts how you speak Stand­ard Galactic, is it? That's puzzledme a lot."

"That is how. And if you hadspoken any other languaget I couldhave understood and spoken it justas well."

"And what was your third wish?"Patrick began to see a.pattern form­ing - and wished that he did not.

Zoth paced the room, his glass ofstralp in his hand. He glanced fur­tively at the door through whichJyk had vanished. Then he said in ashaking voice:

~'I told the grosh - the Namelessforgive mel - that I wished thatthe girl with whom I was then somadly in love should love me inr~turn, as madly and forever. Iwished that she might be willing tomarry me at once. And I wishedthat she should never leave me, butwould live exactly as long as I didmyself.

"And the grosh said, 'Granted.' ""That's three wishes." Patrick

hesitated. "Did you make anymore?"

"One more. Do you know what awar is?"

'·'Certainly. It has been centuriessince there has been a war on Earth,but in the past they were only toocommon. E'ven now, we must guardvigila.ntly against hostility and con­flict between rival groups."

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FIcnON

"We had not progressed so far. Atone time or another, all of ourvarious ---:- nations, as you call them,on Xilmuch had been at one an­other's throats. We had torn oneanother almost to pieces, and as ourscience advanced our wars grew stillmore terrible. And at that verymoment there was threat of a newwar that would have advanced myown people, here in this city.

"I was an idealistic young mao,who hated bloodshed. So for myfourth wish, I wished that every­where on Xilmuch there should becomplete and perpetual peace.

'" 'Granted,' said the grosh."These were my four wishes. And

I told the grosh that when I wasready to make the fifth, I wouldsummon him: these beings are im­mortal, you know. I have still notmade it."

"But I don't understand/' Patrick·objected. "It seems to-me that thosewere all practicable wishes. And yousay you had the - the grosh in yourpower. Didn't he really grantthem?"

"He granted them all," said Zoth."As for the first, I am as you see

me. I· shall live at least 27 yearsmore, and I shall never know illnessor bodily pain. That wish I have nodoubt the grosh granted me withpleasure - knowing that long be­fore the end I should yearn in vainfor death.

"And I have, as i you observ~,

every comfort and luxury I coulddesire. I live in a palace, and I have

MARY CELESTIAL

at my disposal the food, the cloth-­ing, the furniture, all the para-­phernalia of life of a" great city. Thesupply, easily obtained, will cer-­tainly outlast my lifetime. As for theability to converse with my fellow­beings in their own tongues, it isonly today that I have had occasionto test it - and that with an akkirfrom a world of outer space. Butyou see it was granted to me."

"But the third wish? What wentwrong about the girl you loved?How did the'demon get out of reallygranting you that?"

"He didn't.•.. It was Jyk.""Oh.""I had thought my heart was

broken when she spurned everyadvance I made. Now of her ownaccord she came to me: she loved mewildly, as she always will. I was inecstasy. We were married at once. Iwas the happiest man on Xilmuch.

"How could I foresee that myown love would turn to loathing?But against my will, it did: first shebored me, then she disgusted me,now I hate her with all my heart.

"And she will be with me all mylife." She will live exactly as long as I."

"So that's why -" Patrick ex­claimed.

"Yes~ that is why no knife, norany other means, can ever rid me ofher.

"I am ashamed that you saw thatscene; it does not happen often. Butcan you imagine what it must belike to have someone, someone youdetest, pester you with con~tant

65

worship? Sometimes I think I shallgo mad: nothing, nothing will everoffend or alienate her, and she clingsto me every minute. I know she isnot sleeping now; she will do what­ever I tell her, but she is waitingfor me right now with open arms; ifI did not go to her eventually, shewould seek me out, wherever Imight be. And for fifty years "therehas been no akkir on Xilmuch nuther and me!"

He paused, fighting for self-con­trol.

"1 don't want you to think I amnaturally cruel," he went on in acalmer voice. '~If I had pity left foranyone but myself, 1 should pityher. But I need not; she is happyjust to be with me, however I treather. Nearly always I can pretendpatience. It was only today, whenyour coming had so excited me-"

The scout averted" his eyes.Quickly, to change the subject, heasked:

"But your fourth wish? Did thedemon grant you that?"

"Is there not peace on Xilmuch?"asked Zoth simply.

The Terran was silent. Demansindeed! But tltis planet· • •• the pat-tern 1•••

,,Yes," his host went on, "thegrosh knew. We akkir are not madeby nature for perpetual peace - orwe were not so made fifty years ago.The animals also . . . There is noanimal on this planet now whichfights with others for its mate, orkills others for its food.

66

"And there is. great and lastingand perpetUal peace today onXilmuch."

Patrick said' nothing. His hostfilled their glasses. -,.

Finally the Terran broke thesilence.

"Is there no way," he said hesi­tantly, "by which, with the wisdomyou have acquirecJ, you could usethe fifth wish still at your disposal toundo some of the evil the demondid you?"

You might wish, Patrick thought,to return your wife's love once more,and salvage that much out ofthe mess;but probably it's too late for that now.

Zoth shook his head."Do you think I haven't worn

myself out trying to find some way?Th~ truth is, Patrick, I've beenafraid to wish again - afraid he willtwist that also to his own evil advan'"tage. And tIren I should be com'"pletely defenseless, at his mercy.

"It is only today, my friend, thata bit of hope has-come to me. Howcould even a grosh, I wonder, spoilso modest a wish? It is little enoughto ask - I've been so horriblylonely -"

He looked long and speculativelyat the Terran.

Patrick drained the last of hisstralp and stood up. He felt himselftrembling.

"Zoth," he said apologetically, "Ihate to break this up, but I'm afraidI'm asleep on my f~et. Let's go tobed now, shall we? Tomorrow's an­other day."

FANTASY AND SClI!-NCE FICTION

"Dh, my friend, forgive mel Ofcourse - you must be worn out!What a way to treat a guest - and aguest who means so much to melYou must excuse an old man -whohas half a century of conversationto make up! I'll show you where youare to sleep."

He led the way thr9ugh still athird door to another huge room, acorner of which had been screenedoff to hold a low couch covered withsome soft woolly fabric.

"My guestroom," he smiled. "rouare the first ever to occupy it. I hopeyou will -find it comfortable. Rightthrough here you will find the toiletfacilities. You turn the light .offthus.

"Sleep well, my friend. I shall besleeping late in the morning myself- I don't often keep such hours asthis. When you wake, come to theliving ·hall, and a meal will be readyfor you."

Patrick was alone at last.He made no at.tempt to undress

or go to bed. He had brought hisknapsack in with him, and hechecked its contents. Then he satquietly on the edge of the couch,thinking.

He sat there for two solid hours,until there was no glimmer of lightanywhere arid from a distant roomcam~ the SQund of faint but steadysnorIng.

The tall windows opened out..wards, and this was the ground floo~.

Outside, he put on his boots.It was very dark. No' orie could

MARY CELESTIAL

have seen him as he crept from treeto tree, in the shadow of the over­grown ornamental bush-es, to thenearest bridge. .

Once across, he set out at as rapida pace as possible. Even so, it tookthree hours, and the sky was begin­ning to gray, before he reached hisship.

An hour later, well beyond theorbit of Xilmuch, he began to won­der if he had made a fool of himself.

. . . Who ever heard of the en­tire population of a planet's beingwiped out, just to grant somebody'swish for worldwide peace? Spaceknew, there were enough otherroads to devastation! Wasn't thereasonable conclusion that in someentirely natural way, some epidemicor other- frightful catastrophe onXilmuch, only this man and hiswife had survived? Wouldn't it belogical that such a shock would havecmzed them both? Hadn't he spenta day and a night 'listening to thetale of a lunatic?

It was obvious that the man wasdesperately lonely, and would havekept his chance guest just as longas he could; but did it make sensethat he could have done so bymerely uttering an unused wish?Wasn't Patrick Ostronsky-Vierrajust as crazy as Zoth Cheruk toswallow such a story, even late atnight and full of rexshan and stralp?

• . . Bl:lt then why were there nocarnivorous animals on Xilmuch,but plenty of herbivorous ones andevery sort of vegetation? Catas..

67

trophes were not quite so selectiveas that.

And how. . . how else couldZoth have plunged a knife deepinto his wife's breast -- Patrick'shorror-stricken eyes had seen theblade go in to the handle - anddraw not a single drop of blood,elicit no sign of pain?

Xilmuch would be a wonderfulplanet for colonization. Its discov­ery would be the 'climax of his careeras a scout; there would be no limitto his rise in the profession afterthat.

And how Zoth would welcomethe colonists I

. . . And what unguessed harmhe could do them unwittingly bythat fifth wish of his I

In twenty-seven- years or so Zothand Jyk would both be dead. Zothcould do no harm then. But whatwould the Galactic Presidium thinkif a scout should announce that herewas a perfect colonization-point­only it must not be approach.epwhile an old man was still alive whomight jinx them?

And with or without Zoth, howabout a planet evidently full of mis­chievous, rancorous, double-crossinggrosh, with who knew what bags oftricks in their possession?

To say nothing of the Nameless,that distinctly unpretty god or devilwhose image Patrick had seen forhimself•

Patrick Ostronsky-Vierra, trustedand dedicated Two Star Scout, de-

68

cided deliberately to violate hissacred oath of office.

VVhen he returned to the head­quarters of the Galactic Presidium,his' report read:

"I visited Planet IV of Altair,which has been hitherto undiscov­ered, and which on first approachappeared to be suitable for coloniza­tion. On further investigation Ifound that the atmosphere consistsmostly of methane. The planet itselfis still in a semi-inolten state, withincessant volcanic eruptions andviolent wind-storms of ethane gas.

"I advise that the planet be givena wide berth - permanently. It iscompletely unfit for human hahita­tion~"

But there was another report: aprivate one. It was found amongOstronsky-Vierra'5 effects after hisdeath in 4009. It was if:l a plasticclosure marked: For the Seal~d Filesof the Galactic .Presidium. To BeOpened 50 Years after Receipt. '

In it was this complete narrativeas I, Man Swenskold-Wong, Secre-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tary of the Presidium in. this year4060, read it to the entire Presiqiumat its meeting upon February 30.

VVe are still, 'as everyone knows,in great need of more living-spacein. the colonized planets. There hasbeen much discussion of the possi­bility of colonizing Xilmuch, andthere will be much more discussion,perhaps even insistence upon thepart of the Opposition.

But the majority opinion, inwhich I concur, is that no foreseeableGalactic situation, even the "mount-:­ing pressure of expansion, can justifysending colonists to what Ostronsky­Vierra justly labeled the MaryCeleste of space. Empty of ZothCheruk and his Jyk it must be bynow, but not of its Nameless and- its'grosh (and who can say what power­ful type of unknown life-form hides-"behind these supernatural masks·?).

Superstitious, I hope-I may safelysay, we surely are not; but neitherare we, in our Chair,man's ringingwords, "reckless damn fools." Thereare other worlds.

i{ecommended i{ea.dinghy THE EDITOR

ALL RIGHT, BOYS; LET'S FACE IT: To be sure there have been 4 an-What science fiction boom? thologies; regular readers know my

For something over five years opinions on the health of a fieldnow we've been being told, in serious which subsists largely on antholo­articles in learned journals, that s.f. gization. And there'vebeen 4 paper­is the great new American cultural back novels; hut these were a minutephenomenon, that its devotees are percentage of the total paper out­numbered in the millions, that it put, and most of them were ofprettythreatens the existence of such other negligible quality.forms ofescape as the mystery novel, In short, after more than fivethat its popularity reveals strange years of experiment and promotion,and terrifying things about the science fiction is not a significantpsyche of Twentieth Century part of book publishing.Man . . . Magazines: t}ere the picture looks

But where is the actual evidence superficially a little hrighter. Oneof any real boom? can say that the number of "good"

Let's look at the various fields s.f. magazines ("good" both in edi-involved: torial standards and in payment of

Books: I'm writing this column acceptah~, if still not lavish, fees toin mid-February; as a reviewer I've authors) has, in the past six years,received advance copies of most increased by 200 or 300% - whichpublications through the first couple sounds far more impressive than say­of weeks of March. For my New ing that there are now three or fourYork Times column on mysteries, such magazines iQstead of one. ThereI've received 37 new hardcover are still an astonishing number ofnovels - rather an off year; it ,vas titles on the stands (they c<?me and50 at this point i.n 1954. go so fast that it's hard to state

Know how many hardcover s.f. figures, but I'd estimate around 20

novels I've received? Exactly 3; and to 25 when this ~ppears); but mostof these, one is a group of magazine of those magazines are strugglingnoveh~ts loosely assembled into a along on minute circulations, payingquasi-novel, J another is a British their authors infinitesimal sumsimport adapted from a radio play. (often long after publication), and

69

70

living in the shadow of the bank­ruptcy courts.

M.fJvies: There have been a fewgood science fiction films in the pastfew years (DESTINATION MOON, THE

DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL •••).

But then there have always been ajew good s.f. films (THINGS TO COME,

FRANKENSTEIN, METROPOLIS and soon back to Georges Melles).

(Readers particularly interestedin the history of science-fantasy onthe screen should consult the highlyinformative checklist of some 600

titles in the Spring iss~e of the ama'"teur magazine It, which may beordered for 2SC from Walter W.Lee, Jr., 1205 S. loth St., Coos Bay,Ore.)

Most of Hollywood's nominallys.f. product, however, seems to fallinto two categories: "human in­terest" stories of acute scientilleilliteraey, or crude q,uickies forkiddie matinees. I expect to read,any day, of the completion of AB'"

BOTT AND COSTELLO MEET KIMBALL

KINNISON.

Television: Surely if the love forscience fiction is sweeping the coun'"try, all the sexes from Maine toTexas should be demanding it ontheir home viewing screens. Butthere is not a single program on theair devoted to s.£. for adults.

I have a feeling that this situationmay be something like one thatexisted in radio before 1939. Itseems wholly incredible today; butbefore the success of the ElleryQueen show, all advertising agency

THE EDITORS

and network executives were 'lJllan­Unous in maintaining, as a matterof principle, that a detective storywas impossible on the air. Sciencefiction on TV has yet to find suchan icebreaker as Queen (perhaps aseries based on Heinlein's FutureHistory ... ?). There's been, sofar as I know, only one attempt ata regular adults. f. series; and thatwas so poorly executed, as .sci~nc~,

as fictiqn, or as television, that itsdeserved failure simply confirmedthe executives in their prejudice.

A little s.f. is slowly sneaking in~o

TV. MEDIC has offered a dramatiza'­tion of an H-bomb raid on LosAngeles (not yet broadcast at thiswriting, so I can't eomm~nt).. Andspace travel has received the honQrof a full-hour original TV-play' onSTUDIO ONE, and the ultimate in­dignity of a half hour starring ReqSkelton. Unfortunately, the ~erious

play contained little more plausibil~

ity and originality than the Skeltonscript, and was devoted entirely tothe emotionalization of the anti...science fiction (and indeed antI­science) thesis that "Man isn't b~ilt

for space."Tentative conclusions: Rarely has

any phenomenon been so.dispropoi...tionately publicized as "the sciencefiction boom." I t seems so plausiblethat history's most technologicalcivilization should find its mostpopular expression in the literatureof imaginative technology that crit­ics have casually assumed that theplausibility is a fact ... ;while the

RECO~ENDED READING

public has calmly gone on readingabout sex and violence, or the latestslick variant of the Cinderella story.

I honestly believe, as a critic, thats.f. has stimulating values, both inesthetics and as entertainment, tooffer to all readers. But .the factremains that s.f. editors and authors(and one true and unfortunate"boom" is the large number of tal..ented new writers attracted, by allthe publicity, to a field too small tosupport them) are not reachingnearly so wide an audience as is-supposed.

A numb:er of critics (includingme) said that science fiction at theend of World War II stood wherethe detective story did at the end ofWorld War I. The statement was notinaccur~te; but the developments inthe post-war decade have not beenremotely comparable. Somewherewe (the editors and authors) haveslipped; and if you (the readers)have any ideas on where, I'd bevery interested in hearing them.You, now reading this, have pre"sumably been converted to an in..terest in this type of imag~native

literature - any ideas on how tomake further conversions?

To turn to the few new books(not covering all of those cited abovebecause a couple of just-receiveditems are still unread), plus somehitherto neglected leftovers from1954:

NEW NOVELS

The only Grade A long fiction of1955 to date is so exceedingly good

71

as to compensate for any number ofduller items. EARTHLIGHT (Ballan~

tine, $2.75*; paper, 35c) representsArthur C. Clarke at his best - andwhat is better in modern s.f.? Thisis Clarke in his quietly factual (yetpoetically illuminating) vein, a con­vincingly real, scientifically detailedstory of the near future, yet infusedwith that sense of wonder and ex­citement that we sometimes thinkvanished from literature around thetime our voices changed~ Plot:counterespionage on the moon dur..ing a threatened revolt of the plane­tary colonies. Special features: count­less new sidelights on the probabili­ties of life on the moon, a stunninglydifferent scene of a rescue in space,'one of the all-time great space bat­tles - and serious novelistic consid­eration of problems of loyalty andmorality. Verdict: More books likethis and there'd probably be noneed for the question~/ I posedabove.

James Blish's EARTHMAN, COME

HOME (Putnam's, $3.50*) is an as­semblage of his- Okje novelets fromAstounding and elsewhere, making avast and vague novel which doesIittle justice to a fascinating concept;though you are constantly told thatthe scene is (magnificent idea!) theentire city of New York convertedinto a migrant space-mercenary, itnever sounds like anything but justanother spaceship, with the usualcardboard crew. Jack Finney's THE

BODY SNATCHERS (Dell, 25c) has,oddly, exactly the same theme as

72

Philip K. Dick's The Father- Thing(F&SF, December, 1954): the hid­den growth of soulless facsimileswhich take over the places of humanbeings. A fair number of inconsist­encies and inaccuracies preventwholehearted acceptance of the bookas science fiction; but Mr. Finney is,as always, intensely readable andunpredictably ingenious. HaroldRein's FEW WERE LEFT (John Day,$3.50*) is, I guess, borderline s.f.;presumably its unspecified disasteris the atomic destruction of Man­hattan. The attempt of a handful ofsurvivors to create a new life in thesub'way tunnels is a promisingtheme; but oversimplified 'charac­terization and lack of story-move­ment make it a fairly dull book.

Noted for completists only: AlgisBudrys' FALSE NIGHT (Lion, 25c);Robert Moore Williams' THE CHAOS

FIGHTERS (Ace, 25c); Murray Lein­ster's THE OTHER SIDE OF HERE (Ace,35c). The Leinster (a rewrite of THE

INCREDIBLE INVASION from Astound­ing, 1936) does, however, include in,the same volume A. E. van Vogt'sincomparable hypergalactic fantasy­melodrama, THE WEAPON MAKERS

(now retitled ONE AGAINST ETER­

NITY), which is an imperativepurchase.

SHORT STORIES

.Published and reviewed as"straight" fiction, J. B. Priestley'sTHE OTHE;R PLACE (Harper, $3*) isactually a pure science-fantasy vol­u~e, and a fine one. Priestley haslong been obsessed by the imagina-

THE EDITORS

tive potential of Time, and particu­larly by J. W. Dunne's serial-uni­verse concepts. Yau 'll recall theplays DANGEROUS CORNER and. I

HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE, the recentnovel THE MAGICIANS, the shortstory The Strange Girl (F.&SF, Janu­ary, 1954). This new book bringsyou that story and 8 others of thesame kind, wonderfully evocativevariations on a theme, rich in. theiringenious thinking about time andin their full-bodied creation of con­trasting eras.

Lloyd Arthur Eshbach has ren..dered immeasurable service to s'.f.readers as owner-publisher-editor ofFantasy Press and Polaris Press.Anyone who has published Russell'sDEEP SPACE, Williamson's DARKER

THAN YOU THINK, and Stevens' THE

HEADS OF CERBERUS has earned aperfect right to bring out a collec­tion of his own short stories andnovelets. But I think your opinionof Mr. Eshbach will remain higherif you fail to read the 9 unfortunatestories,. ranging from 1932 to newand unpublished, gathered togetheras TYRANT OF TIME (Fantasy Press,$3*)·

ANTHOLOGIES

Frederik Pohl's STAR SCIENGE FIC­

TION STORIES NO. 3 (Ballantine,$2*; paper, 35c) is easily the best ofthe anthologies to be consideredhere, if pretty far short of being thebest in its series. There are, surpris­ingly, some tired stories here­old hands very competently tellingtales that you've read often enough

RE00~ENDED READING

already. But there are also brightfresh vigorous entries by ChadOliver and Philip K. Dick andRichard Matheson; and even theless shining it.ems are never merepadded hackwork.

Which reminds me that space­pressure has always managed tosqueeze out earlier mention ofPoW's STAR SHORT NOVELS (Ballan­tine, $2*; paper, 35c), published lastyear. This is indeed a strange, un­satisfactory, yet certainly not negli­gible book. In its three stories (from17 to 25,000 words apiece), JessamynWest attempts her first s.f. withskilled prose, a fine concept, and nological development; Lester del Reydevotes fine storytelling to perhapsthe most powerful idea yet con­ceived in theological science fiction,but wholly fails in making his theo­logical notion believable; and Theo­dore Sturgeon tosses off coruscantpyrotechnics about nothing at all.In short, an exasperating collection- but worth looking into.

Harold W. Kuebler's THE TREAS­

URY OF SCIENCE FICTION CLASSICS

(Hanover, $2.95) makes the snob­appeal pitch of trying to show thatthe best science fiction has flourishedourside of the s.f. magazines. It's ahodgepodge of anthology favoritesand meaningless "excerpts" fromnovels, with inadequate and inac...curate editorial comment. The enor'"mous book (a third of a millionwordsl) is a bargain, and containssome excellent readidg;. but any"thing of value you're sure to have

73

on your shelves already in somebetter collection.

Joseph Gallant's STORIES OF SCI­

ENTIFIC IMAGINATION (Oxford BookCo., 70C) is something of a land­mark: an anthology of s.f. for use inschools! The editor argues con~

vincingly that "science fiction seemsto provide a natural medium~ forreading in core-curriculum classes,"because such classes are "a fusion of.sciences, social studies, and Eng­lish." The book is not of interest tothe regular s.f. reader; the stories,largely good, have all been previ­ously reprinted, most of them sev'"eral times; but you might bring it tothe attention of yoilr children'steachers. It's a pity that a schooltext contains so many errors (17mistakes in a bibliographic listing of22 titles!)·; but maybe core-curric"ulum teachers are less particularthan old-fashioned hidebound aca­demicians.

No review, of course, but I can'thelp calling your attention to oneother recent anthology: mE BEST

FROM F&SF: FOURTH SERIES, editedby Anthony Boucher (Doubleday,$3.50*). FifteeQ stories (adorned by7 verses) from the 1954 issues of thismagazine - I hope you'll like it.

NON-FICTION

Robert Lindner's THE FIFTY-MIN­

UTE HOUR (Rinehart, $3-50*) issubtitled "a collection of true psy­choanalytic tales," and Max Ler~er~s

introduction points out that Lindnerhas, in the psychoanalytic tale,

THE EDITORS

created virtually a new artform. The HUMOR

longest of the 5 tales is of intense Fantasy- Times recently describedinterest to readers of s.f.: The Jet- Mad as "the non-scierice-fictionPropelled Couch, the extraordinary comic book that is read by mostnarrative of a research physicist science fiction fans." I think this iswho retreated into a science-fictional true; at least I hope it is, and shouldworld of his own creation, a galactic like to change most to all. To at­future so consistently real. as to tempt to describe Mad's satire isentrap even the analyst. It's a true simply to pile up such adjectives asstory reminiscent of the best fiction trenchant, Rabelaisian, lusty, gusty,of the Kuttners, and nowise to be busty, penetrating,' vershlugginer.missed. . .. You'll find a rich sampling in

And then there are the books Harvey Kurtzman's THE MAD READER

about the saucers.... Cedric AI- (Ballantine, 35c) - all fantasy to!ingham's FLYING SAUCER FROM some extent, I suppose, and twoMARS (British Book Centre, $2.75*) sequences (SuperduperfIJan and Fleshis about how the author met, chatted Garden) s.f., complete with madwith and photographed a Martian scientists, mad artists and happilysaucerman in Scotland on February mad readers.'1St 1954. Leonard G. Cramp's Both Ronald Searles's THE FEMALE

SPACE, GRAVITY AND THE FLYING APPROACH (Knopf, $3.50*) andSAUCER (British Book Centre, $3*) Charles Addams' HOMEBODIES (Si­is about the "Unity of Creation mon & Schuster, $2.95*) were listedTheory," which explains how sau- in F&SF's Best-of-I954 but nevercers move by controlling gravita- properly reviewed here - chieflytiona! fields and why rockets will because I find myself speechless be­never get us into space. Harold T. fore two such masters. Max Beer­Wilkins'. FLYING SAUCERS ON THE bohm paid the precise tribute toArrACK (Citadel, $3.50*) is about Searles when he wrote: "Therehow the saucers represent an attack.. seems to be no bounds to youring enemy and we must abandon all strangely inventive faculty, and tothese sissy ideas of welcoming friends your power of converting the maca­from space. Personally, I'll confess, bre into the most pleasurable ofI collect these damned things and frolics." The same words could bewoUldn't miss a word of anyone of justly written to· Addams. Both menthem; you, on the other hand, may think and draw as well, and in thebe better off with your hobby of same manner, as John Collier writes;collecting used Sears, Roebuck cata'" and this department has no higherlogs. superlatives in stock.

• Books marked with an asterisk may be ordered from F &SF's Readers' Book Service. Fordetails, see page 2.

Do you want to know what type of man stands the !Jest chance of survivingthe holocaust of his world? You' II learn the answer in this hrief and pointeditem which is, like most Mathesons, not quite like any other story you'veread.

Pattern for Survivalhy RICHARD MATHESON

A nd they stood beneath the crystaltowers, beneath the polished heightswhich, like scintillant mirrors, caughtrosy sunset on their faces until theircity was one vivid, coruscated blush.

Ras slipped an arm about the ,waistofhis belovec!. -

"Happy?" he inquired, in a tendervoice.

"Oh, yes," she breathed. "Here inour beauttful city U!here there is peaceand happiness for all, how could Ibe anything but happy?"

Sunset cast its roseate benedictionupon their soft embrace.

THE END

THE CLATTER CEASED. HIS HANDS

curled in like blossoms and hiseyes fell shut. The prose was wine.It trickled on the taste buds ofhis mind, a dizzying' potion. I'vedone it again, he recognized, 'byGe?rge in heaven, I've done itagaIn.

Satisfaction towed him out tosea. He went down for the third

time beneath its happy drag. Sur~

facing then, reborn, he estimatedwordage, addressed envelope, slidin manuscript, weighed total, af­fixed stamps and sealed. Anotherbrief submergence in the waters ofdelight, then up withal and to themailbox.

It was almost twelve as RichardAllen Shaggley hobbled down t~equiet' street in his shabby' overcoat.He had to hurry or he'd miss thepick-up and he mustn't do- that.Ras And The City of Crystal was toosuperlative to wait another day. Hewanted it to reach the editor im­mediately. It was a certain sale.

Circuiting the giant, pipe-strewnhole (When, in the name of heavenwould they finish repairing thatblasted sewer?), he limped on hur­riedly, envelope clutched in rigidfingers, heart a turmoil of vibration.

Noon. He reached the mailboxand cast about anxIous glances for.the postman. No sign of him. A sighof pleasure and relief escaped hi~

75

76

chapped lips. Face agl9w, RichardAllen Shaggley listened to the en­velope thump gently on the bottomof the mailbox.

The happy author shuffled off,coughing.

AI's 'legs were bothering himagain. He shambled up the quietstreet, teeth gritted slightly, leathersack pulling down his wearyshoulder. Getting old, he thoughOt,haven't got the drive any more.Rheumatism in the legs. Bad; makesit hard to do the route.

At twelve fifteen, he reached the"dark green mailbox and dre\v thekeys ·from his pocket. Stooping,with a groan, he opened up thebox and drew out its contents.

A smiling eased his pain-tensedface; he nodded once. Another yarnby Shaggley. Probably be snatchedup right away. The man couldreally write.

Rising with a grunt, Al slid theenvelope into his sack, relockedthe mailbox, then trudged off, stillsmiling to himself. Makes a manproud, he thought, carrying hisstories; even if my legs do hurt.

Al was a Shaggley fan.

When Rick arrived from luncha little after three that afternoon,there was a note from his secretaryon the desk.

New ms. from Shaggley just ar-­Nvcd, it read. Beautiful job. Don'tforget R.A. wants to see it whenyou're through. S.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Delight cast illumination acrossthe editor's hatchet face. By Georgein heaven, this was manna fromwhat had threatened to be a fruit ..less afternoon. Lips drawn back inwhat, for him, was smiling, hedropped ·into his leather chair, re­strained empathic finger t\vitchingsfor the blue pencil (No need of itfor a Shaggley yarn!) and pluckedthe envelope from the cracked glasssurface of his desk. By George, aShaggiey story; what luck! R.A.would beam.

He sank into the cushion, in­stantly absorbed in the openingnuance of the tale. A tremor oftransport palsied ou~er sense. Breath­less, he plunged on into the storydepths. What balance, what delinea­tion/ How the man could write.Distractedly, he brushed plaster dustoff his pin..stripe sleeve. .

As he read, the wind picked upagain, fluttering his straw-like hair,buffeting like tepid wings againsthis brow. Unconsciously, he raisedhis hand and traced a delicate fingeralong the scar which trailed likelivid thread across his cheek andlower temple.

The wind grew stronger. It moanedby pretzeled I-beams and scatteredbrown-edged papers on the soggyrug. Rick stirred restlessly andstabbed a glance at the gaping fissurein the wall (When, in the name ofheaven, wotdd they finish thoserepairs?), then returned, joy re-­newed, to Shaggley's manuscript.

Finishing at last, he fingered away

PATTERN FOR SURVIVAL

a tear of pittersweetness and de..pressed an intercom key.

"Another check for Shaggley," heordered, then tossed the snapped..off key across his shoulder.

At three-thirty, he brought themanuscript to R.A.'s office andleft it there.

At four, the publisher laughedand cried over it, gnarled fingersrubbing at the scabrous bald patchon his head.

Old hunchbacked Dick Allen. settype for Shaggley's story that veryafternoon, vision blurred by happytears beneath his eyeshade, liquidcoughing unheard above the busycIatter of his machine.

The story hit the stand a littleafter six. The scar-faced dealershifted on his tired legs as he readit over six times before, reluctantly,offering it for sale.

At half past six, the little bald­patched man came hobbling downthe street. A hard day's work, awell-earned rest, he thought, stop"ping at the corner newsstand forsome reading matter.

He gasped. By George in heaven,

Note:

7~

a new Shaggley story I What lu~k!The only· copy too. He left. a

quarter for the dealer who wasn'tthere at the moment.

He. took the story home, sham..bling by skeletal ruins (Strange,those burned buildings hadn't beenreplaced yet), reading as he went.

He finished the story before ar- ~

riving home. Over supper, he readit once again, shaking his lumpy headat the marvel of its impact, the u~"

breakable magic of its workman­ship. It inspires me, he thought.

But not tonight. Now was' thetime for putting things away: thecover on the typewriter, the shabbyovercoat, threadbare pin-stripe, eye..shade, mailman's cap and leathersack all in their proper place~.

He was asleep by ten, dreamingabout mushrooms. And, in' the morn­ing, wondering once again whythose first .0 bservers had not de­scribed the cloud as more like atoadstool.

By six A.M. Shaggley, breakfasted,was at the typewriter.

This is the story, he wrote, ofhowRas met the beautiful priestess ofShahglee· and shefell in lotle with him.

If you enjoy THE MAGAZINE OF FANTASY AND SCIENCE FIC­

TION, you will like some of the other MERCURY PUBLICATIONS:

ELLERY QUEEN'S MYSTERY MAGAZINE

MERCURY MYSTERY 'BoOKS .

BESTSELLER MYSTERY BOOKS

JONATHAN PRESS MYSTERY BOOKS

•'We will," Arthur Clarke declares ringingly in PRELUDE TO SPACE, "takeno frontiers into space' '.I' and many of us look upon the interplanetary ageas one that will at last unite men and reaffirm their brotherhood. But, Mr.McIntosh suggests, may not the very act of going into space create newfrontiers? Can men, after generations of specialized adaptation to theirf)arious different new worlds, still regard each other as brothers? This isthe central tjuestion in a novelet of galactic politics - not the Graustarkianpalace-politics of interstellar romances, hut the solid practicalities of party­strategy, voting-booth politics - written, as one always expects of this~armly ohservant young Scot, with primary emphasis upon people.

eleventh Commandmenthy J. T. McINTOSH

"I JUST WANT TO" REMIND YOU ONCE

again," said the. suave radio voiceapologetically, "that the interman-iagepoll is being held throughout thegalaxy on Friday . .."

"Could anyone forget?" Gerrymurmured incredulously as he waitedin the lounge for Wyn. "Could any­one possibly forget, I wonder?"

"What was that you said, Gerry?"called Wyn from the bedroom.

"Nothing, honey.""Don't mumble, then. It's a deli­

cate operation getting myself intothis dress, and I need all my con­centration."

Another set reproduced the an­nouncer's voice. "Everyone who ;sovertwenty-one and not certified insane

,78

has a vote," he said reassuringly."Please use it."

"Here's two who will," said Moyra,looking up into Bob's eyes. "Butanyway - could they stop us gettingmarried, darling, even if . . . ?"

"They could," said Bob briefly."I just don't believe it," said

Moyra. "Oh, I know some people'will act nasty to us - you expectthat - but I can't imagine themreally ..."

"Merely because the question atissue doesn't seem to concern you," theannouncer went on, through a thirdradio, "don't waste your vote. Makeup your mind. Listen to the AMABarguments and the Realist point ofview, decide which party to support,

ELEVENnI COMMANDMENT

and on Friday, don't forget to do;t ..." -

Adam switched off the radio withunnecessary violence.

"Darling, I was listening!" Elisprotested, looking up from the mirrorin which she had been surveyingherself critically.

"It's all nonsense," said Adam.He frowned."I guess it is. at that. They only

want to know how people feel. .There can't be any question ofactually doing anything -"

"We've got enough worries with..out that," Adam muttered.

Elis swung round and caught hiswrist hard. It was a masculine gesture,as if she was the dominant partner."Don't talk like that," she saidsharply. "We'll get money somehow.We always have, haven't we?"

She snapped the switch on again.

Through all the sets, the one inGerry and Wyn's maisonette, theone in Moyra's flat, the one in Elis'scheap hotel bedroom, and probablythrough a million others, the an­nouncer spoke with gentle reproach:

"~It's a very important question, andevery local council wants to get asnear a hundredper cent poll as possible.Eastover is famed for its progressive,well-informed social consciousness, andJordan particularly is k!zown for itsforward-looking . .."

"That," sighed Gerry, noddingout of the window as Wyn joinedhim, alre~dy. wearing her ankle­length cape. "You needn't have

79

hurried, darling. We can't" go outfor a while yet."

II

It was raining in Jordan.That's like saying grass is green

or light is bright. But it's worthsaying nevertheless, for sometimesgrass isn't green, sometimes lightisn't bright - and sometimes it isn'training in Jordan.

It wasn't Jordan's -heavy, fierce,bouncing rain, nor Jordan's warm,treacly downpour. It was Jordan'ssteady, lukewarm drizzle which, so­much more than the other twovarieties, seems perfectly capable ofgoing on forever. .

The streets were almost deserted,though- it was still early evening. Inthe hard, blurred glare of the streetlamps, poll bills in heavy bl~ck

type screamed silently to no one atall, for the few people who were inthe wet, glistening streets werehurrying along.

There wasn't much to show thatJordan was on Eastover, in the Rotelsystem, and not on Earth. In day...;time the much yellower thoughbrighter sun gave sufficient .clue,without anything else; at -night,when the sky was overcast, almostall the differences disappeared andJordan was like any modern Terrancity where it happened to be raining.

The rain stopped ,abruptly, butapparently not entirely unexpect­edly - for almost instantly thestreets were alive with people hu~ry­

fig about in all directions: people

80

who seemed to know to the secondwhen the rain would start again, justas they had known when it wasgoing to stop. Even on Eastover,even in Jordan, people preferred notto be drenched if they could helpit. And they developed a weathersense which told them when theycould' get somewhere dry. Or atleast, when they could try., Wyn and Gerry were two units

in the crowd, hustling together fromthe southeast. Not many streetsaway, from the north, Adam andElis hurried southwards, two morescurrying, paired-off units. Fromdue east came Bob and Moyra, halfwalking, half running, trying tobe~t the rain which they knew wascoming on again soon.

And from the south came anotherunit, but a solitary unit, a calm,unhurried unit. Mackenzie wouldn'trun because mere rain threatened.He stalked deliberately through theshorter, fatte~, quicker, scuttling,undignified thousands who caredabout time, about their clothes,about getting wet. He was tall andthin and his clothes were tight. Hedidn't wear a top hat, but thatdidn't matter. Spiritually he wastop-hatted.

Just as Wyn and Gerry saw thelights of the Savoy, the threateneddrizzle resumed. It drizzled only foran instant, however - then it ceasedto be the drizzle and became thewarm, sticky downpour.

The crowds in the streets dis­solved like sugar cubes. Wyn and

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Gerry' got a dark doorway to them­selves. They neither knew nor caredwhat happened to everybody els'e.

"Let's chance it," said Gerry,hi~ eye measuring the distance ·acrossthe swimming street to the neon-litcanopy of the Savoy.

"No, no, no!" wailed Wyn, horri­fied at the suggestion. "My dresscan't take it - the rain must gooff soon!"

" Because your dress can't takeit," said Gerry, nodding understand­ingly. It was no use refusing tounderstand Wyn - he had marriedher peculiar feminine logic as wellas the rest of her.

He had to disagree, however, afterlooking round, smelling the rain,making faces at it and rolling itround on his tongue, as it were."Sorry, Wyn," he said. "I'm~afraid

it's on for quite a while. Want tostay here all night, honey?"

Wyn was a honey, even in theharsh street lighting, even wrappedin a shapeless raincoat. Not a beauty,that's something else again. Wyn'slittle white face had piquancy, vi­tality, infinite capacity for delight,and no classical regularity whatever.She was a laughing urchin, but afeminine urchin. There was nothingboyish about Wyn.

Gerry was just the kind of manto go with her, big, protective,understanding, and with a. vOast,enveloping sense of humor.

They were both Eastoverans.That,perhaps, is important.

"Oh, look, Wynl" Gerry ex-

ELEV.ENTH COMMANDMENT

claimed, looking over her shoulder."There's Mackenzie."

Wyn snarled with astonishing fe­rocity. "Why should I want to seeMackenzie, now or ever?" she de­manded. But she looked all the same.She was the kind of girl who wouldsay "I won't look!" and peer throughher fingers.

He marched through the rain,imperturbably, implacably, like some­thing out of Dickens. One felt hisname should be Fenberg or Tuckleor Markwell. Yet he wasn't one ofthe funny Dickensian characters.There'was something menacing abouthim, quietly menacing, as if he wasgoing to walk past you or over youor through you whenever you hap­pened to be in his way - just ashe was ignoring the rain as some­thing of no account.

"He's going to the Savoyl" Wyn'exclaimed. "The nerve of itl"

"He'll have to pay to get in,"said Gerry philosophically. "If allthe Realists come tonight, so muchthe better.". Mackenzie could hardly haveheard them through the drummingand swishing of the rain. Neverthe­less, he turned abruptly like a radio­controlled robot and marched to­wards them, squelching.

"Ah, the delightful Youngs!" hesaid, stopping about three feet awayfrom .them, still in the rain, stillignoring it. "What a pity ~e areenemies. You really are a charmingcouple - I'd be glad to use you inmy campaign."

81

Wyn gave him the cold shoulder,the left one. She turned rudely intothe doorway and stared intently atthe keyhole of the locked door.

"That's just the difference in ourmethods, Mackenzie," said Gerryblandly. "I wouldn't use you in mycampaign. Your methods may besuccessful, but I wouldn't care touse some of them."

Mackenzie sighed. "And for thatreason, among others, I'll win," hesaid. "Aren't you people eventrying?"

He sniffed, bowed sardonically atWyn, who was still turned awayfrom him and couldn't even see thegesture, and strode across and intothe Savoy.

Wyn whirled indignantly. ~'See

that!" she exclaimed. "Our ball­and we're not there - and he isl"

Gerry grinned. "Then let's runfor it, rain or no rain."

"No, I can't. My dress-""Then I'll run for it and send

out someone with an umbrella orsomething."

It wasn't necessary. The rain haltedmomentarily, switching from onereservoir to another, and withoutwasting· time in talk, knowing howbrief the respite was going to be,Wyn and Gerry dashed across therain-washed street. Out of breathbut triumphant, they reached theshelter of the canopy.just before thedownpour resumed where it left off.

"We'll get wet on the way back,".Gerry warned.

"What does the way backmatte-rr.,"

82

asked Wyn scornfully. "The ob·- tuseness of menl"

In the foyer they looked at thebills while they got their breathback. Some simply said "AMABI"Others showed a couple dancing,with the legend "Grand AMABBall." Still others, for those whowould take the time to read allabout it, had two columns of bigtype presenting the sales talk. Noneof the men and women dashing inout of the rain had time, apparently.Or perhaps they knew all about it.

Anyway, there were plenty ofpeople dashing in. "The rain's doneus a good turn, honey," said Gerryjubilantly. "It stopped in time todrive them out, and once they wereout, they carried on. There's goingto be a big crowd."

But Wyn had disappeared intothe ladies' room. -She was interestedenough in the AMAB campaign,'even excited about it sometimes,and she was certainly loyal. How­ever, at the moment she was a girlat a dance with the man she loved.And if he happened to be herhusband too, so much the better­he would be with her after thedance as well. AMAB could waitfor a few hours.

Gerry checked his raincoat at themen's cloakroom. "How's it going,Emily?" he asked the girl in chargethere.

Emily was a showpiece, selectedfor looks alone. She looked goodenough to eat, and Gerry found him­self playing with the bizarre thought

FANTASY AND SCIENCE PICTION

that by the Galactic Code it wouldn'tbe a crime to eat her, because shewasn't an intelligent creature.

"Oh, we're doing fine, Mor.Young," she said brightly.

"How many are in already?"But Emily could only count to

ten, and so wasn't much help. Gerryleft her and went to look for Wyn.

He didn't have to wait for her.She couldn't have done more thantake off her coat and make a fewquick passes at her hair and dress.She came out and joined him as iftheir watches had been synchronized.

" Yes, honey," he said contentedly,just looking at her. "You've still gotit."

She knew she still had it, but sheglowed because he still wanted tosay it. And that improved the effect.

She wore a rose-pink net dressthat covered httr from throat to mid..calf, with long loose sleeves. The netalone being something less thanadequate, red built-in accessorieshere and there reinforced the net insmall but strategic areas.

And Gerry was delighted to findthat though in any beauty contestEmily would be placed first andWyn second, and though he had­been married to Wyn for four years,he couldn't think of a single thinghe'd rather do with Emily thanwith Wyn.

They went in together and straighton to the floor. Though Gerry hadorganized the dance, he was suf­ficiently interested in Wyn to waittill after the first waltz before 0 he

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

even looked to see how many peoplewere there.

"Not bad," he murmured, "con­sidering it's so early. It's not fundswe want, Wyn, it's support. Wewant a lot of people here, not forthe cash they bring in but to makethis a success. We need a few suc­cesses. We should win, but -"

"Please, Gerry, not tonigh t, "Wyn pleaded. "Tonight I'm outwith a man, not a political cam­paign."

" You're not out with 'a politicalcampaign, honey," said Gerry quietly."But look at those two."

Wyn looked. Elis Masto andAdam Bentley were dancing to­gether. They were clinging to' eachother passionately, almost desper­ately, as if at any moment someoneor something would come and tearthem apart. One couldn't see,. butonecould sense shadows behind them.

"They're always out with a po­litical campaign," Gerry murmured."If the Realists win, they ... Andlook at those two."

Moyra Molin and Bob Drakewere tenderer, less desperate. Bob

, w~s Gerry's cousin. Moyra and Bobwere intelligent people, and knewwhat was ,going ,on in the galaxy.Long ago they had faced the factthat since Moyra had been born onGreensing and Bob on Westoverthere were going to be difficultiesin their life together. But they weregoing'to face them together, eatheethan remove them by going sepa­rate ways.

8J

"Suppose you and I belonged. todifferent planets, honey?" Gerrysaid, rubbing his cheek against Wyn'shair.

"I know - but we don't, andtonight I want to enjoy myself.I've got a new dress, I'm with myfavorite man, and - ugh!"

She grunted disgustedly as shesaw Mackenzie standing in the~

shadows at the back of the ballroom,under the balcony. He was alone, ofcourse. Mackenzie was generallyalone.

"He's got his nerve," Wyn mut­tered. "Coming to our dance, asif he-"

"We were rude to him outside,"said Gerry contritely., "Let's go andtalk to him. Politely this time."

Wyn followed him reluctantly.She was an honest, open soul. Ifshe didn't like someone, she hatedbeing civil to him. Mackenzie wasone of the few people she reallydisliked. "He brings out the worstin me, that man," she had said­often. And Gerry never denied it.The only time Wyn became a shrewwas when she talked to or aboutMackenzie. She wasn't so much fo(AMAB as against Mackenzie.

Gerry strode towards Mackenzie,pulling Wyn behind him. Mac­kenzie saw them and waited im­passively.

John Mackenzie was a once'-seen­never-forgotten type. He was likenothing which had ever happenedbefore. The, faintly bluish tinge ofhis skin suggested Rinan. His height

84

and gait made one think of Scarisac,but the shape of his head was pureGreensing. His accent was almoststerile, with only traces of Earthand, .later, Eastover. Gerry hadpuzzled over his origin for sometime before hearing Mackenzie wasfrom Metapur, of Terran parents.It fitted - it was the only thingthat did.

Even apart from the question ofhis origin, his appearance was star"tling. His nose was tiny, the oneweak feature in.a strong face. A bignose would have balanced his fea..tures, might have made themcongruous if not pleasing. His chinwas heavy, his mouth wide and· full~ the mouth of a man with strongsympathies, or so one would havethought if it weren't so often pulledinto a hard, straight line. His eyes,failing the nose, might have broughtunity to his face; but they did andtold precisely nothing. They werejust eyes, as characterless as glass.

"Glad to see you here, Mr. Mac­kenzie," Gerry said affably."I didn'tknow you· danced."

"On the contrary," said -Mac­kenzie bluntly, "not being withoutsome element of intelligence, youknow very well I don't."

"A typical Mackenzieism," saidGerry brightly. "It gives nothingaway and puts the onus right backon the enemy. Also it assumes whatis not so. How could I know youdon't dance? You could be an ex"ballet'dancer for all I know."

"You know I have no social

FANTASY AND SCiENCE FICTION

graces. So unlike you and yourcharming wife." He bowed to Wyn.It was not ironic. It was obviouslynot ironic. "I can't fight this cam­paign on my own personal charm."

"Please don't talk about that,"said Wyn impatiently. "People aresupposed to be here to enjoy them­selves."

"Not to demonstrate their con­viction that All Men Are Broth/ers?"inqui.red Mackenzie, wi~li mocksurprise.

"Not just now. There's a tim.eand place for everything."

"That attitude is going to be veryuseful to me," said Mackenzie drily.

."Oh, come on, Gerry," exclaimed,Wyn, tugging at his arm. Theyswept back to the dance-floor.

"You were rude again," said Gerry'reproachfully.

"He's a cheat, a schemer and aswindler," Wyn retorted hotly..

"Steady on!" Gerry murmured,laughing. "I grant you he would~'t

care' much how he got his results,but he's sincere enough. Know whyyou don't like him, Wyn?"

"No, and I don't care.""You don't like him because he

doesn't find you attractive.""I like that!" said Wyn, outraged,

stopping dancing. ."No, you don't like that. Neither

does any girl with normal feminipeimpulses. He pays you compliments,but he doesn't mean them, and you

. know he doesn't mean them." Gerrypaused, then added shrewdly: "Wh~nyou find a man some women dislike,

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

he may be a wolf. But when youfind a man all women dislike, youknow he must be the exact opposite."

"That's a rather disgusting idea,"Wyn exclaimed.

"Not at alL" But he didn't con­tinue the discussion. Gerry alwayswent by the principle that it tooktwo to make a quarrel, and refusedto be one of them. He changed the~ubject". "Say, I wonder what Mac­kenzie wants with those two?"

Wyn turned to look. "Elis andAdam! You'd never expect to seehim talking to a couple like them.I'd have thought -"

"One would, wouldn't one?"Gerry agreed. "No, look, Mackenzie'sleaving. He was probably just pass­ing the time of day."

"When," asked Wyn venomously,"did you ever know Mackenzie tobe just passing the time, of day?"

Gerry didn't follow that up either.For the rest of the evening they

w·ere just an ordinary young coupleat a dance, enjoying themselves.There were no campaign speeches.Gerry "was relying more on people'sgood sense than on any impassioned"appeal.

He was too easy-going and heknew it. However, when he had beenappointed to organize the AMABcampaign on Eastover, and particu­larly in Jordan, the people concernedhad known what he was like. So "hedidn't try to transform himself intoanother Mackenzie. He continuedto be Gerry Young, sincere but notfanatic, competent without the high

85

efficiency of some people, on the jobnot twenty-four hours a day butsomething like six, a young man\vho hoped hjs party was going tobe successful but who wasn't goingto extraordinary lengths to ensureit.

He was fighting for people likehis cousin Bob, for a principle, foran ideal. He wasn't concerned, hewasn't biased. He was honest, sensi­ble, and incapable of excess, particu­larly emotional excess.

That was" just the trouble.

III

As he waited in an all-night cafe,sipping coffee, Mackenzie stared outsilently at the dreary, dark, drenchedsquare outside.

Out there, in the rain, the postersfought a silent, bloodless, but des­peratebattle. Wherever a Realistbill penetrated, there was an AMABbill to jump on its back. Where anAMAB legend seemed to have foundsanctuary on a solitary, lonely bill­board, a Realist counterblast sprangfrom the shadows and clawed at itsthroa~ /.

There is only one human race! ahuge AMAB bill proclaimed.

Beside it was a Realist posterwhich screamed: YOU ARE ACRIMINAL and continued in smallertype . . . ifyou subject your childrento lifelong unhappiness.

Another AMAB bill simply statedAMAB's title theme: All men arebrothers.

A Realist bill retorted cryptically,

86

shrewdly: Brothers, but not brothers­in-law.

And that was the core of thematter.

There were a lot of other so-calledbrotherhood issues coming, questionsto be settled about the interrelationsof the .many human settlements andcivilizations in the galaxy, but theywere only now coming and the in­termarriage problem was come.

The AMAH party stood for freemarriage between members of anyraces, and the Realists opposed it.That was the question of the mo­ment. That was the question onwhich every person in the galaxywho was sane and twenty-one orover was'entitled to vote. That wasthe campaign which was being foughtout on every colonized world.

There was, of course, much to besaid on both sides. Otherwise theconflict couldn't have been so vastand even. Almost on the eve of theballot Q.o one knew how it would go.

The AMAH point of view wasthat all the races, different thoughthey might be now, had come fromEarth. That there was still only onehuman race. That intermarriagewould always 'be possible, and shouldnever be forbidden. That thereshould be no prejudice, no racialdistinction, no color bar. That differ­ence and segregation hreed dissen­sion, and people should simply beregarded as people, whatever theircolor, shape, race or origin.

The Realists, in effect, said thiswas all very well, but not realistic.

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Racial difference was a fact, andit was no use pretending it didn't'exist. That went for prejudice anddistinction and color bars too. B.yall means regard all men as brothers,the Realists said, but don't marry 'agirl of a different race, and don't letyour sister marry a man ofa differentcolor..The Realists wanted an elev­enth commandment.. They' wantedmarriage restricted by law tomembers of the same race.

It was after that that the co~pli­

cations emerged, the thorny prob­lems, the special cases, the inter­minable arguments. Did the Realists,the AMABs demanded, want topartition the galaxy, stultify tradeand other intercourse? What un­married woman would go to a worldnone of whose men she could possiblymarry? What man would accept ajob on a world whose girls he wassupposed to treat with civility, noless and no more? And 'how didEarth, the origin of all the races,stand - was new colonization tostop?

The Realists retorted that theywere concerned with the situationas it was, not as it had been fivehundred years before, or as it wouldbe five hundred years later. In fivehundred years' time people I)lightbe ready for AMAB ideas, in whichcase AMAB ideas would prevail.Meantime, marriage between clearlydifferent races, like those of Scarisacand Rinan, say, should be forbidden.On the obviously difficult questio·nof Earth, the Realists were d~vided.

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Some recognized no.difference; otherssaid that Earth, the mother world,would always be in a special positionand that no prohibition should applybetween Earth and any other world.

Mackenzie frowned slightly ashis gaze passed from bill to bill. Abill rarely made anything but anemotional appeal, and it was all tooclear that the AMAB bills, theAMAB. -ideas generally; made astronger emotional appeal than theRealists~argument. The Realists hadto discuss, to propound, to argue..·Mackenzie, an experienced, compe'"tent politician, very much preferrednot to argue. He knew that a fieryphrase might .be worth more thana hundred arguments.

All men are brothers, for example.His party, the Realists, had to retortwith Brothers, but not brothers-in...law. The one was an appeal to theemotions, the other an appeal tothe reason. Mackenzie, a first~class

propagandist, didn't have t~ ponderover which appeal he'd rather make,if he had the choice.

Mackenzie looked up as stepssounded behind him. "Have somecoffee," he invited.

He waited for his two guests tosit down, to commit themselves. Atthe moment they could still say no,and make it clear that they hadcome only to say no quite definitely,so that he wouldn't bother themagain.. But after the passage of afew more seconds it would be toolate for that.

When it was too late, when they

87

were settled and drinking coffee, hesaid gently: "You came here­you must be interested in my propo'"sition. Perhaps you'll tell me a littlemore about yourselves before we goany further."

Elis and Adam glanced at eachother. Their glance told Mackenziealmost all he really wanted to know- that they were very much inlove, that they were afraid of him,that they were desperate. for moneyand that they had already decidedto agree to almost anything.

Elis couldn~t have been morethan nineteen. Her amber eyes, waspwaist and the obvious power of herlegs proclaimed her instantly aMidinan. On paper the differen\eswould barely exist - girls other thanMidinans had amber eyes, waistsseventeen inches·less than their hips,and legs of the same dimensions andappearance as Elis's. But the overallimpression was unmistakable. Any..one who had had any.thing to do.with Midina would identify her ata glance.

Adam was equally obviously aFaquistan. He had the characteristicsallowness yet smoothness of skin,the powerful, jerky walk t the hunchedshoulders and the over-large feet ofmost Faquistans.

"What do you want to know, Mr.Mackenzie?" asked Elis. She wastrying to keep herself under rigidcontrol, but she couldn't help lickingher lips nervously.

"Can you act?" asked Mackenzie."Both of you?"

88

"We've done most things. Oncewe were part of a cabaret act."

"You want to get married. Whyaren't you married already?"

Silence. Elis and Adam exchangedglances again~

"Is it by any chance because oneof you is wanted by the police, andyou're afraid -""No~" said Elis sharply. She was

clearly the spokesman for both ofthem. "If you must know, it's be­cause we can't afford to get married.That's all. We want money, we needmoney, but we aren't criminals andthere's nothing you can use to black­mail us."

"There's no question of black.­mail," Mackenzie protested.

"No, but I expect you'd be gladto know something about us thatwould give you a hold over us. Well,there isn't anything."

"So .much the better," said Mac­kenzie airily. "Criminals would beno use to me. Another thing:naturally you're AMAB supporters?"

Elis hesitated, then nodded."Yet you know I ..want to break

AMAB - and you're still listening?"Another 'resolute nod."How does that make sense?"

Mackenzie demanded."We hope AMAB wins. What

happens here, on one of scores ofworlds, won't affect the issue any­way."

She tried to stare defiantly athim, but her gaze dropped beforeMackenzie's showed the slightestsign 'of doing so.

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"If we do what .you want," shemurmured, more to Adam and her­self than to Mackenzie, "~aybe itwon't have the effect you want.And. even if it does, if a little thinglike that could make all the differ­ence ... But it can't, and we needthe money." .

Mackenzie nodded: He was pre­pared to accept that. Elis was ra­tionalizing as people so often didwhen something they 'wanted wasoffered at the cost of ~mething

which they didn't want but whichmight never happen. People would

..sell their heads if the price wasbig enough and they were assuredby someone with a letter or twoafter his name that they could livewithout a head.

Elis and Adam were refusing tobelieve that anything they mightdo could have any effect on thebig issue. They thought they wouldbe able to have their cake and eat it.

They might, of course, be right.Mackenzie didn't think so. Mac­kenzie rarely did anything whichwasn't worth while. He didn't thinkhe would be handing over _a biggishsum of Realist funds for nothing.

When Mackenzie had gone, E;,lisand Adam lingered rather miserablyin the cafe.- "He knew exactly what to offer,"

said Adam bitterly. "Not too little,just enough to make us ..• Wecouldn't say no to that, Ells, couldwe?"

"I couldn't," Elis admitted. "It's

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nothing to the Realist party, butit'll get us out of all our difficulties,clear us here and give us a startsomewhere else ... We should havesaid no just the same."

"I don't know," Adam temporized."It's not as if it's really going tomatter -"

"Maybe not, but suppose every­body said that?" said Elis, beginningto see new objections now that itwas too late. "Everybody every­where, not just here in Jordan. Hemade us promise not to get marriednow - said it would ~poil the wholething if we were married. Well,suppose a law was passed that stoppedus ever getting married?"

Adam laughed abruptly. "Hell,that needn't worry us. We'll get"married immediately we get ourhands on the money. And then nolaw can touch us. All I'm worriedabout is - this thing we're to do.Will we be able to go through withit?"

"I will," Elis declared. "It's youI'm worried .about - though you'vegot the easy part."

"Easy!" Adam exclaimed."How would you like what's going

to happen to me?""It's going to be worse for me.""Don't let's argue, darling. We

both have to go through with itnow. We've promised. And immedi­atdy afterwards, we'll go away whereit's warm and sunny."

"And get married," said Adam."Before the ballot," Elis added.

"Just in case."

"You don't really think-""It's not a question of thinking

anything. We want to get marriedas soon as we ca~ anyway - don'twe?"

There was a certain desperatehunger in their embrace - but asingular absence of rapture. Therewere shadows behind them. Therewould always be shadows behindthem, wherever they went.

And they would never realizethat they put the shadows therethemselves, by being the kind ofpeople they were.

IV

Gerry and Wyn saw the whole.performance, as it happened.

They hardly ever went to nightclubs, but Wyn, her appetite for softlights and sweet music whetted bythe AMAB dance, insisted on an­other evening out the next ~ight.

after a day of AMAB meetings andrallies. So when Elis, Adam and afew others earned their money, as·sisted by some ama~eurs who didn'tknow there were any professionalsinvolved, Gerry and Wyn happened .to be around to see them do it.

Jordan was by no means the hotspot of Eastover. On the contraryit was regarded as a sober, respectablecity, a sort of weathercock for thewhole planet. If Jordan passed athing, no other city in the world waslikely to object to it. Other citi~

gained the reputation of being fastor daring or progressive by doingthings that Jordan wouldn't do.

90

Jordan's night clubs, the Spacediveincluded, were suave. and sophisti­cated without being feverish. Anyonet~ obviously drunk was politelyejected. The cabaret girls neverwore too much or too little. Thesketches and songs were suggestivein only. a subtle, well-.bred way. Theonly.- gambling was strictly legal,open and regularly inspected.

"M.ay I talk about AMAB,honey?" Gerry asked whimsicallyas they sipped cura~ao.

Wyn grinned. "Sure, if you wantto. Last night was a special occasion.I wanted you to myself, withoutAMAB sticking its oar in."

"You look even better than youdid .last night."

"That wasn't what I was askingfor," Wyn murmured, "but I won'tcomplain now I've got it. Now youcan. say anything you like aboutAMAB, and I'll agree with everyword." .

Gerry smiled, then frowned as histhoughts passed from Wyn to thecampaign. "Mackenzie's too quiet,"he said. "He's going to do something,baturally, and I'd be quite happy ifI only knew what it was. ButI don't - which means there'll beno counter-measures."

. "Is there really anything to worryabout, Gerry?" asked Wyn. "I mean,is there any chance of the Realistsgetting anywhere?"

"They might. Especially here onEastover, with Mackenzie directingoperations."

. ','But even if the ballot is against

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us, can they possibly pass a lawagainst mixed marriages?"

"Oh yes - and they will. A sortof eleventh commandment. Backon Earth, the Realists are in themajority. They need only a vote ofconfidence to go ahead with theirprogram. If the universal ballot'sin the Realists' favor .a new law isautomatic, and there won't be anydelay about putting it into oper­ation.u

Wyn made an impatient gesturewith her hand, as if she were tiredof it and wanted to throw it away.She had forgotten that she was goingto agree with every word. "Youcan't just forbid mixed marriageslike that."

"Oh yes you can. All the Realistsneed is a decisive majority, andyou'll see whether mixed marriagescan be forbidden or not."

"But what about all the mixedmarriages th~re are al~eady?"

"They won't be annulled, ofcourse," said Gerry, not entirelyhappily. "But it's not going to ,bevery nice for mixed couples. They'llbe pointed out, laughed at, madethe butt for anything the localhumorist thinks is funny."

Wyn shook her head definitely."People aren't as bad as that," shesaid. "People are pretty nice, really."

"Taken all over, maybe. But ittakes only one person to make anasty scene."

Wyn couldn't see it. "Look, there'sBob and Moyra," she said. Shenodded at a table on the floor Of

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the club, a li~tle lowe.r than thebalcony where their own table was.Catching· her glance, Moyra wavedback. So did Bob.

"Take Moyra and Bob," saidWyn. "Moyra was born on Greensingand Bob was born here. They'renice people. When they're warned,do you really think anyone would•.. would ..."

"Yes," said Gerry quietly. "Sup'"pose Moyra and Bob get married ­and the Realists win, and pass theirlaw against mixed marriag"e. 'Youwant to know what's going to happento Moyra and Bob?"

He stared down at his cousin andMoyra, frowning. "J've thoughtabout this a lot," he said. "I'vetalked with Bob about it too, andhe agrees with me. He knows whatmight happen, but ..."

He shook his head. "Suppose therecan't be any more mixed marriage.All the mixed couples who aremarried already will become oddities- people will whisper and starewhenever Bob and Moyra appearanywhere -"

"I know," Wyn exclaimed. "Thatalways happens when people are . . •different in any way. But what harmcan that do them?"

Gerry sighed. "Suppose they goto a dance together. There will bea big group, men and girls, whohave drunk too much. There alwaysis. Somebody in this group will seeBob and Moyra and get a great idea.He'll go round behind Bob andMoyra, clowning, and people will

~I

laugh. Even those who don't laughwon't ..want to interfere. Encouraged,the funny man will go further andfurther with his clowning, and every­one will be in stitches. Moyra andBob will ignore him as long as theycan. He'll drop a coin down thefront of Moyra's dress, and everyonewill cheer when it tinkles on thefloor. Great fun. He'll tap Bob :.00the shoulder, and Bob still won't doanything. The funny man will stan~on Moyra's dress and it'll tear, an~

there'll be another cheer, louderthis time. After that there's boundto be a fight. Bob and Moyra,·beingsensible people, still won't start it,They'll make their way quietly offthe floor to go home. But someoQ~- probably a girl- will snatc~ atMoyra's torn dress, and either Bobwill hit somebody or somebody willhit Bob. It won't matter which. AndBob and Moyra will be thrown out- always. Never the funny man.and his friends."

"But," Wyn objected, "Bob andMoyra don't have to-"

"It won't make any differencewh3:t Bob and Moyra do. They'll bemade to retaliate sooner or later."

"They'll just have to k~ep awayfrom dances, then, and places where·people may do that sort of thing."

Gerry shook his head again. "It.won't matter where they go - ifthis law is passed. Suppose they'rein a crowd. They'll be jostled apart- with almost friendly good humQr,at first. They'll try to get together,again, and as they try to drive a

'92

-way.thrqugh, people will ge~ annoyedat them. They'll be roughed up abit, just to keep them in their place.-Bob will be tripped and get his handtrodden on, and Moyra will· get ajuicy tomato pushed ,down herback-"

"It's silly talking like this," saidWyn impatiently. "We're just im­agining what might happen if some­thing else' happens -"

"Oh, sure," said Gerry, grinningwryly. "But everything that ever-happens was once something thatmight happen if something else-"

There was a loud crash, and a·series of smaller crashes. The bandfal tered for an instant, then, in theway of all night club bands, blaredout louder than ever in an effort tocover up the confusion.

Gerry and Wyn looked across atthe balcony opposite. Everyone elsewas staring in the same direction. Atable had crashed over with all itsspoons, knives, forks, plates andflowers, which ·were spread in anunholy mess on the floor.

"Adam Bentley - and Elis!" Wynexclaimed.

Adam and Elis were facing eachother furiously across the overturnedtable. Elis was screaming .somethingunintelligible. Abruptly she bentdown, swept a bottle from thedebris on the floor and in the samemovement sent it flying at Adam'shead. Adam dodged, and the bottle,dropping on a table-top on thelower level, smashed so violentlythat the band stopped playing.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Adam lunged across the wreckageat Elis and deliberately ripped hergown. Elis screamed, stooped againand hurled another bottle at him.She couldn't miss again at thatrange. It hit his head, ricochetedand smashed on the floor below.

Elis was grotesque, half over­dressed, half naked, and not at­tractively half naked. She lookedlike a rather low-class prostitute.

It-wasn't surprising that someonesaid so. But perhaps the opinionneedn't have been expressed soloudly, with so much obscenity andprofanity, or with the generalizationabout dirty another adjective Midi­nans which accompanied it.

Someone else shouted that anyMidinan was worth fifty dirty sameadjective Faquistans.

To help things on, Adam gaveElis a back-handed swipe that senther reeling back against the balconyrail, shrieking shrilly.

"Mackenzie!" Gerry exclaimed.It was suddenly very obvious thatthis was an act, and that Mackenziewas at the back of it. This wasn'tlike Adam. It wasn't like Elis. Asthey shrieked and fought and clawedeach other they were shockinglyrepulsive - because the whole scenehad been planned to be as repulsiveas possible.

But by this time not everybodywas watching Adam and Elis. Thedisturbance was spreading. A scufflehad started on the floor, and ashouted quarrel was being carriedon from the two balconies. Bob

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Drake jumped as a thrown glass hithim in the back.

Gerry jumped to his feet. "'Don'tbe fools!" he shouted. "Don't yousee this is a staged demonstration,and anyone who joins in is simplyplaying into the hands of-"

He was drowned by a roar assomeone threw a bowl of hot soupover Moyra's dress and she jumpedup, screaming. Moyra and Bob werein a conspicuous spot, and they wereconspicuously a mixed couple. Seeingthem involved in a disturbance,people wanted to take Moyra's partor Bob's, or the part of both of themagainst agitators, or the part of theagitators against them.

A burly man bored in at Bob,head down, and Bob coolly andefficiently kneed him in the face.He staggered back, his flailing armsbrushing at least a dozen people.

Thereafter it wasn't clear whowere the paid mischief-makers, whowere trying to restore order, andwho had been roused to feelings ofracial hate by what had happenedalready.

Somebody knocked Adam uncon...scious, and by that time nobodynoticed, or cared, that Elis immedi...ately stopped' shrieking and bent

--anxiously over him. Moyra andBob, inoffensive as they were, be­came the focal point of the riot.What Gerry had been saying cametrue almost before he had finishedsaying it. However, he hadn't beenquite right. ·He and Wyn, helpless,saw that very few people were trying

:93.to attack either Moyra or Bob;everyone wanted to defend one orother of them. The effect was muththe same.

A man who reached towardMoyra, with what purpose it wasnever known, was kidney-punchedand sent flying along the polishedfloor. A girl spat at Bob and waspromptly attacked by two otherwomen who tore her hair andscratched her face and shoulders.

No guns were produced and .fewbottles were used. There was nopanic and no blood lust.. But heads"­were broken, faces scratched, clothestorn and legs kicked. Women weremishandled merely under cover ··ofthe general disorder.

Even Gerry and Wyn found them­selves fighting. Gerry felt bound tostrike down a man who attacked acompletely unoffending couple atthe -next table, though he realizedperfectly well that even that waslikely to involve him and Wyn introuble. It did. For the next fewminutes it was all he could do tokeep Wyn safe. Wyn was healthyenough, bu~ neither strong nortough.

At the end of that time thepolice arrived. Then things gradu-.ally sorted themselves out.

Two men had broken arms, threehad crushed ribs,. there were half adozen cases ofconcussion, and dozensof people haQ cuts and bruises. Therewas considerable damage to the' cluba-nd to the general appearance ofthe patrons.

94

But the Spacedive didn't wishto make any charges. Adam, Elisand the other early trouble-makershad all prudently disappeared. Thepolice, unwilling to spoil a goodrecord, wer~n't keen on making anyarrests if they could be avoided.They could. What most peoplewanted was to get horne quietly,without any further trouble. Anywho had other ideas changed them.when they found the police any-thing but encouraging.

One couple were stubborn longer'than everyone else - Moyra andBob. It wasn't unnatural, since Bobfinished with his shirt torn from hisback, his face seratched, his ribs:bruised and one ankle badly swollen,and Moyra was left crying morefrom shock than injury, her clothesin worse state than Elis's had been.They were entitled to make trouble,and had no intention of letting thematter drop.

.But they withdrew their protestsafter a few words from Gerry Young.

Gerry hadn't anticipated Mac­kenzie's next move, but obviouslythis was it, and equally obviouslythere was nothing AMAB could doabout it. If he and Wyn said theyhad seen Mackenzie with Elis andAdam, Mackenzie could either denyit completely or admit it and pointout reasonably that that was noproof that there had been any ar­rangement between them. No, Mac­kenzie would have covered his tracks.

And Moyra and Bob, by lodgingofficial complaints, would only be

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playing into Mackenzie's hands. Themore publicity the affair got, thebetter Mackenzie would be pleased.

"Mackenzie's won that round,"Gerry told Wyn afterwards, "andall we can do is make sure we winthe next."

"How has he won it?" asked Wynindignantly.

"See the paper tomar_row.""Well, even if he has," Wyn

declared warmly, "I don't thinkMackenzie would give in as easilyas you seem to be doing, Gerry.He'd never admit he'd lost a round."

"No. He'd fight longer, harderand much· dirtier than I would."

Wyn flushed. "I don't want youto fight dirty. I don't want you tobe like Mackenzie. But I don't wantyou to be beaten by that man,Gerry."

Gerry grinned. Gerry's troublewas that he could always see theother man's point of view.

"I think Mackenzie's sincereenough," he said. "He may not be­lieve particularly in this cause, buthe believes in the Realist Party, andit's them we're opposing in this.And to Mackenzie the end alwaysjustifies the means."

"You mean," said Wyn incredu­lously, "you think he was right tofix tonight's affair?"

"Oh no," said Gerry placidly."All I mean is, this doesn't tell meanything new about Mackenzie. Iknew already he'd do anything toget the result he wanted.~'

The phone rang. Gerry picked it

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up. Wyn saw his face stiffen.uMoyra?Again? The filthy swine! As if itwasn't enough to ... She's notdangerously hurt, I hope? Well,that's something~ You couldn't iden­tify any of the men?"

A long pause. Then: "No, I don'tbelieve they could have been paidthugs. Just drunks, inflamed bywhat happened earlier. That's theworst of demonstrations, they getout of control."

Another long pause. Then Gerrysaid doubtfully: "I can appreciatethat you want to get back at themany way you can, Bob, and AMABcan certainly use some help. Sure,come along ,first thing tomorrow,and if the picture's all you say ..."

When he hung up, Wyn askedquickly: "W.hat's happened toMoyra?"

Gerry's brow, which had cleared,darkened again. "Three toughs seton Bob and Moyra as he was takingher home," he said. "Bob wasn'thurt much, but Moyra got a bangon the head and two broken ribs.When she. was down they kickedher and injured her internally­she's in the hospital now."

Wyn went white with fury. "Isuppose you'll still say there's noreason to get mad at Mackenzie?"

"I'm pretty sure Mackenzie hadnotijing to do with this. He setsomething off, that's all."

"I should say he did set some­thing off!" Wyn retorted passion­ately. ":fie sets the mob' on Moyraand Bob, and they·get beaten up-

--95­

that makes him responsible, doesn'tit, whe~her he actually planned thisattack or not? What's the difference?"

He shrugged.Gerry started to say something,

but Wyn was in full cry now."We've got to win, Gerry! At firstI didn't care, but we can't let thissort of bestiality. beat us. I didn'tbelieve what you we(e saying earliertonight, but now I do. Think ofit - Moyra and Bob having a quietnight out, not harming anybody..And just becau$e Mackenzie wantssome political success or other, Moyraand Bob are victimized, attacked~

humiliated in front of scores of·people. That's bad enough, but th.enext thing we hear is that Moyra'sin hospital, beaten up by three

.sadists who might have killed her ~'~Wyn was nearly hysterical. ."Don't get all worked up, honey,"

said Gerry qui~tly. "I know ~t's

bad. I'm not congratulating Mac"',kenzie on his part in it either. All'I'm saying is that this is the sort ofthing we've been fighting ~ll along..The situation hasn't changed."

"We've got to get a huge majorityin this poll, for the sake of Bob andMoyra," Wyn insisted.

"Yes - for the sake of Bob andMoyra," agreed Gerry. But hewasn't thinking along quite thesa.me lines as his wife. He had alonger... term view. .

If there wasn't a hug~ majority.for AMAB, what had just happened:to Moyra and Bob would be liableto happen any time - becau~: :j;~

96

would be almost sanctioned by publicopinion and the law.

v

Gerry was up first the next morn­ing. He brought 'in the papers anddumped them on the bed.

Wyn wailed: "You don't love meany more!" .

"Not just now," said Gerry grimly."I've got too much on my mind.Look at those."

Ten minutes later she said: "Idon't want to seem dumb, Gerry,but I still don't see what you mean,or what you meant last night whenyou said the papers would show howMackenzie had won. They make alot of the riot last night, but. . ."

"That's it," said Gerry. "Honey,you were there, and the reports arefair enough. That's why you don'tquite see the significance, perhaps.But if you hadn't been there anddidn't know Mackenzie was behindthis, how would it look? Race dis­sension behind night-club fracas.Mixed couple fight, kindle race riot.Only a spark needed to inflame

.feelings on AMAB issue. Anothermixed couple attacked on way home- girl in the hospital.

"Doesn't look as if all men reallyare brothers, does it?"

"I see ..." said Wyn. "Andthere's more than that. Elis andAdam looked really disgusting­as they were meant to, of course.You felt people of different racesshouldn't be allowed to get married,just looking at them fight~ng."

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Gerry nodded soberly. "You'11notice that that point isn't missedin the papers. The description makesit clear that it wasn't a man andwoman squabbling, but a Midinanand a Faquistan. I'm not saying thepapers are biased, though some ofthem are, the Realist ones. I musthand it to Mackenzie - the wholetone of the incident was carefullyselected and carried through tomake it crystal clear that the aH­men-are-brothers idea is only skindeep and that if you scratch us. we'reall ready to go for any member ofanother race at the drop of a hat."

"What a heel the man is," Wynmurmured venomously. "What afilthy way to win votes!"

Gerry shrugged. That angle wasless important to him than it wasto Wyn. "Mackenzie isn't muchworse than any criminal lawyer,"he remarked, "who defends his clientby suppression of the truth, down­right lying and slinging mud ateverybody else in the case, thoughhe knows his client's guilty as hell.'Vhat's more important: how dowe get back the ground we've lost?"

He was really putting the questionseriously to Wyn, for though no onewould accuse her of being a greatthinker or a smart poli tician or acompetent psychologist, she did havethe gift of seeing the right course ofaction sometimes without knowinghow she reached it. She didn't likeit to be· called feminine intuition,but that was what it was.

"Well, what was this about Bob

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Drake coming round first" thing thismorning? And about a picture?"

Gerry looked at her thoughtfully."Think there's something in that,do you? I didn't. Bob wants us tolaunch a one-picture campaign. He'sgot a picture Moyra posed for, andhe thinks we should use it to repre"sent the whole AMAB idea­Moyra, from Greensing, as a symbolof attractive alien womanhood -"

Wyn gave a cry of delight. "That'sit, Gerry! Moyra in the picture­fiancee of artist - lying injured inthe hospital- beaten up by thugs,obviously Realists. That's greatpropaganda. When you work up thestory -"

"I see what you mean," saidGerry, with sober interest, "but howdo we know Bob's picture is goingto be suitable?"

"Oh, it will be," said Wyn im..patiently, brushing that aside. "Thisis what you want, Gerry! Tell thestory of Bob and Moyra - youknow more about them than I do ­how they love each other, howthey're going to get married, howthey were attacked last night. Tiein the picture, how it was painted,how Bob suggested using it . . .Oh, you can do ~his sort of thingfar better than I can."

"Once you've suggested it, yes."Gerry still wasn't too sute. Wel~,

you've been right before, honey,when I thought there wasn't achance of it. I hope you're rightagain. Wonder what Bob's picturelooks like?"

97

They didn't have long to wait.Wyn was still thinking of getting up- she spent most of the morningthinking of getting up, and notdoing it - when Bob arrived. Wyngot out of bed at last, slipped intoa negligee and came through to thelounge after Gerry.

Hand on the door, Gerry paused."Is that all you're going to put on?"he inquired.

"Yes, why?""Oh, I just thought it was hardly

fair with Bob's girl in hospital,"Gerry murmured.

Wyn put out her tongue at him.Bob, however, paid no particular

attention to Wyn. He was no dis­tracted lover. His manner was briskand businesslike, despite the bandageon his head. He was more like asalesman than an artist.

"First of all," he said, "you wantto see this picture I was telling youabout. I know you don't think muchof this scheme, Gerry, but-"

"But I do," said Wyn. "Let's seeit."

Bob unrolled the sheet he carried.He had worked on paper with postercolors.

"See, Gerry - what did I tellyou?" exclaimed Wyn triumphantly.

And as he looked at tpe painting,Gerry began to get enthusiasticabout the campaign Wyn had visu­alized.

It wasn't just a glamor picture.He had seen much prettier girls,more seductive girls, sexier girls­but he had never 5eeo anyone so

98

appealing~ She- reached out Jof thepa"per, young, warm, vital .... andexotic. That was what struck Gerryimmediately and made his interestmount until he could hardly· tearhis eyes froni the picture. It wasexactly what AMAB wanted: a girlwho was obviously alien (except" toanyone from Greensing), and yetsensationally attractive without ap­pealing to one sex only. A glanceat Wyn showed that she approved,too. Moyra - at any rate, Moyraas seen by Bob...,- was that raretype, the girl who could enchantboth men and women.. "Did you mean this for AMAB,Bob?" Wyn asked.

"No,. I didn't mean to showit at all. I did it as my ownprivate picture of Moyra. But lastnight ..." For the first time heshowed anger, a quiet, controlledfury which was the last thing onewould expect of an artist. "1 sawthem kicking Moyra, Gerry. I wasclinging to a wall, dizzy, unable t9do anything about it, but I couldsee it all right. Can you imagine it,what it's like to see your girl lyingon the ground and men kicking her?Think of someone doing that toWyn, and you watching and notable to stop it."

"I can imagine," said Gerryquietly.

"Well, this isn't much, but it'sall I can do. I thought surely ifpeople knew the story, my picturewould help to make them hate themen who-" .

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"That's just it, Bob," Wyn said."It must. Everybody has a senti­mental streak, and all we have to dois show that and explain how Moyra's

.lying injured in the hospital-""And they'll vote AMAB," con­

cluded Gerry, "though really theappeal to reason in this is very slight,if it exists at all. That's all right­it's an emotional appeal we need, tocounteract Mackenzie's coup lastnight."

"Mackenzie's what?" asked Bobsharply. Gerry had to explain whathe knew and guessed about Mac­kenzie's part in the riot. Bob sim­mered visibly.

"Then he's ~he man -who's reallyresponsible. I'm going to get backat him somehow, sometime ..."

"You will," said Gerry, "withthis. We'll get the printers on thejob right away."

AMAB \vent to town on theMoyra story and picture. Beauti­fully reproduced posters went upbefore evening, headed: "This is thegirl the Realists tried to kill!" Thepicture appeared in all the latereditions of the evening papers, andpamphlets were distributed all overthe planet.

Almost at once it \vas clear thatthe move was as big a success asWyn had said it would be. Thehospital, AMAB headquarters andnewspaper offices found the phonebell ringing all day. Everyone wantedto know more about Moyra andBob, and how Moyra was. Gifts of

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

money and. promises of supportpoured in.

"It's rather a tragedy," Gerrysighed philosophically, "that such abig, important issue should be settledby propaganda."

Wyn made one of the very oc­casional remarks which showed thatshe was capable of analysis. "Didyou ever hear of any big, importantissue that was settled by anythingelse?"

It was clear that the Moyra storywould have to be followed up. Itwas easy enough to find the copy;Moyra had had an interesting life,what there was of it. It wasn't soeasy to find further pictures to gowith it. Bob worked all day and allnight, but could produce nothingwhich wasn't an anticlimax after hisglorious personal portrait of Moyra.He had meant it to be the best thinghe had ever done, and it was. Hecouldn't top it.

Moyra had never liked beingphotographed, and the few picturesof her which existed were unsuitable.Finally Wyn had an idea and Gerryhad Moyra photographed in thehospital, sleeping. With it was pub­lished Bob's picture again, as acontrast. They were grimly effective.

"I think," said Gerry contentedly,"we've got back all the ground welost, and a little more."

On hundreds of billboards theface of Moyra Molin continued togaze out appealingly, a stab in theheart of every man and woman whohad ever been guilty of rac1ial dis-

99

crImInation, who had ever refusedto believe that all men are brothers.And particularly it was an invitationto think again to those who at anytime had preached that marriageto such a delectable creature shouldbe made illegal.

But all the same, Gerry, who wasseldom reckless, suggested quietlyto Bob when not even Wyn waspresent: "If I were you, Bob, I'dmarry Moyra now, before she leaveshospital, before the ballot."

"You think even now mixedmarriage may be made illegal?"Bob asked, surprised.

"I think there's no point in wait­ing and risking it. Certainly not ifyou and Moyra are quite decidedthat you want to be together, what...ever happens. Maybe I should beadvising the opposite. Because if theRealists win, things are going to betough for you two - you knowthat, don't you?"

"I can guess, but - hell, whateverhappens Moyra and I have got tobe together. You really think .. ,.?"

"I really think you may lose her,unless you marry her right now."

There was no doubt of the strengthof Bob's feeling for Moyra. Hepaled at the very suggestion. "I'llgo down and see Moyra right away.,"he said. "If she agrees ..."

She agreed. But the wedding waskept quiet for the moment. Aromance is usually better propagandathan a marriage; besides, the ad­mission that Bob and Moyra wererushing into marriage without wait-

100

'iog for the banot might not doAMAB any good.

VI

The ballot was fixed for the sametime all over the galaxy. The AMAB­Realist campaign was going on every­where, and it seemed to be close.Public-survey polls had been \vrongso often that hardly anyone paidany more attention to them nowthan to weather forecasts. Anyway,they, too, suggested a close contest,for the AMAB-conducted surveysfound a tiny AMAB majority andthe Realist surveys an equally tinyRealist advantage.

Some commentators forecast asweeping victory for one side or theother, but that was to be expected.Nobody knew. A wealthy man couldhave spent all his money on a surveywithout being able to feel certainthat he knew the result. In oneworld, perhaps. But the multiplicityof worlds and the complexity ofmotives and environments made itimpossible for anyone to calculatethe whole problem.

Gerry and Wyn weren't sure.Bob and Moyra weren't sure. Mac­kenzie wasn't sure.

And most desperately uncertainof all were Elis and Adam Bentley.Like Bob and Moyra, they werealready married - in case. But un­like Bob and Moyra, they were notonly uneasy, but guilty as well.

Lying on the sun-drenched beachat Farge, on the other side ofEastover, Elis and Adam realized

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that some decisions couldn't be madeonce and then forgotten; they re­peated themselves over and over.

They didn't feel guilty, not ex­actly. It was rather that everythingwhich should have been pleasant hadto be weighed in the balance againstwhat they had done, and was usuallyfound want~ng. The sun instead ofthe rain . . . you noticed it andenjoyed it \vhen you reminded your­self of it, but the rest of the dayyou were thinking of something else.Not having to worry about moneyfor a while ... all very well, butthey had only exchanged one worryfor another. Being married at last... somehow it wasn't quite whatit should have been, with both ofthem eternally looking back overtheir shoulders.

They had only once in their livesdone anything they had any realcause to regret . . . so far. Butthey guessed, both of them inde­pendently, that it wouldn't be thelast. Soon they would need moneyagain, and there would be no honestway to get it.

They were dimly, vaguely, almostunconsciously beginning to under­stand that they hadn't been, andwouldn't be, very successful in theworld because they were on thewhole rather worthless people.

From underneath a striped um­brella, beyond which stretched twobare legs at one end and two barearms at the other, came Elis's voice:"The ballot \vill settle things for us,Adam."

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"What do you mean?""Well, we'll see what ... I mean,

if AMAB has a terrific majority,then what we did doesn't matter adamn and we can just forget it."

"Yes," Adaln agreed. "And if ithasn't?"

Eli~ was silent. AMAB had tohave a big majority 'before theycould feel relieved. For they hadbeen traitors, that was the worst ofit. They were a mixed couple, andthey had stabbed mixed marriagein the back. Instead of doing whatevery mixed couple should do, spendtheir whole lives fighting the preju­dice which undoubtedly existed,they had for once turned round andpushed the other way, made thingsjust a little more difficult for everymixed couple in the galaxy.

And every half-caste. That wasthe other part of it, perhaps thereally important part of it. Theirown children were going to meettrouble anyway, because they wouldbe neither pure Midinan nor pureFaquistan. Every mixed couple hadto face that before they got married.

But every mixed couple didn'thave to add to the prej udice againstthemselves and their own children.

In Jordan the last two demon­strations were being held. Therehad been meetings, bazaars, balls,fetes, variety shows and almost everyother form of social publicity-cum­fund-raising enterprise. But nomatter how many there were, therehad to be a last one, for both parties.

101

By tacit agreement they wereheld at the same time, in differentparts of the city. There were othersall over Eastover, of course. Butthese were the main efforts.

Gerry planned his meeting as pureentertainment. It wouldn't havelooked good to make the final AMABdemonstration purely a variety show,but the same effect could be achievedby seizing every excuse for spectacleand entertainm.ent as opposed tomore obvious propaganda.

At the beginning a band playedmusic that came from every colo..nized planet. When everyone wassettled, he had a parade - men andwomen from the thirty main worlds,all in typical home-world costume,and mixed without discriminationbut decoratively. That didn't proveanything, but it passed the timepleasantly. Then he had as speakerMalcolm Flint, an ex-Governor whohadn't been noted for his adminis...tration but was noted for his wit.Some AMAB propaganda films wereshown, slick, well..conceived adver,­tisement of the AMAB idea. Gerryand Wyn themselves did a neatlittle item, spontaneous-looking butwell planned and rehearsed, in whichthey made the most of their ownattractive persons and personalities.

The climax was provided by BobDrake. He sketched on an easel, andan epidiascope picked up everystroke as he made it and projectedit on to the big sc;:reen behind him.The device was extraordinarily suc'"cessful.

102

With deft, smooth strokes of hispencil he sketched his own life, hismeeting with Moyra, their loveaffair. Then, with a harsher, boldertouch he showed the Spacedive riot.The audience became hushed at thepower of the presentation. Peopleand scenes seemed to come aliveand move under his fingers; therapidity, vividness and vitality ofthe pictorial dramatization left full­color, three-dimensional films farbehind.

Bob had the dramatic gift ofstimulating, collecting and holdinginterest so that details and flawsceased to matter. Earlier, he hadintroduced his audience to himselfand to Moyra, taking time to makehimself interesting and Moyra at­tractive. He had drawn Moyra pertand dashing in smart rain clothes,demure in an afternoon frock, litheand sleek in a swimsuit, seductivein an evening gown. Now they knewMoyra and could take Bob forgranted. He concerned himself withwhat had happened to them.

"He's great!" Wyn whispered ex­ultantly. "Bob's done far more forAMAB than we have, Gerry."

Gerry nodded and pressed herhand, but didn't take his eyes offthe screen which showed the strokesof Bob's flying pencil.

They saw the riot and afterwardsthe attack on Bob and Moyra.Bob's vivid pencil became positivelybrutal a's it drew three thugs he hadnever properly seen, Moyra falling,and the men's boots sinking into her

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

inert body. With his pencil hespeared sadism, racial discriminationand the Realists so that a growl ofanger came from the audience. Hehad them with him, no doubt ofthat. .

The only trouble about such aperformance was that it had to endsome time, and there was inevitablya drop, a reluctant return to normalimmediately afterwards.

And in the silence, before theaudience had sufficiently recoveredthemselves to applaud, a clear voiceasked:

"May I ask a question?"Gerry was the chairman, but he

had forgotten that fact for themoment. Bob, obviously the .personaddressed, turned and looked in­quiringly at Gerry, waiting for himto say something. The audience,about to burst into thunderous ap­plause,. were checked, startled.

The questioner didn't wait for ananswer. It seemed a long pausebefore he spoke again, but it couldn't

.have been more than a second ortwo.

"Is it true that you and Moyrawere married yesterday?" asked theclear voice.

Again Bob hesitated, looking atGerry. After all, it wasn't Bob'sAMAH campaign, but Gerry's. Apartfrom the job he had just done, Bobdidn't know how Gerry wantedthings handled - particularly thisquestion, which had been carefullyavoided.

Only one answer was possible,

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Gerry decided. They couldn't lie,'when it might be proved they werelying. They couldn't refuse to an".swer, not on the very eve of the poll.

"Yes," he said. "It's true."At once he plunged into an im..

promptu effort to nullify any ad..verse effect of the admission: "Asyou'll have seen from Bob's story,he and Moyra are very much inlove, and when this happenedthey -"

"Thank you," said the clear voice.All over the hall people got up

to go. Trying to say any more wouldonly make Gerry look ridi~ulous.

It was another neat Mackenzie:job. He had found out somehow~about the brief, formal marriage atthe hospital, and made full use ofthe discovery. Seeing that Moyra,Bob and Gerry weren't going toannounce it, he waited until it wastoo late, until it was obvious thatthey were trying to hide the fact,and then forced them to admit it.

"Is it really important?" Wynasked on the way home, puzzled at'Gerry's unusual despondency.

"I'm afraid it is. If we had broughtit out at the right moment, itmight not have done any harm­:only I preferred not to, because I:knew it was risky to give anyimpression that we were scared ofthe ballot, that we expected to loseit or that we were ericouraging'.mixed couples to get married beforeit was too late. Trust Mackenzie tofind the worst possible moment to.drag it out - after we'd almost

1°3

denied the marriage, by implication."Such subtleties were beyond Wyn.

"It can't make so much difference,surely," she remarked. "We had agood meeting otherwise, and -"

"What "I'm \vorried about," mur"mured Gerry, "is Mackenzie's meet..ing. "

When they reached. home Gerryphoned the colleague he had sent tothe Realist ·meeting. It had beenmuch as he expected.

There had been no mention ofBob and Moyra until late in theprogram - Mackenzie hadn't wantedany warning to be phoned to Gerryat the AMAB meeting, probably ­but when it came it was extremelyeffective. Mackenzie himself hadreviewed the story of Moyra andBob, revealed their marriage andmade all the points that Gerry hadbeen afraid he'd make.

"I should' never have let thosetwo get married," Gerry said regret­fully.

Wyn started. "But it was youwho suggested it!"

"Yes - in their interests. In ourinterests I should have made sureit did,n't happen. Mackenzie wouldhave, if he were me."

"If you were Mackenzie, yourwife's first name wouldn't be Wyn."

"But I might be more successfulpolitically."

Wyn shrugged. "Well, if youprefer mere political success tomarried bliss . . ."

Gerry laughed,'withan effort, andtried not to show he was still con"

1°4

cerned about the effect Mackenzie'slast stroke must have had.

VII

It was a pity, from the AMAHpoint of view, that there were anynewspapers at all on the morningof the ballot. Nothing in them didthe AMAB cause any good, and agreat deal in them did it a lot ofharm.

Before he went to bed Gerry haddone what he could, in a statementto the press, to retrieve the Bob­Moyra situation. It wasn't a ques­tion of being unsure of the verdict,he declared. Weren't Bob and Moyraentitled to a secret marriage as muchas anyone else? What more naturalthan that Bob should suggest it sothat they could go away togetherimmediately Moyra was cleared atthe hospital?

But Gerry's copy was poor, weakstuff compared with the case for theRealists, and he knew it.

"Anyway," he told Wyn philo­sophically, "it's too late to do any­thing new now. There are rallies,parades and loudspeaker appeals, butthey're all fixed. There's nothingmuch for us to do but wait for thereturns~"

"How is this planet-unit systemgoing to work?" Wyn asked. Natu­rally she didn't understapd mathe­matics.

"Each world sends in a ratio,that's all," Gerry explained patiently,not for the first time. "SupposeGreensing has sixty-nine million

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votes for AMAB and thirty.. threemillion for the Realists. Greensingsends just 23: I I, and that's inte­grated with all the other worlds'ratios -"

"Tell me, Gerry," Wyn inter­rupted. "I've always wondered­how do you integrate things?"

Gerry didn't attempt an expla­.nation of that.

Though there wasn't much theycould do any more, they maqe theexpected public appearances, lookingconfident, friendly and happy. Theysaw Mackenzie twice, out on thesame job, but didn't speak to him.Gerry alone would have done so. Itwas only on Wyn's account that heavoided an encounter which shewould have disliked.

And during the day the issuedidn't clarify itself. Sometimes itseemed that everyone was votingRealist, and sometimes it looked asif AMAB was going to have awalkover.

There was no trouble, no morethan at any balloting. Nobody wasreported hurt, though there wassome scuffling here and there. Therewere no big crowds anywhere, noimpromptu demonstrations. As ex­pected, both floral parades wererained off. Gerry had arranged histo be as waterproof as possible, bu tsteady rain was too much for it, andthe rain didn't stop all day.

The rain had toned down thewhole campaign. Many things whichwould certainly have been done ina drier city were never' possible in

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

Jordan. Every big event had to beinside. It was no use arranging out­door shows if people wouldn't gooutside to see them. And except forthe Spacedive riot there were nofights - steady rain is enough tocool most tempers.

At eight in the evening Mac­kenzie and the Youngs couldn'tavoid a meeting. Gerry was astonishedto see how tired and worried Mac­kenzie looked.

"Only an hour to go," Gerry saidkindly.

"And then five hours before thefirst returns," added Wyn, less kindly.

"You people treat this as a game,"exclaimed Mackenzie almost angrily.They both stared at him in surprise.

"I'd have said. you were the onewho treated it as a game," Gerryobserved. "A chess game - one youwanted to win, certainly, but nomore than-"

"Don't you understand?" Mac­kenzie demanded, actually angryfor the first time in Gerry's experi­ence of him. "You want to win sothat all men will be brothers. Youthink that if you do, that will makethe galaxy wide open, free, withoutprejudice, happy - by some sort ofmagic, I suppose. I want to win be­cause the g~laxy isn't wide open, free,and without prejudice. I want tostop the silly farce of pretendingdifference of race doesn't matter,when-"

"You're twisted," Wyn flashedat him. "Do you think it isn'tobvious what's happened to you?

1°5

You loved a girl of another raceonce, and she wouldn't have you.She spat in your eye. And now yousee a chance to take a queer~ per­verted revenge on her and every­body like her. You think that sinceyou couldn't have her, no mixed~

couples should ever be allowed tomarry-"

Mackenzie swore ather, furiously,bitterly and unprintably.

Wyn seemed to enjoy this. Shelooked at Gerry expressively, as ifto say "See what kind of a man hereally is, when you get down to it?"

Makenzie recovered himself. Heignored Wyn. "I suppose you'regoing to hit me for saying that toyour wife?" he asked Gerry bluntly.

Gerry shook his· head. "Not atall," he said. "She was trying toannoy you. She .doesn't like you.Incidentally, is what she said true?"

He didn't expect an answer, buthe got it.

"Yes," said Mackenzie quietly,fiercely. "Not that I'm trying totake revenge for what happened ­that's nonsense. But it's true thatonce, though I knew it was wrong,though I knew we'd both regret it,I'd have married a girl who -"

"It wasn't wrong," Wyn declaredvehemently. "It was right, the onlyright thing in your life, and you'.vegone all wrong since."

"I've said more than I meant tosay," Mackenzie said in the samequiet, fierce tone, "and, as usually.happens when that occurs, I'm al­ready regretting it. Goodnight."

106

He spun round abruptly andstalked off..

"Wyn," said Gerry mildly, "I'msorry to have to say this. You actedjust now like the very people we'refighting. It's irrationality, prejudice,bias, hatred we're up against andyou ..."

Without warning Wyn burst intotears. Gerry held out for a fewseconds, then said he hadn't meanta word of it.

At nine o'clock the period of realtension started - after the poll, whenthe counting was going on every"where. ~

When results began to come in therewould be an avalanche, for countingwas supposed to take about the sametime everywhere and ultraradio wasvirtually inst~ntaneous.

Gerry and Wyn went to bed andslept. That was another thing theyhad in common, the ability to sleepanywhere, any time. Wyn remarkedsleepily' just before she dropped ~1f:

"We certainly can't have guiltyconsciences, Gerry."

Gerry was a little befuddled withsleep too. He murmured vaguely:"I don't feel guilty about anythingI've ""done. Maybe ab·out what Ihaven't done ..."

After four hours' sleep they werehack at AMAB headquarters, wait..ing. A dozen people stood impatientlyin a big, draughty room.

"I've just had a call from the cityhall," somebody said. "Eastoverwon't be one of the first in. One ofthe boxes was delayed."

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First in was Earth. The poll therewas biggest, but it was the worldmost competent to deal rapidly witha ballot. The message read:

EARTH - AMAB 21: REALIST 62.Gerry shrugged his shoulders. "We

knew that - and Earth is out ofthis, anyway," he observed. "Thematter hardly concerns Earth. Let'ssee what the other worlds have tosay."

Everybody else standing abouthad much the same point of view,and waited eagerly for the nextresult. Earth was the one world ina special position. For all the otherworlds the poll meant somethingdifferent.

A long screen had been riggedup so that the instant the resultscame over the ultraradio they ap"peared in black and white. Simul..taneously they were being shownoutside, where a crowd was waiting.A faint cheer had greeted the firstreturn, not so much because of theresult as because it was a result,after hours of waiting, and wouldsoot) be followed by others.

Without warning, the next ~ashedon.

SCARISAC~ AMAB 314: REALIST

193·This time there was a loud cheer

outside.Wyn jumped delightedly, grasp"

ing Gerry's arm. "That's great,Gerry!" she exclaimed. "Three toone!"

Gerry didn't correct her mathe...matics. A wave of relief flooded him.

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AMAB wasn't unduly strong onScarisac, as far as he knew. The votethere might be representative.

"I hope," he murmured, "that.Scarisac didn't have a particularlygood AMAB campaign, or a particu...larly bad Realist one."

"Why?" asked Wyn. She didn'tshine at drawing such inferences.

"Because if either or both of thosethings were so, that result may bethe only-"

The screen flashed again.RINAN -- AMAB 97: - REALIST 60."That's not so good," said Wyn."Not so good?" Gerry exclaimed.

"It's almost the same ratio, honey!That means-"

Another cheer sounded outside.Gerry spun back to look at thescreen.

FAQUISTA - AMAB 163: REALIST

101."And so is that!" he shouted, and

kissed Wyn in his enthusiasm. "We'vewon, Wyn!" ..,

Wyn was happy enough, butpuzzled. "What do you mean, we'vewon? That's only the fourth result."

"Yes, but don't you see?" Gerrywas almost incoherent in his excite­ment. "The ratio's the same everytime. It'll go on being the same, too.This is one of those fundamentalissues on which people have thesame views practically everywhere,apparently. It can't be coincidencethat all three results, apart fromEarth's, have been so similar."

He stopped as another resultflashed.

1°7

MORNEN - AMAB 82: REALIST 71."Maybe not," he said more quietly~

a cloud passing over his face."What's the matter? We won

there too.""Yes, but not by the same margin.

Maybe I spoke too soon. I was be­ginning to hope that people hadmade up their minds on this, andreached the same conclusion every­where. I certainly hadn't expectedthat. Not until those results -'.'

The screen lit up again.METAPUR - AMAB 241: REALIST

153· .The cloud disappeared from

Gerry's face and his broad grin cameback. "All showing exactly the samething," he concluded.

Wyn remained puzzled.' "I don'tsee it."

Gerry hadn't expected she would.It would be a long and arduousbusiness making it clear to Wyn that24 1 :153, 163:101, 97:60 and 314: 193were practically the same thing.

"We needn't have worried aboutBob and Moyra," he said, as thecheer outside died away. "Therewon't be an intermarriage ban.There won't be an increase in racialdiscrimination. People will continueto marry whoever they like, andwhen you and I are divorced I'llmarry a Metapurian -"

Wyn tried to hack his shins, butmissed.

"We might as well go l)ome,honey," said Gerry expansively.

"But we don't know about East­over yet!" Wyn exclaime~.

loS

"I do. We won here too. I don'tthink there was ever a real contesthere at all. Mackenzie and I put upa show, but people just glanced atour acts and then went and votedas they'd intended all along."

"You can't possibly tell ..."Wyn began, and stopped to look atthe screen again.

GREENSING - AMAB 133: REALIST

81."You can't possibly tell," Wyn

repeated stubbornly, "that they'reall going to be like this. We mayhave lost on some world or other.Maybe here."

The cheers outside had neithergrown nor diminished. As each resultappeared, the same cheer went up.Most people were as cautious asWyn, not sure yet of victory ordefeat.

But there was suddenly a biggershout, and Gerry and Wyn turnedto see:

EASTOVER - AMAB 4°7: REALIST

25 1 •

Gerry sighed contentedly. "Atleast we didn't do worse than any­where else," he said. "Poor Mac­kenzie. He never had a chance, with

.all his maneuvering.". "Poor Mackenzie, indeed!" said

Wyn indignantly. "He's the lastman in the galaxy I'd feel sorry for.I'll bet he -"

A girl came up and said: "Mr.Mackenzie on the phone, Mr.Young."

Wyn looked surprised. "What canhe want?"

FANTASY AND SClBN:CE FICTION

"Just to offer polite congratula­tions," said Gerry. "It's the usualthing. ExcU$e me."

He hurried to the phone."Hullo, Mackenzie," he said.

"Well, it looks as if we needn't havebothered chasing votes, either of us,doesn't it?"

"Yes," came Mackenzie's dryvoice. "Most unsatisfactory."

Gerry chuckled. "For you, cer­tainly."

"And you. There were two thingsI hoped of this referendum, Young.The second was that the' Realistswould win by a small majority."

"The second?" Gerry echoed."Exactly. The first was that your

party would· win by a very largemajority indeed."

"Huh?""May I come over and see you?""Certainly. Bring the explanation

of that last remark with you, willyou?"

"I will." Mackenzie rang off."So he wanted us to win, did

he?" Wyn said, when she heardabout it. "What's this he's givingus?"

"I don't know,. honey," saidGerry. "Let's wait and see, shall we?"

There were good-humored cheerswhen ,Mackenzie arrived and wasrecognized. Nobody hissed or booed,or if anyone did he was drowned out.

Mackenzie stalked into AMABheadquarters as if he owned them.There was nothing, unusual in that.That was his way_

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

However, Wyn couldn't help ask­ing tartly: "Have you ordered yoursackcloth and ashes?"

"I'm wearing them," said Mac­kenzie imperturbably.

Gerry waved him into a privateroom. As Mackenzie marched inside,Gerry looked doubtfully at. Wyn.It would certainly be a more civil,polite interview if Wyn wasn'tthere....

But Wyn had no intention of notbeing there. Gerry sighed and fol­lowed her in.

"So you wanted us to win," shewas saying. "That was nice of you.Why didn't you join the AMABparty?"

"Because that wouldn't have al­tered the situation," said Mackenzie."Galactically, I don't exist. I'monly a statistic, and statistics onlyexist in the plural. Do you mind,Mrs. Young, if I talk to yourhusband?"

"Go ahead," said Wyn. "Therehe is. He talks English and every­thing."

Mackenzie settled himself in thehardest chair h~ could find. Thatwas characteristic. He looked, nodoubt, for the most comfortablechair - and picked the hardest.

"If the Realists had won," he saidabruptly, "that would have endedthis silly farce that we're living ina free, utopian galaxy, where every­one has an equal opportunity andthe color of a man's skin or his exactproportions don't really matter."

"Farce?" murmured Gerry. "Isn't

1°9

this ... farce what's just beenproved to be the case?"

Mackenzie stared at him levelly."Don't you see what the vote means,Young?"

"Yes. There won't be any anti­intermarriage law."

"Dh, that. Yes. But then, therewas never much question of such alaw, was there?"

Wyn was lost, but SUSpICIOUS."What are you up to now?" shedemanded.

"Please, Mrs. Young," said Mac­kenzie, -"don't assume that every­thing I say is a lie, everything I dodirected against freedom and de­cency. I'm telling you I wanted thesame things as you - but I didn'tassume, like you, that they weretrue just because I wanted them tobe true."

He looked back at Gerry. "Therewas never likely to be an actual banon intermarriage," he said. "Afterall, the political form in the galaxyhas always been democracy, and indemocracies half the population neverreally imposes its will on the otherhalf. It seems so som-etimes, but ona social question like this therecouldn't be a workable law. Not alaw. That would be like the oldWhigs and Tories holding an election,the Whigs winning and forcing allthe Tories to become Whigs."

"But the Realists always said -"Wyn began.

"I know what we said. You'vegot to make the issues clear whenyou ask the whole population to

110

de<:ide something. For or againstintermarriage~ do we ban it? Butjf we'd won, there wouldn't havebeen an actual law. Just the poll,the warning. The knowledge thatthe balance of opinion in the galaxywas against intermarriage - thatwould have ended the farce."

"You keep talking about a farce,"said Gerry. "You haven't explainedwhat you mean yet."

','I sh~ll," said Mackenzie. "Pre"sumably, since I was your opponent,you found out what you couldabout me. You discovered, I expect,that I was b6rn on Metapur, ofTerran pa'rents. That was a lie, acarefully-chosen lie. That was, the·only respectable origin I might havehad, looking as I look. The onlything that would be accepted. Actu­ally I'm of Rinan-Greensing-Scari..sac-Metapur stock. A quarter-breed.A mongrel, if you prefer it."

"Then it seems even more reason­able," said Gerry, "to expect youto be on our side, not fighting forthe Realists.,"

"That's the mistake which all youpeople who know nothing about thisproblem make. The Realists are justthat, Young. They see things asthey are, not as they'd like them tobe. Your people are a mixture ofstarry-eyed idealists and youngsterslike Bob Drake and his Moyra,refusing to see that they're headingfor trouble.

"Listen: I lived on Rinan, Green..sing and Scarisac with my parentsand alone. I had plenty of oppor-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

tunity to find out what it was liketo be a half"caste, how a half-casteis treated. I'm not unduly sensitive.I'm not easily hurt. But what hap­pened to me made me determinedto try to handle the problem politi­cally if I could. To admit theprejudice, not pretend it didn'texist, and work out a basis for work­ing relations between the variousraces.

-"Believe me, people like youaren't merely unqualified to' dealwith this question - you shouldn'tbe allowed even to vote on it."

Wyn bristled at that. "I didn'tthink you could be so narrowand -" she began, but this time itwas Gerry who motioned her to bequiet.

"I mean it," said Mackenzie, withmore warmth than Gerry wouldever have expected of him. "Whoknows what being a half-caste is likeexcept a half-caster It's stronger anddeeper than ever the color bar wason Earth. Then it was a case of thesame kind of man with a differentcolored skin. Now every planetforces people who breed on it toadapt, gradually, and by the thirdgeneration they're a different species,and they're treated as such."

Gerry pursed his lips. "That's abit of an exaggeration."

"No it's not. I'm not saying thespecies differ a lot. They don't­hardly at all ,sometimes. But' theyare different species. Though inter­breeding will probably always bepossible between all the races-

ELEVENTH COMMAND1\-IENT

that d~esn't make a Rinan the sameas a Scarisacian.

"And people are aware of this.Not everybody, and not in the same\vay. You two are pretending notto be aware of it at alL"

"Because it isn't so," mutteredWyn.

"Sh," said Gerry gently. "WhatMackenzie's saying makes sense. Ithink we'd better let him go on andmake sense some more, if he can."

Mackenzie smiled faintly. ",I'mglad, Young," he said. "I thoughtyou'd understand, but 1 couldn't besure." ,

"I believe what I'm told, generally."If you're to understand this, you

have to believe it. You have to takeit on trust, because it can't everhappen to you~"

"It's bad, is it?""No, it isntt bad, really. Which

is partly why you have to take whatI say on trust. Because if I broughtit down to actual instances andincidents, what happened to mewould seem like nothing at all. Thatgirl I told you about - she mighthave turned me down ,just as anygirl turns down a man she finds shedoesn't love after all. But it wasn'tlike that. None of it was like that.There's a real prejudice, a real hate- the sort of thing that made thosethugs follow Drake and Miss Molin,and strike her down and kick her."

"We all knew about that," Gerrysaid. "We were trying to fight it."

"By pretending it didn't exist. Itold you I wanted you to win by

III

a tremendous maJorIty. Naturally,that was what I really wanted.· ButI knew you wouldn't. You couldn't,because there was this prejudice­there is this prejudice, and alwayswill be. I t'll get \vorse... it'sbound to get worse . . ."

"No!" exclaimed Wyn.Mackenzie ignored her."Can't you see, we must admit

the difference, and eontrol it. Thatway lies comparative peace and·safety and cooperation between thedifferent groups.'~

"All men should be brothers,"Geiry murmured, "but they're not, ..any more. Is that what you mean?"

Wyn looked· from one to theother. "Will someone' please.' tell'me," she said. distinctly, "who wonthis ~l, AMAH or the, Realists?"

Nobody answered her.

VIII

Instead of going home Wyn andGerry went to a deserted spot thatmeant a lot to them. It was on a hilloverlooking Jordan, and it was lonelyand deserted for one excellent reason.There was only one path to itthrough a marsh, and few peopletrusted themselves to remember it.

It was where Wyn and Gerry hadbecome engaged.

For once it wasn't raining. Thereis no friendlier city in the wholegalaxy' than Jordan when it isn'training. Gerry and Wyn put down.their unnecessary waterproofs, saton them and clasped each othercomfortably.

112

"Not very long ago," said Wyn,"I said Mackenzie was the last mani~ the' galaxy I'd feel sorry for. Iwas wrong. He isn't bad, really.I don't understand him, of course,but . • • I think he must have beenall right, once."

Gerry stroked her hair gently."It makes a difference when youknow he is vulnerable, after all,doesn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose that's it. You'resorry for anyone who'~ been hurt,'who can be hurt. It's only whenthey're beyond all feeling, as Ithought Mackenzie was ..."

They were silent for a long time.They didn't have to talk. Beingtogether was enough for them. Theyhad talked more during the AMABcampaign than they'd found it nec­essary to talk for years. Once, longago, they'd had to talk, hunting fornew, interesting subj ects so that thevacuum of silence should never liebetween them.

But they had found that silenceneedn't be a vacuum. There couldbe so much in it that sometimesspeech broke the spell, shatteredthe golden silence that was one proofof the fact that they belonged to­gether.

They watched the dawn breakgently, mistily over the city, theyellow dawn of Eastover. Theydidn't feel it necessary to say a wordabout it.

When Wyn spoke, the subjectwas the same as when they hadspoken last. "He's somewhere down

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

there, alone," she said. "Alwaysalone. Successful, of course. Maybethat's something. But not even suc­cessful, this morning."

She turned abruptly to face Gerry,breaking the mood of the last half­hour. "Gerry, I never understood.Can I understand? Can you explainit simply, why Mackenzie isn't satis­fied, why you aren't satisfied, whatthe poll really meant?"

Gerry sighed. "I'll try. Mackenzie,like all half-castes, like Moyra andBob, like all the people really con­cerned in this thing, wanted anAMAB majority that would showthere was no prej udice, no racialhate. But Mackenzie knew it

~ wouldn't happen. Knew well enoughnot to be even trying for that, butwhat he regarded as the second-bestthing. A mandate to try to settlethe race question rationally, realisti­cally. Admit the prejudice and hateand try to control them. By co­operation, reason, if not trust. Gotthat?"

"I see the idea. I don"t know ifit's right, but I see how it could beright."

"Well, you see if the Realists hadwon the poll, they'd have had themandate. They could go ahead. Butwhat happened? We won it - AMABwon it. By three to two, roughly."

He sighed again. "Funny how Ididn't see what that meant. Thatwhen Bob and Moyra ·ar~ withfifty people, thirty won't care aboutthem one way or the other, andtwenty will think they should never

ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT

have been allowed to marry. VotingAMAB doesn't mean you love everymixed couple, it just means youbelieve in their right to marry ifthey want to. And voting Realistmeans, generally, you're prejudicedagainst all races - but your own,you don't like mixed marriages,you don't think they should beallowed -"

"I see," said Wyn. "It's quiteclear when you put it that way.Bob and Moyra are going to havea lot of trouble, just as you said,aren't they?"

"And not only Bob and Moyra,"said Gerry.

When they went back to Jor9anit was raining again, but it was thelight drizzle which, in Jordan, youignored. Elsewhere you'd have saidit was raining, but in Jordan youmerely said it was damp.

Jordan was wakening up.The news­bills were flashing, though there werefew people about yet to see them.

The Sketch, in green lights, saidsoberly: AMAB WINS GALAXY: REAL­

ISTS HOLD EARTH.

The Mirror, in red lights, de­clared more journalistically: REAL"

ISTS NIXED. AMAB BEATS THE BAN.

The Sun - you never knewwhether the Sun had its tongue inits cheek or not - said: YOU TOO

CAN MARRY A GREENSINGER!

The Star tried a paraphrase of theelection phrases, not too success'"fully: ALL MEN CAN BE BROTHERS"

IN-LAW.

113

"You'd think we'd settled some­thing," said Gerry. "And we haven't.When men started colonizing worldsthat were going to make themadapt physically, they started some'"thing nobody will ever be able tosettle."

"Then there's no use worryingabout it," said Wyn matter-of-factly."Let's get home and get some sleep."

They didn't speak again untilthey were in their bedroom. ThenWyn spoke hesitantly.

"Gerry - I know I'm not clever,and you and Mackenzie were talkingover my· head, seeing things I didn'tsee - and maybe you were right.But you know how I some.times seethings you don't see -like how wecould use Bob's picture, and -"

Gerry looked up with int~rest.

"Have you got an idea again, honey?""It's about this poll. You and

Mackenzie seem to be satisfied thatthough there was an AMAB rna"jority, the poll shows there's anawful lot of race hate and all therest of it, and that couples like Boband Moyra are going to find a lotof dislike and prejudice stacked upagainst them."

"That's just it, Wyn."She slipped into bed and sat

clasping her arms round her knees,frowning with the effort of tryingto explain something she just saw.

"But don't you see," she asked,"what's going to happen now? Itseems to me that people who votedRealist will see now that most peoplethink differently from them, and

114

maybe they'd better get in line andnot make a nuisance of themselves.I mean, they know they're in theminority. Some of them will thinkagain and decide maybe the AMAHidea is right after all."

Gerry stared at her, wonderingif once more she was right whenhe thought there wasn't a chance.

"I think if they took anothervote right now," Wyn went on,"everybody who was AMAH lasttime would still be AM...\B. But alot ofpeople who were Realist would

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

be AMAB this time. P~ople don'tlike to stray from the herd, Gerry.I ... I know I'm often wrong,I say silly things, ·but I can see this.If we were Realists, and Bob andMoyra came to live next door to us,would we fight with them, knowingmost people were on their side? Idon't think we would."

"Honey," said Gerry, "I couldkiss you."

Wyn's frown of concentration dis­solved. "Well, there's only one an­swer to that," she said.

Coming 'fiext ~onth

In our next issue, on the stands in .early May, .·we'll joyously cele­brate the return to F&SF, after too l~ng an absence, of DamonKnight, whose novelet, You're Another, is a wonderful blend of slap­stick and solidity, a zany adventure story with a new science fictiontwist. In the same issue, Chad Oliver again brings his knowledge ofanthropology to bear on the problems of the interplanetary futurein .Artifact, and Old Master P. G. Wodehouse pronounces the defini-

. tive word on mad scientists in A Slice of Life. There'll also be anotherin our series of rediscovered stories by Saki, a further tale of ManlyWade Wellman's ballad-singingJohn, and stories by August Derleth,Evelyn E. Smith and others.

Another F&SF first story, hy a young man who works with ait,;t"l comput.."s hut writes of older lind stranger things.

Who"s Counting?hy RODGER LOWE

WHEN MIKE AND LOIS MOVED IN,

they didn't ask the landlord aboutthe other tenants, because the apart­ment was such a bargain that theydidn't want to seem critical.

"Sometimes," Mike said one night,"I wish we had asked about theneighbors. It seems silly, though."

"I know," Lois replied, 'handingMike a platter to dry. "Other apart­ments we've had have been a lotmore noisy, but this -" She stoppedspeaking and Mike stopped wipingas they both heard it.

The sound was faint at first, com­ing from the foot of the stairs: tap­thump, tap-thump, tap-thump.

They stood immobile as the soundslowly crescendoed to a peak at thesecond-story landing outside theirdoor, then faded in the upstairsdirection, was interrupted by theopening and closing of the door to3A, continued through six repeti­tions of the tap-thump pattern, andstopped.

"Thank heaven, he sat down,"Lois .sighed, resuming her washing.

"We're just lucky he's an old

man," Mike commented. "Doesn'twalk around much up there. Wheredoes this go?" He waved the platter.

"Second shelf, honey. Two weekshere and you still don't know whereto put things. Let's find anotherapartment."

Accepting a handful of wet silver­ware from his wife, Mike consideredthe suggestion. "I don't know whatto say. This is just right for us. Closeto my job, and the rent's ridicu­lously low. That landlord doesn'tknow what he could be getting forthe plac~."

"I wonder." Pulling the stopper,Lois mopped up the sink with thedishcloth. "Maybe the last tenantshad the same trouble." .

Mike shrugged. "We'll probablyget used to it." He tossed the towelonto the rack and headed for theliving room. "Besides, how could Ipossibly get the deposit back fromthe landlord on an excuse like that?Can you hear me saying, 'Mr. Chor­ney, we want to break our leasebecause the man upstairs has a\-vooden leg'?" He grinned ruefully.

115

116

As Lois snapped out the kitchenlight and joined Mike, it startedagain, just loud enough to be heardclearly: tap-thump, tap-thump, tap­thump, tap-thump.

"Went out to the kitchen," Mikeobserved, from the easy chair.

"I'll turn on the TV," Lois said.She waited for the set to warm

up, tuned out a syrupy weather an­nouncer warning lovers that to­night's full moon would be obscuredby clouds, and selected a mysteryshow. After adjusting the volume tocover any sounds from above, shejoined Mike in the easy chair.

But they had to g«;> to bed some­time.

About eleven thirty - a dull playand two old movies later, to be exact- they retired.

The summer air was warm andhumid, and faint, cloud-dimmedmoonlight came through the openedwindows.

Mike rolled over and took his wifegently in his arms.

"'Night, honey," she breathed,sleepily.

"Goodnight, sweetheart." He ter­,minated the sentence with a kiss,and-

Tap-thump! sounded from over­head.

"Oh, no!" Mike groaned, releas­ing his wife.

"He's always been in bed by thistime," Lois said, stirring uneasily.

Tap-thump, it came again; tap-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

thump, tap-thump, across the floorabove, tap-thump, tap-thump, TAP.

A minute passed. '"Maybe he got stuck in a knot­

hole." Mike's attempt at humor wasinterrupted by Lois' urgently whis­pered "Shh!"

And, tensely, they both waited.Another minute and another.

Mike and Lois turned over a time ortwo, then, afraid the rustle of theirmovement in the bed might coverthe anticipated sound from above,they lay stiffly, staring at the ceiling.

"In God's name, why doesn't heput his foot down?" Lois whispered,so sharply that it could have been ascream.

Mike did not speak.A distant church bell chimed the

hour of twelve.In the sky, the ragged clouds

parted, and the milk-white light ofthe full moon fell through the win­dows upon the upturned faces of thetwo. '

Then, they heard it.Thump. Their tension snapped as

though cut by a knife, and as theyrelaxed, limply -

Thump.Anq again - thump.Then, across the upstairs floor,

and down the stairs: tap-thump­thump-thump, ta p-thump-thump­thump, tap-thump-thump-thump.

Outside their door, they heardthe scratch of claws as it fumbled forthe knob.

John Novotny, thehright nova of Thorne Smith madness, fJf/"s II eautionllrytall with a simple moral: Never hi,e a redheaded seeretll'Y ."leIS yON intendto take fulllldvantage of 1111 her services.

The Tin Halohy JOHN NOVOTNY

TIMOTHY WELDON SAT UNCOMFORT­

ably on the extreme edge of the bedand frowned at the two straight­backed wooden chairs' in the smallroom.

"I should think," he called, "~Qat

the salary I pay you as my secre'tarywould warrant the purchase of onesmall easy chair."

Dinah's soft low-pitched laughdisengaged itself from the tinkle ofglasses and ice cubes and snaked itsway .out of the kitchen. It brokedown Tim's guard and agitated hisblood pressure. When he had hiredDinah, her laugh was a rather inno­cent affair, but it had changed, sub..tly and irresistibly. It became amesh, a net of caresses that causedthe hair on the back of his neck toitch.

"It deteriorated morally," hestated aloud.

Dinah appeared in the kitchendoorway.

"Who did?""Who did what?" Tim asked."Deteriorated morally," Dinah

grinned, standing so that one legwas shown to best advantage by theincompletely buttoned housecoat.The leg was golden tan, the house..coat soft white, and burning aroundher shoulders was Dinah's red hair.Tim looked away.

"No one," he answered. "I w~thinking out loud."

"Oh."Dinah disappeared into the

kitchen and Tim studied the chairsagain. The memory of the whitehousecoat blurred his vision and hereached up slowly to undo his blackbow tie. Dinah's voice startled him.

"You don't look very comforta­ble. Why don't you lie down?"

Tim regarded the kitchen door­way suspiciously.

"My' shoes would dirty up thebedspread."

"That's simple," the answer spedback. "Take off the shoes."

Silence flooded thesmallapartmentand hung in the air for a full halfminute. Then the impatient pop of abottle cap announced D~ah again.

117

118

"Go ahead. "Take them off. I'mnot going to attack your feet."

When she came out carrying thetray and drinks, Tim was recliningwarily on the bed. He was certainthe housecoat had lost ground by atleast one more button in each direc­tion.

/' "And open your collar," Dinahcommanded. "After dinner, a show,and dancing, we are entitled to a lit­

,tie comfort. I've practically takenoff everything."

"So I see," Tim said wryIy."I was afraid you hadn't noticed,"

she smiled, leaning forward to handhim his drink.

,'To get back to the easy chairquestion," Tim said hastily. "If yoursalary isn't -". "It is," Dinah said. "But I sitdown all day typing your letters andanswering the phone. All that sittingisn't good. Look."

She pulled' the housecoat tightlyabout her and patted a hip. "See?"

She moved closer to the bed andslapped the soft contour again.

"Just feel that," she complained.Tim worked his way to the oppositeside of the bed. Dinah followed him.

"You're spilling the scotch," shesaid. "Go ahead. Feel that."

Tim poked a tentative forefingerat the area indicated. Hardly dentingthe white material, he pulled thefinger back quickly.

"Horrible," he agreed."Well, not too ,horrible," Dinah

protested. "But a girl must be care­ful. "

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"So must a man," muttered Tim."And that's why there is no easy

chair. Move over," Dinah con­cluded.

She turned out .all the lights ex­cept one lamp by the radio, tuned insome soft music, and settled back onthe bed beside Tim. He started toget up.

"I think I'll have another drink.""I have the bottle, ice, and soda

right here," Dinah purred."Thank you," he said weakly.

Dinah laughed softly andl the' webclosed in" on Tim. He watched hertoes working sinuously until the bluefur slippers fell off and tumbled tothe floor. They landed with twocushioned, but distinctly sinful,thuds. Tim drank deeply. The scotchraced through him, brushing asideconvictions and inhibitions like aflood tide. He turned and appraisedthe redheaded secretary. Dinahsmiled wantonly and the scotchboiled a little as it passed his ears.Slowly she reached up and flickedopen another button on the house­coat. Tim fell off the ed.ge of the bed.

"Oh, damn," Dinah sighed. Sheleaned over and looked down at him."Come' back up here."

Tim shook his head."You'll have to button that but-

ton first," he said decisively."You do it.""Impossible.""Try." ."If you wish."He climbed back onto the bed and

tried.

TIlE TIN HALO

"I'm perspiring," he said, "andthat music doesn't help."

"All depends on your point ofview," she whispered, stretchingwicked arms around his neck. Timalmost surrendered. But visions ofthe Board of Directors, the office,cool and efficient Dinah ather desk,and the Sunday School he attendedwhen he was ten suddenly flashedbefore his eyes. He leaned awayfrom Dinah.

"No," he stated. "I will not! Iwon't do it."

A sound of metal bouncing againstwood rang through the room.

"What was that?" he asked.Dinah leaned back, switched on

the bed lamp, and gasped. Tim satblinking in the light and just abovehis head floated a neat silver-coloredhalo.

"What are you staring at?" heasked. Dinah pointed.

"That. The sound must have beenwhen it hit the headboard."

Tim felt the top of his head."Higher," Dinah offered.Tim's waving hand suddenly en­

countered the halo. He grasped itfirmly and pulled. The halo refusedto move.

"What is it?" he asked."A halo. So help me, Tim, you've

sprouted a halo."."Let's not be ridiculous~ Get this

contraption off me.""Listen, cherub," Dinah laughed.

"You got it - you get rid of it.""Has this ever happened before?"

Tim demanded.

119

Dinah's eyes narrowed danger­ously.

"I hope you don't think I carryonlike this every night of the week,"she said.

"I only meant -""But if I did, .Mr. Weldon, I pre­

fer to think that not too many haloswould go walking out of this apart­ment."

"Dinah -""A fine reputation I'd have. Dinah

Cantwell, halo manufacturer. Turneddown by every cherub this side ofthe Mississippi. I think I'll haveanother drink."

"I only wondered if you knewwhat to do about this thing," Timmuttered, trying to shake it off.

"Just don't tell anyone you got ithere," Dinah said airily. She Squintedat the level in the scotch bottle. Timwalked to the bureau and stared intothe mirror for a long minute.

"This is impossible," he stated."You couldn't prove it by me,"

she grinned."Dinah," Tim pleaded. "What

can we do? This is partly your fault.""It is not!" she retorted. "If I had

my way you -""Very well. If that's your atti­

tude.""Besides, it looks kind of cute.

May I feel it?"Tim bent forward."Feels a little tinny," Dinah rpur­

mured. She snapped a fingernailagainst it and listened to the ring."Sounds like tin."

"I doubt that they make halos of

120

tin," Tim answered, feeling insulted."Perhaps a thin gage steel."

"Too heavy," Dinah countered."There would probably be a lot ofcomplaints from steel halo owners.Stiff necks. Round shoulders."

"Did you sneak an extra drink outin the kitchen?" Tim asked suspi­ciously.

"You have ;l nasty little mind,"Dinah announced haughtily. "Whoseliqu~r is it?"

"That's not the question," Timsaid, tapping his halo. "This is theimportant thing. And a drunkenredheaded secretary is of no help."

"This is the first time you evergot me drunk, Mr. Weldon," Dinahpointed out, "and· I shudder to thinkhow you misused your advantage."

·"1 did not get you drunk. You gotyourself drunk."

"So? You still misused -""My God! Do yo~ think of noth­

ing else?" Tim demanded. Dinahglanced at the halo, shrugged, andbuttoned her housecoat.

"You have a Directors meetingtomorrow," she said softly.

"What has that got to do with it?Oh-h-h!" Tim sank back onto thebed.

"At least, they'll be afraid to ar­gue with you," Dinah smiled. "Youcan push the bond issue through."

Aghast, Tim stared at his secre­tary.

"And you could vote Jenkins outas Treasurer," she" continued hap­pily. "You know, I'm sure he'sstealing the firm blind."

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"Miss Cantwell," Tim said in acalm, much too calm, voice. "If youthink I intend to appear tomorrowwearing this thing, you are starkraving mad. Fix me another drink."

"May your drunken secretaryhave one too?"

"Yes, but keep that affair but­toned up."

"Momentarily, my intentionshave changed," Dinah said. "It'sonly that I'm not sure I can carryonthis conversation while sober. I justrealized that you're the first halowearer I've ever seen."

"Fine," Tim snorted. "I'm happythat the impartance of this occasionhas finally broken through."

"Do you only have goodthoughts?" Dinah asked.

"What?""You know. The halo - all that.

Do you only have good thoughts?"Tim glared."At the moment I have a very

bad thought," he growled."If you had that thought awhile

back, you wouldn't be in this fixnow," Dinah howled.

"Not that 'kind ofa bad thought!"Tim roared. He .breathed deeply."This one involves fingers aroundnecks. Mine around - never mind.Dinah dear, the halo is not desirable.What will we do?"

Dinah considered the matter."You could try your hat. I hung

it in the hall closet."Tim dashed for the closet and

Dinah belatedly remembered whyshe should have gotten the hat her-

THE TIN HALO

self. Tim stared at the small leatherarmchair that choked the hallcloset. Turning slowly, he staredaccusingly at his secretary.

"Feel the material," he chantedsarcastically. "It's bad to sit down somuch. No easy chair. Take off yourpants -"

"Your shoes," Dinah corrected."- your shoes and lie down on

the bed.""That chair belonged to a room­

mate who left it here for safekeep­ing," lied Dinah. "I wouldn't thinkof using it and wearing it out."

"Ha, ha," laughed Tim withouthumor. UParticularly if there's a bedhandy."

He spun around and wrestled thearmchair out of the closet. Placing itin the center of the room, he sat'down firmly.

"Now what?" he demanded intriumph.

"Your hat," Dinah reminded himsoftly.

With as much dignity as possible,Tim returned to the closet. He cameout with a black homburg, placedit over the halo, and looked in themirror. The hat had not been de­signed for ~.uch a situation.

"It floa ts," Dinah said finally in asmall voice.

"Obviously.""There's space between your head

and the hat.""I see!""Take it off," Dinah commanded,

advancing on him. Tim obediently ­removed the hat and Dinah grasped

121

the tin halo firmly, in both hands."It won't come off," Tim said."But it might move up or down,"

the girl answered. She pulled downand the halo descended until itrested against Tim's curly hair.

"It does," Dinah breathed. Shereleased the halo and it immediatelysprang up to its original position witha twanging noise. Tim grated histeeth and held his ears.

"Never do that again!" he said."That was the dirtiest damned trickI've ever known."

"But it works," she insisted, "likeit's on an invisible spring. Let's trythe hat again."

Tim looked at her closely."If you twang my halo once

more -" he warned."I would prefer having nothing to

do with your crumby halo," Dinahsaid crudely. "It was your idea Ishould help."

"But no twanging," Tim insisted."You make it sound like a dirty

word. Put the hat on after I push thething down."

Tim followed instructions andDinah stepped back victoriously.

"There," she announced, brush­ing her hands.

"You consider the matter closed?"Tim asked incredulously. Dinahnodded happily. Tim closed his eyes

"Do you realize I am hanging ontothis hat for dear life?" Tim contin­ued. "If I let go, it will shoot frommy head like a cork out of a popgun. And it will twang."

"I don't particularly care if it

122

plays 'Yankee Doodle.' I am fed upwith that tin ornament. I wash myhands of that halo," Dinah snapped."I am going to bed."

"What about me?" Tim asked inanguish.

"I suggest you go to bed too. Inthe morning, we can tackle it again."

Dinah began unbuttoning thehousecoat in a businesslike ·mannerand Tim spun around to face thewall.

"Let me know when I can turnaround," he said.

"Anytime," Dinah answered mat...ter-of-factly. Tim turned, then hur­riedly faced the wall again.

"Now, let-rne know when you'rewearing your pajamas or nightgownor whatever you wear to bed," hesaid quietly.

"You look silly holding your hatwith both hands," Dinah laughed.Tim let go and the hat headed forthe ceiling, the halo vibrating ring..ingly into place.

When Tim returned from thebathroom, the girl was already inbed. He turned off the small lampand settled himself in the leatherarmchair.

In the morning, Tim called theoffice and let the staff know thatneither he nor Dinah would be intoday. He also postponed the Direc..tors' meeting. He offered no excuse.

"Do you think a scotch and sodawould go well at this time of day?"Dinah asked, her eyes fo.cusedslightly over Tim's head.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FlcnON

"No," Tim answered. "Let's getdown to business."

"Before breakfast?""Yes. I was thinking last night

... Let me get my hat. Now pushdown the halo," he ordered. "Anddon't release it!"

"No twanging," Dinah promised.She pushed the halo down againsthis head and Tim clapped the haton. He pulled it down tightly.

"Careful. You won't be able tosee."

"It's not going that far," Tim ex­plained. The homburg stopped justabove his eyebrows. Slowly he re­leased the brim. It was stuck inplace. ;

"Bravo!" Dinah shouted. Timlaughed.

"Now what?" the girl inquired."We're driving up to Westport

after breakfast.""To your mother's?" Dinah asked

slowly.Tim nodded and grabbed the hat

as it began to go up. "Whew. I'llhave to be careful."

"Why your mother's?'t ."She'll know what to do.""Why not work it out yourself,

Tim?""Westport, Dinah. Mother knows

all the answers. She always has.""Maybe that's why you've never

let her see your redheaded secre­tary, eh?"

"Dinah, please. I'm sure you twowill like each other," Tim pleaded.Dinah shrugged and started thecoffee.

THE TIN HALO

The blue convertible circled thegravelled drive and stopped in frontof the garages. Dinah began to getout and then considered something.

"Tim," she asked thoughtfully."Do you think the neckline of thisdress plunges too low? I don't wantto-"

"Oh my God!" groaned Tim, tak­ing a quick glance. "How come Ididn't notice that before?"

"You never look there.""I should hope not. After all-""Can you beat that?" Dinah in-

terrupted happily. "Here's the ear­ring I thought fell on the floor of the

"car."Must you poke around like

that?'" Tim inquired uneasily, study­ing the windows of the big house.

"I have to get it out. Would youmind pushing up right here? I'vealmost got it."

Tim whipped out a handkerchiefand dabbed his forehead underneaththe tightly fitted homburg.

"Sometimes I wonder why I hiredyou," he whispered, complying withher request. Dinah twisted towardhim angrily.

"You'll have to sit still," Timsaid shakily. "We're losing ground.Will you please get that earring?"Tim asked after a moment. "Thetip of my, finger is perspiring."

Dinah laughed. From the door­way of the house came Tim's moth­er's voice.

"I like that sound, Timothy. Bringher in. When you're through withwhatever you're doing, of course."

123

"She couldn't see that far," Timwhispered hopefully. "Not withoutopera glasses."

"Got it," murmured Dinah. "Let'sgo."

"I don't think I can walk."He crawled slowly from the car

and led Dinah into the house. Mrs.Anthony Weld'on stood waiting forthem by the big fireplace.

"Mother, this is Dinah Cantwell.Dinah, - my mother."

The women looked at each other."You're growing up, Timothy,"

his mother observed without mov­ing her eyes from the redheadedsecretary. "I think this occasioncalls for a drink."

Tim gulped incredulously."A what?""A drink, Timothy.""But I - I thought we never­

never had whisky in this house,"Tim stammered.

"Never when you were around,my boy. Those were your formativeyears. You were growing up."

"But I was here only last year,"Tim protested.

"You're wasting time, Timothy.Miss Cantwell and I are thirsty.Over there in the cabinet."

Tim moved across the room in ahaze of bewilderment.

"May I help with your earring,Dinah?" Mrs. Weldon asked.

"Thank you, no," Dinah smiled."It fell off in the car. Tim foundit."

"I did not I" he shouted."Oh?"

124

"I did not," Tim repeated in alower tone. "Dinah found it."

Mrs. Weldon smiled and looked atDinah. "You can call me Liz."

Tim dropped a bottle which, for­tunately, did not break. Dinah'slaugh crept around his stomach.·

"Thank you,. Liz. Would you be-­lieve it? Not once since I've knownTim has he ever -"

Tim thrust two glasses betweenthem.

"I am still present, you know,"he informed them.

"It's difficult to think otherwise,"his mother said. "Must you wearyour hat in the house, Tim?"

The shock of the question madeTim miss the fact that, for the firsttime, his mother had not called himTimothy. Both hands reached upand held the brim.

"I suppose not," he croaked."Then remove it," Mrs. Weldon

suggested."You'd better take a good sip of

that drink first, Liz," Dinah .of­fered. "I'll join you."

Tim waited while they drank. Asthey lowered their glasses, he re­moved the hat. Beyond one eye­brow moving down slightly, Mrs.Weldon betrayed no surprise.

"Hmmm," she said, lifting theglass again. She looked from Tim toDinah and back to the halo.

"From your expressions I surmisethis thing is r.eal," she murmured.

:"It's a halo," Tim offered."A tin halo," Dinah emphasized

as Tim frowned.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

"There's a chance it may be a thinsteel," he insisted.

Dinah walked to his side andsnapped her nail against the halo.

"Listen to that," Dinah said to.Mrs. Weldon. "Tin?"

"I should imagine so," Mrs.Weldon answered. "Of course Ihaven't listened to any other halos,but it does sound rather tinny."

"But aren't you surprised orshocked?" Tim demanded.

"Well, yes," admitted his mother,glancing toward Dinah. "I don'tquite understand how she - well, 1mean, how this could happen withDinah-"

"Mrs. Weldon." Dinah stoodindignantly e.rect. "I assure youthat if your son had cooperated inthe .least ; if he had acted at alldecently; if he had -"

Dinah's chest rose with eachprotestation and Tim viewed thedeeply cut dress. with apprehension.He could feel his halo quiveringominously.

"Obviously the halo is not Dinah'sfault," he interrupted hastily. Hismother nodded and Dinah subsided."You might say I achieved it inspite of her."

"If you had only thought twicebefore acting," Mrs. Weldon com­plained mildly.

"What do you mean?" Tim asked."If you had not acted foolishly,"

his mother said."Do you know what would have

happened if I had acted any other,vay?" Tim demanded.

TIlE TIN HALO

"You wouldn't have that," Dinahsaid, pointing.

"Yes," agreed his mother. Timsat down and glared at the twowomen.

"I acted as I was brought up toact. I was decent and gentlemanly.All my training as a youth stayedby me strong and steadfast," heorated.

Mrs. \Veldon got to her feetslowly.

"Obviously I've been a very poorparent," she said sadly. Tim leapedinto the air and stared at her.

"Is this my mother?""Tim, don't be melodramatic.""I could use a drink," Dinah

contributed."Bless you," Mrs. Weldon smiled,

heading for the cabinet. "Are yougoing to marry Tim?"

"Yes," Dinah answered. Timcovered his eyes and sobbed.

"She is not. And I'll have a drinktoo."

"Tim," Liz Weldon said sud­denly. "It just occurred to me thatyou are supposed to take over thereins of Weldon Products this falL"

"Yes, mother," Tim said deject­edly. His halo·felt very heavy.

"That thing you're wearing won'thelp a bit. Has the Board seen youyet?"

"No, they haven't," Dinah an"swered for him. "But I think theyshould. He could throw the fear ofGod into Jenkins."

"I absolutely refuse," Timshouted.

125"I can't say I blame you," Mrs.

Weldon said drily. "But to run thefirm you'll have to be there. Canyou suggest anything?"

Tim shook his head and halo."He could wear his hat," Dinah

said."Pulled down tightly over my

eyes?" Tim asked sarcastically."Let's have lunch," Mrs. Weldon

suggested. "Then, over coffee, wecan think."

The blue convertible sped backdown the Merritt Parkway underthe capable direction of the red­headed secretary. Tim huddled sul­lenly against the opposite door.

"Of all the fool ideas," he mut­tered, fingering the tender bump onthe top of his head. Just above thebump, the tin halo floated quietly,still solidly in place, and only slightlydented on one side.

"Liz certainly swung a mean mal..let," Dinah said.

"It was a gavel, and I told bothof you it wouldn't work. How longwas I out?"

"Only a few minutes. It was noth­ing to get worked up about," Dinahprotested.

"You don't think so? My ownmother gets me with a gavel, and"when I open my eyes, there is mysecretary getting ready to try ahacksaw."

','You said some pretty dirtywords," Din~h pointed out.

"You were starting to saw myforehead," Tim said grimly. "How

126

many drinks did the two of youhave while I lay there unconscious?"

"There you go again," Dinahcomplained. "Always denying peo­ple little pleasures."

"Oh-h-h," groaned Tim, sinkingback against the seat.

As the big blue car passed beneaththe George Washington Bridge,Dinah hummed happily.

"What now?" Tim asked sus­piciously.

"Liz said that if I get rid of thehalo, I can marry you any time Iwant," Dinah smiled.

"Oh, she did!""Yes, and she'll give us a set of

sterling, too. Twelve place settings."Tim leaned forward."Did she suggest how you are to

go about this? A larger gavel? Asharper saw?"

Dinah shook her head."None of those. This involves

logic."

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Tim edged back and placed oneprotecting hand on his halo.

"Is there a time limit on yourdeal?"

"I hope by Monday morning,"Dinah announced.

"Well," Tim relaxed. "I guessmother won't have to buy anysilver." .

"Oh, she otdered it before weleft. I had to pick out the style."

"Now, wait a minute!""You'll like it, Tim. Simple but

rich looking.""Wait a minute!""Big forks, and the spoons are -""Not the silverI What 'about this

logic?"Dinah laughed softly."If at first you don't -""Now, wait - !"Tim held on to the tin halo with

both hands as the blue car spedtoward Dinah's. It seemed to bebending slightly.

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The Fanvets will hold its fifth anniversary convention on Sunday, April17th, at Werdermann Hall, 3rd Avenue and East 16th. Street, New YorkCity. The list of guest speakers will include Ted Sturgeon, John Campbell,Damon Knight, Ed Emsh and others. Rare SF films will be shown, andthere will be a giant auction of rare first editions, autographed copies ofSF books, original sf art and other collectors' items. All profits from theauction will go to the Fanvets association to be used for the purchase of sfbooks for Veterans' hospitals and GI posts throughout the world. For fur­ther details write to Ray Van Houten, % Fandom House, PO Box 2331,Paterson 23, N. J.

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